Fields of Gold - (Jaime SI)

[Daario]

CATELYN​

---

The morning came with a palpable relief. The sky, which yesterday was grey and gloomy, had now changed to a brilliant, unblemished blue. The sun shone brightly, its light feeling warm on the skin, and the menacing grey clouds seemed to have poured out all their rain and departed.

The air felt so fresh, as if the storm had cleansed the entire world. When Catelyn took a breath, she could smell the scent of damp earth, freshly cut grass, and the fragrance of flowers from the garden. It felt pleasant and satisfying.

After a light breakfast filled with polite conversation, Catelyn resumed her duties as hostess. "Last night we only explored the interior of the castle," she said. "Now, I will show you something far more beautiful."

She brought Jaime to her mother's private garden, Catelyn's favorite place.

It was here that life truly burst forth. Last night's raindrops still clung to the flower petals like tiny diamonds.

"The roses are in bloom," Catelyn said, her voice softening. She approached her favorite rose bush, the one with deep red blossoms. "After being pelted by the rain for so long... are they not very strong, My Lord?"

She observed the flowers in every detail, touching their dark green leaves gently, careful not to be pricked by the thorns.

Jaime stood beside her, observing. "Roses are indeed strong, I think," he nodded, his voice sounding contemplative. "They are also often used as an example for a woman."

"Because of their beautiful color and shape?" Catelyn asked, still looking at the flower.

"Because of their beautiful color and shape," Jaime agreed. "Their bright red color... it stands out. It makes a person unconsciously shift their gaze to it, because it is the most striking thing amidst the green of the garden."

He paused for a moment, then continued. "And once they do, they look deeper. They see the intricate shape of each petal, layer upon layer. It represents... well, I suppose some call it love, or affection, and tenderness."

Jaime reached out a hand, his own finger tracing the edge of a petal without touching it. "And then," he added, his voice a little softer, "the thorns. They symbolize that besides being beautiful and complex, a woman is also capable and has the strength to defend herself. To protect her own honor."

Catelyn turned to him. She had heard a similar expression from a book, but not exactly like that. Hearing it spoken aloud, with such conviction, felt different.

She nodded. "You know a great deal about flowers, it seems, Lord Jaime."

Jaime chuckled, a light sound that made Catelyn smile. "I observe often. This world is full of things worth noticing, if only we are willing to take the time to see them. Even the smallest things can hold deep meaning."

Suddenly, he moved. With a quick and careful motion, he took hold of the rose stem, deftly avoiding its thorns, and plucked the most fully bloomed red rose.

"Like this flower," he said. "Many see it only as a fleeting beauty, something that will wilt. But it is proof of resilience, is it not? After the storm that tried to tear it apart, it still blooms this morning."

He offered the flower to Catelyn.

Their fingers touched for a moment as Catelyn took it. The stem was still slightly damp. "And every petal, every thorn, tells a story," Jaime continued, his eyes on Catelyn, not the flower. "A story of survival, of growing, of becoming something beautiful despite the challenges." He smiled faintly. "I think that is a lesson we can take from many things around us."

Catelyn held the rose carefully, its sweet fragrance wafting up. Her heart beat a little faster.

"Speaking of lessons," Catelyn said, changing the subject before her cheeks could blush. "Why did you build a school? It is a very... new idea. I imagine it will be opposed by some lords."

The wistful expression on Jaime's face disappeared, replaced by a sharpness.

"They can try," Jaime said flatly, his tone cold.

Catelyn was a little surprised by the change.

Jaime then continued, answering Catelyn's first question. "People think I build them for charity. For enlightenment. That is... partly true. But the main reason? I build them to build loyalty."

"Loyalty?" The answer surprised Catelyn. It sounded so... calculated. From their previous conversations, Jaime had sounded poetic and kind-hearted.

"Loyalty is the most valuable currency, Lady Catelyn," Jaime explained. "Right now, those in the school are the children of prosperous merchants and artisans. Merchants are the ones who will drive the kingdom's economy."

He looked into Catelyn's eyes, as if explaining a war strategy. "There, when they learn and become more successful... they will always remember who gave them that opportunity. They will remember the service of House Lannister. Their loyalty will be ours."

He paused for a moment. "Moreover... in the school itself, we ensure they learn history. Our history. A very long history... and of course," a faint smile touched his lips, a smile that did not reach his eyes, "a little bloody."

A cold shiver ran down Catelyn's spine, even though the sun was shining warmly.

'The Rains of Castamere...' Catelyn remembered.

It was not just a history lesson. It was a warning.

They walked in a slightly awkward silence after that. Catelyn was still thinking about his words. Jaime's explanation about the school... so cold, so calculated, coming from the mouth of a boy who had just spoken so poetically about a rose. It was a confusing mixture. The rose in her hand suddenly felt a little heavier.

As they arrived at a crossing, they saw Lysa and also Petyr Baelish.

Lysa smiled brightly upon seeing them, waving enthusiastically. "Cat! Lord Jaime!"

Petyr, standing beside her, also smiled. But the smile did not reach his eyes. It was a sharp, assessing smile, and Catelyn saw his eyes go straight to the rose in her hand, then shift to Jaime, before finally landing on Catelyn.

"Cat, you are carrying a beautiful rose," Lysa said, her eyes sparkling.

"Lord Jaime plucked it for me," Catelyn said, feeling her cheeks grow slightly warm.

Petyr raised his eyebrows slightly, his smile not wavering. "A very courteous gesture, My Lord."

Lysa giggled, her eyes shifting between Catelyn and then Jaime. There was a clear, playful smile on her lips. "How romantic... Lord Jaime, perhaps you should also sing a song for Cat. She adores music."

Jaime's cheeks, which had been pale and calm, visibly reddened. He gave a small cough, averting his gaze for a moment. "Uh... truthfully, My Lady, I also just plucked that flower on reflex. And believe me, my voice is not good enough to be heard."

"I doubt that," Lysa said disbelievingly, still teasing him. "A man from the Westerlands ought to be able to sing."

"A man like Lord Jaime prefers to play with his sword, Lysa," Petyr spoke up, his voice smooth and calm, cutting off Lysa's teasing. "Is that not right, Lord Jaime? Practice in the yard is more interesting than harp strings."

Jaime looked relieved that the topic of conversation had shifted. "Right! Absolutely right. A sword is far more understandable."

"Then you really must train with Edmure!" Lysa clapped her hands once. "He was talking about you all last night, 'Jaime the master swordsman', 'Jaime this, Jaime that'. Petyr, meanwhile, prefers to be in the library, reading large, dusty books."

"Reading is a good thing," Petyr said lightly.

"About Edmure. Perhaps later," Jaime said. "After... after I am more settled in."

"Yes, at the moment I am showing Riverrun to Lord Jaime, Lysa," Catelyn said gently, trying to take back control of her tour.

"In that case, let us walk together!" Lysa immediately agreed. "Honestly, this weather makes me so spirited after being inside for so long because of the rain. I was bored!"

Without waiting for an answer, Lysa pulled Petyr's arm and began to walk beside Catelyn and Jaime. The previously quiet tour now became much livelier. Catelyn showed the way, pointing to several watchtowers and explaining their history, and every so often Lysa would interrupt with a silly story about a guard who fell asleep or the time Edmure tried to climb that wall and fell.

"Here," Catelyn said, guiding them to another wide garden, this one more open than her mother's rose garden. "This is where we spend time when we are bored inside."

She pointed to a stone bench under a large oak tree. "Sometimes we will just sit on that bench, looking around or into the distance where there are mountains and the blue sky. Sometimes, that alone is enough to calm the mind."

"True," Petyr said suddenly.

His quiet voice made Cat turn to him. He was staring at the bench with a wistful expression.

"I still remember when we sat there," he said, his eyes shifting to Catelyn, "just the two of us. Perhaps two years ago? You looked so sad that day, and did not want to talk about it, Cat. I did not know why, but when I cheered you up with a silly song about a frog, you seemed to get better."

Catelyn immediately remembered the incident. Of course she remembered. It was the anniversary of her mother's death. She was so emotional that she did not want to talk about it with anyone. That was why she was not playing with Lysa and Petyr as usual.

But Petyr had approached her. 'It is lonely without you, Cat,' he had said. And Petyr then told childish jokes and sang in his out-of-tune voice until Catelyn finally laughed through her tears.

Catelyn nodded slowly, suddenly feeling very awkward. She did not want to discuss it further, especially in front of Jaime. Why would Petyr bring that up again, here, now? They came here often. Together. With Lysa and Edmure too, even her father and Uncle Brynden! To talk about it as if it were just the two of them... it felt like there was a specific intention. It was Petyr's way of saying, 'I know her better than you do.'

"Why did you never mention that incident?" Lysa frowned, looking confused and a little jealous at being left out.

"Because at the time, Catelyn looked like she wanted to cry," Petyr answered casually. "It would have been embarrassing to talk about."

"So why are you talking about it now?" Lysa looked confused.

Petyr smiled, his typical small smile. "It slipped out."

Catelyn knew it had not slipped out.

They then continued the tour, and although Jaime and Catelyn kept chatting until midday, discussing horses and falcons, it felt as if something had changed. The conversation no longer felt easy and private. Petyr Baelish, with his one small story, had stepped between them.

...

Catelyn walked the familiar stone corridors alone. The tour had ended, and Jaime had gone to his uncle's chambers, Ser Tygett, to discuss something "important". Petyr and Lysa had also gone in another direction.

This silence gave Catelyn time to think. Her hand still held that single red rose. She lifted it, inhaling its fragrance again. Sweet.

She thought of her betrothed again. Since last night, she felt she had gotten to know him better, but surprisingly, at the same time, she felt as if she did not know him deeply at all. He was like a book written in two different languages.

On one hand, there was the poetic Jaime, who could see resilience in a single rose and speak of beauty in a way that made her heart flutter. There was the protective Jaime, who spoke of his brother, Tyrion, with such sincere sadness and love.

Yet on the other hand, there was the heir to Casterly Rock. The cold emotion as he described the school was still clear in her mind. 'Building loyalty'. 'A history that is a little bloody', spoken with full conviction.

Then their conversation about family last night, on the balcony. His warning... "be prepared, and do not be disappointed when you begin to see the worst parts of them."

Jaime and she would become family if they were truly to marry.

Was that why he spoke of it last night? As a warning? Was he warning her about Tywin, or Cersei? Or... Catelyn stopped walking for a moment. Was he warning her about himself? Everyone had their own worst parts, and he, the golden lion, surely had them too.

She shook her head, trying to banish the thought, and resumed her stride. She turned a corner...

"Petyr!"

Catelyn startled, her hand clutching the rose so tightly that a small thorn pricked her finger. She had not heard him approach. Petyr stepped out from where the shadows gathered.

The hall here was quiet, illuminated only by pillars of light from the high windows. The midday sun created a sharp contrast between light and dark.

"Cat." Petyr's face was partially obscured by shadows, making it hard to read.

"Petyr, by the seven, do not do that again! You startled me!" Catelyn took a breath, trying to calm her pounding heart. "What is it?"

Petyr looked at her, and on his face was a complicated emotion. A mixture of sadness, jealousy, and something sharper. His eyes were fixed on the rose in Catelyn's hand.

"You... you have felt distant lately," he said.

"What do you mean? I am always near you," Catelyn frowned, confused. "We live under the same roof."

"Not that." Petyr's voice trembled slightly, the tone he always used, like a sad little boy in need of comfort. "Since you were betrothed to... him... to Jaime Lannister. You are always gone. You rarely spend time with me, or Lysa, and Edmure."

"It is because I have many lessons," Catelyn said honestly, though it felt like an excuse. Her lessons as a Lady had indeed doubled since the betrothal was announced. "I am not a child anymore, Petyr. There are things I must prepare for."

"But, can you not spare some time? Even just a little?" Petyr stepped forward, out of the shadows and into the light. "You always avoid me whenever I approach you. Every time I try to speak with you alone, you are always... busy."

Catelyn reflexively took a step back. "I am not avoiding..."

"See?" Petyr said, his voice now full of hurt. "You are doing it again."

He stopped, his hands clenched at his sides. "I... I miss you, Cat. I miss when we used to play together, share stories, or even when I sang silly songs for you."

Guilt pricked Catelyn. She had been avoiding him a little. Their conversations felt different lately. Petyr always tried to bring up the past, while Catelyn had to think of her future.

"Petyr, we are still friends," she said softly. "We can do those things another time. But now..."

Catelyn then changed the subject. She could not handle this right now. She could not handle Petyr's emotions on top of her own confusion about Jaime. "So if you will excuse me, I would like to go to my chambers. I am... tired."

She did not wait for an answer. She walked past him, her skirts rustling on the stone floor.

Catelyn did not look back, but she could feel it. She was leaving Petyr behind, standing stock-still and alone in the middle of the empty hall, trapped between the pillars of light and shadow.

----

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

"Look, he is laughing!"

Rhaegar's voice sounded proud, a sincere tone rarely heard in this court. He was sitting in a comfortable armchair in his mother's chambers, holding Viserys, who was just eight months old. While making a silly face, hiding his face behind the curtain of his silver hair before reappearing with wide eyes and a broad smile.

Viserys, in response, let out a pure, bubbling shriek of laughter. It was the purest sound of life, and for Rhaegar, it was the sweetest music.

His mother, Queen Rhaella, was sitting beside her bed, watching him. His father was not here. Rhaella smiled, a sincere yet weary smile that adorned her lips these days. Viserys was a healthy baby, a small miracle after so many tragedies had befallen the royal nursery. His eyes were bright violet, his cheeks were plump and smooth to the touch, and he was a cheerful child like any other babe, not yet aware of the burden of the name he carried or the court he had been born into.

"Of course he is laughing," Rhaella shook her head, that amused smile still on her lips. "You are doing something very silly, Rhaegar. Unbefitting of a prince."

The soft morning light flooded the room through the high windows, falling on her face and silver hair, making her look delicate, almost like porcelain.

"A sacrifice must be made to entertain a babe, Mother," Rhaegar smiled back, turning his attention for a moment from Viserys to look at Rhaella. A sacrifice. He would gladly look foolish a thousand times over if it could keep this laughter going, if it could keep the smile on his mother's face.

It was then that he truly noticed her. Again.

The smile was there, but it did not fully reach her eyes. She looked a little thin these days. It was not something a stranger would notice; to them, she was still the Queen, graceful and beautiful. But as her son, Rhaegar saw it very clearly.

It was in her cheeks, which were a little more drawn than they should be. And it was in her wrists. Her slender wrists looked too fragile.

A familiar cold lump settled in Rhaegar's stomach. He did not need to ask the cause. He knew.

'Father... what have you done?' He thought, the bitterness feeling like bile in his throat.

His mother was a good person. She was the definition of patience and grace. She always faced everything with patience. Rhaella never complained or even showed anger in public. She bore it all with the dignity of a queen. She was always very close, and accompanied them, Rhaegar, and now Viserys, whenever they faced a problem.

"Be careful," Rhaella joked, her voice pulling Rhaegar back from his dark thoughts. "Soon he will demand more. Babes are very clever at making us bend to their will."

Rhaegar laughed, a sound forced to be light. "Then what should I do but obey him? He is my brother."

"You will be king one day, yes," his mother replied, her tone still light, but there was another layer beneath it, something Rhaegar recognized as weariness. "But a king cannot always grant every request of the people, not even the smallest."

If only Mother knew.

'If I were king now,' Rhaegar looked at his mother, at that so well-hidden fragility, 'I would not let you suffer. Not for a second.'

He shifted his gaze back to Viserys. "But Viserys here is the Prince, Mother. He is not common folk."

This time, his mother's smile faded slightly, replaced by a meaningful expression. Her gaze met Rhaegar's, and in that silence, a painful understanding passed between them.

"Princes," Rhaella said softly, "also do not always get what they want."

Rhaegar's heart felt heavy.

He knew. Of course he knew. He was the Dragon Prince, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and he was powerless.

He could not get what he wanted. He desperately wanted to make this kingdom more prosperous than it was. After his enlightening encounter with Jaime Lannister, he had begun to think of new ideas. Ideas about schools, about new ways to make the smallfolk more prosperous, believing that true strength came from a happy populace, not a feared one.

He had made plans, careful and sensible plans. And he had even dared to tell his father one of those plans.

But his father always refused. He did not even listen. He just laughed, that dry laugh, and said it was 'nonsensical'. He called Rhaegar a naive dreamer. Rhaegar was certain his father had not even heard half of what he had said.

Princes do not always get what they want. No.

Rhaegar swallowed his frustration, forcing a smile for his mother. The room suddenly felt too stuffy.

"Are you not going out for a walk, Mother?" Rhaegar changed the subject. "The weather is so fine this morning. The sky is clear. I think it would make your face glow."

Rhaella chuckled softly at the slightly awkward compliment. "Oh. So my face is not glowing now?" Rhaella teased.

"That is not what I meant," Rhaegar chuckled along, feeling a little relieved. "It is just... it would be good to bask in the morning sun. Would it not? The air is fresh."

Rhaella's smile softened, but she shook her head. "True, but lately, I prefer it here." She smiled faintly, looking around her spacious yet simple bedchamber. "It is peaceful. And calming."

Rhaegar looked at her. He understood. Peaceful and calming... because Father was not here. Outside, under the bright sun, were the castle gardens, the halls, and the throne room. Places where the King was. This room was the only place where Queen Rhaella could remove her mask and breathe.

Rhaegar nodded, his love for the woman mixing with a helpless anger.

"Then I will not press it."

The door flew open with a sudden slam, hitting the wooden wall, making Rhaegar startle so much he jumped in his chair. In his arms, Viserys's eyes were now wide with shock, his lower lip trembling. The peaceful air in the room evaporated instantly, replaced by a piercing chill.

Their father immediately entered without saying anything, striding into the room like a storm made human. He did not knock. He did not announce his arrival. He just appeared.

His face was filled with a burning rage that he did not hide, or perhaps could no longer hide. It was a mask of pure fury. His skin was flushed, his teeth bared in an unpleasant snarl, and his hands were clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles turned white. His brows were truly furrowed, his violet eyes blazed with a mad, unfocused energy.

He did not see Rhaegar. He did not see the Queen. He did not see the babe in his son's arms. He just paced on the Myrish carpet, from the window to the door, his chest heaving with heavy, ragged breaths.

"What is it, Father?" Rhaegar asked, his voice sounding more hesitant than he wanted. He instinctively pulled Viserys closer to his chest.

His father did not answer. He just kept walking, his boots slamming against the wooden floor beneath the carpet.

"Tywin..." his father finally spoke, but he was not speaking to anyone in the room. He was speaking to the ghosts in his head. His voice was low, hoarse with fury. "He... he dared... he suggested I remain quiet."

Rhaegar felt his mother tense beside him. "Quiet... why, Aerys?" His mother looked at her husband with worry, her gentle eyes now filled with a familiar fear.

Rhaegar began to pat Viserys's back gently, a calming rhythm. The child, sensing the tension in the room, began to fuss, letting out a soft whimper, as if about to cry.

"He seems to belittle me so!" Aerys spun around, his eyes finally finding them, but his gaze was wild. "He thinks that I perhaps cannot handle a small matter like this. He thinks I am incompetent in my own rooms!"

Aerys was still talking to himself, raving.

Rhaegar and his mother looked at each other. A glance, just a fraction of a second, but filled with painful understanding. Say nothing. They did not try to dig any further. It was useless when Aerys was like this. Asking would only turn his anger upon them. They had to wait for the storm to find its own direction.

And the storm found it.

"Darklyn!" Aerys spat the name as if it were poison. "Darklyn of Duskendale! He does not want to pay his taxes! How dare he!"

He stopped pacing and pointed to the window, as if he could see Duskendale from here. "And not just that! He also asks for the same privileges as Dorne for Duskendale! Something ridiculous! They are mad! There is something wrong with their thinking. Who do they think they are?"

He laughed, a dry, unpleasant sound. "So," he continued, his tone now shifting to sharp sarcasm, "he invites me. He invites me to go there. To speak of it."

Rhaegar frowned. This... this was dangerous. Far more dangerous than just a usual fit of anger. "That makes no sense, Father," he said softly, trying to sound reasonable. "A King should not answer such a summons. It is beneath your dignity."

"I will go!" Aerys roared, refuting Rhaegar directly. "I will go, and I will show Tywin Lannister how a king handles a trivial matter like this! I will look Darklyn in the eye and remind him who sits the Iron Throne!"

He began to pace again, now with a new purpose. "I will show that Lion that my vassals are all men who hold loyalty to their king, not to his Hand! And with me going myself, I guarantee that this matter will be finished quickly. They will kneel!"

"You do not need to do that, Aerys," Rhaella suggested, her voice soft, trying to calm him. She finally stood, her hand outstretched as if to touch her husband's arm. "Lord Tywin is right. This is an insult. Simply summon Lord Darklyn here if he truly wishes to speak. Let him come to you."

It was a fatal mistake.

"QUIET!"

The shout was so loud, thundering in the quiet room, bouncing off the stone walls. It was so sudden and full of malice that it made Rhaegar flinch.

Viserys, who had only been whimpering, now choked on a sob of shock, his small face turning red with fear.

Aerys turned on his wife, his eyes narrowing to purple slits full of rage. "You!" he hissed, pointing at Rhaella with a trembling finger. "Do you also belittle me like Tywin? You think I cannot handle things like this? Why do you always have the same thoughts as him? Hah, Rhaella? Are you fond of that man?! Do you prefer to listen to him rather than your husband, rather than your King?!"

The accusation hung in the air, vile and venomous.

"Aerys, this is ridiculous," his mother defended herself, her voice wavering but she did not back down. "What I suggest is the thought of any sane person."

"SO YOU MEAN I AM MAD?!" Aerys screamed again, his voice breaking with rage.

And that was the breaking point. Viserys could not hold it in any longer. The fear was too great. The babe finally cried. Not a small cry, but a loud, shrieking wail, full of pure terror, filling the tense silence after the King's scream.

All eyes, Rhaegar's frightened eyes, Rhaella's wounded eyes, and Aerys's furious eyes, turned to the crying babe.

Aerys's anger, which had been aimed at Tywin and Rhaella, now found a new reason.

"See?!" he snapped, now at Rhaella. "This is your fault! You made him cry with your mad talk! Always opposing me!" He covered his ears as if the crying physically pained him. "Quiet him before the realm collapses from his noise! Quiet him!"

And with that, King Aerys II Targaryen turned. He strode out of the room, slamming the door hard behind him. The sound of the slam echoed, leaving a deafening silence.

Rhaegar and Rhaella were left alone in the once-peaceful room. The only remaining sound was the desperate, unending cry of Viserys.

...

Viserys's crying finally subsided, his shrieks changing to pitiful little sobs, muffled against his mother's shoulder. Queen Rhaella swayed with a desperate, rhythmic motion, patting the babe's back, her eyes closed as if she were trying to block out not just the sound, but the reality of what had just happened. The silence Aerys left behind felt louder than his screams.

Rhaegar stood stiffly. The air in the room felt thick. He felt suffocated.

"I...I..." his own voice sounded hoarse, foreign to his own ears. "I am going out, Mother." He had to get out. He had to breathe. I need fresh air, he thought, an almost desperate thought. I must get away from this room before these walls collapse on me.

Rhaella did not open her eyes, but she nodded slowly. "Yes, Rhaegar. Go." Her voice sounded incredibly tired, as thin as a silk thread. "I will put Viserys to sleep. He... he must be tired."

Tired. Yes. We are all tired.

Nodding without further questions, Rhaegar turned. He spoke no words of comfort. What words were there? Everything had been said. He walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him, a courtesy that felt absurd after the violent slam his father had made.

The corridor outside felt cold. He walked deep in thought, barely seeing where he was going. This was the same as before. A dreadful pattern. Rhaegar had seen this time and time again, his father's explosive anger without provocation and the wild accusations. He was used to it.

And yet, his heart still felt heavy. Each time, it felt a little heavier, another piece of him chipped away.

He walked, ignoring the soldiers standing at their posts. He saw them glance at him from the corners of their eyes, seeing their disheveled Prince emerge from the Queen's chambers after the King had left in a rage. They must have heard the screaming. The entire Red Keep must have heard it. Shame mixed with his anger.

He did not know where he was going. The gardens? His chambers? Perhaps to the training yard, to hit something with a sword until his hands bled. He just needed to keep moving.

And then, there, at the intersection of the corridor that led to the royal quarters and the Tower of the Hand, he saw him.

Tywin Lannister.

The man was walking alone, without guards, his stride steady and purposeful. He wore a rich yet severe black and gold doublet. He seemed to be walking back toward the Tower of the Hand, his lair, the place from which he truly ruled the kingdom.

Rhaegar stopped. Part of him wanted to turn, to avoid this man, to avoid any conversation. But another part, a desperate part, held him in place.

"Lord Hand." Rhaegar's voice was formal, strained. He gave a slight bow, a stiff movement.

Tywin Lannister stopped. He turned to face the Prince, the calm on his face a perfect mirror to the chaos Rhaegar had just witnessed. He did not seem surprised to see Rhaegar here. He nodded, a brief acknowledgment of Rhaegar's station.

Then, those pale green eyes assessed him. Tywin looked at Rhaegar's face unabashedly, his gaze sharp and analytical, as if observing every angle and fissure in the Prince's face. Looking for cracks.

"A difficult day, my Prince?"

Tywin's voice was low and flat. It was still morning, the sun had not even reached its zenith, and Tywin spoke thus. As usual, it felt as if the person before Rhaegar knew everything. He knew what had happened. He knew why Rhaegar's day was difficult. Of course he knew. He was the one who started it by suggesting the King remain quiet.

Rhaegar did not answer the question. It did not need an answer. Instead, another question, a much heavier one, escaped his lips before he could stop it.

"My father cannot be stopped, can he?"

It sounded almost like a statement, an admission of defeat.

Lord Tywin did not answer immediately. He looked into the distance, down the corridor, as if considering his words. Then, he began to walk again, slowly, and Rhaegar instinctively found himself walking beside him, moving together toward the Tower of the Hand.

"Know this, Prince," Tywin said, his voice still low, intended only for Rhaegar's ears. "That I have already tried to advise him. I offered the most logical counsel. However, it seems to never work. As before."

"Was he like this, before?" Rhaegar asked, his voice soft. He knew the answer. Of course he knew his father was not like this before, this had only emerged two years ago. But he wanted to hear it directly from his father's childhood friend. From the man who had ruled beside his father for so many years.

Tywin seemed to think for a moment, his hard face showing no emotion. "No," he said finally. "Before, he was ambitious. He was bold. He... listened. He used to listen more to the opinions of others, especially mine. Now... that mind is like... more closed."

"He has many thoughts," Rhaegar said, trying, for one last time, to offer some justification on his father's behalf.

"We all have many thoughts," Tywin nodded, dismissing the justification with cold logic. "But the King seems to have fallen too deep into his own thoughts, such that it makes him... a little tired."

Tired. That word again. Rhaegar felt a bitter laugh rise. "He relieves his tiredness with rather unusual things, it seems." Like shouting at Mother until she cried. Like terrorizing his own children.

Tywin ignored the bitterness in Rhaegar's tone.

"I think," Tywin then looked directly into Rhaegar's eyes, that pale green gaze locking him in, "that he does indeed need..." The man paused, letting the words hang between them.

"...A brief rest."

Tywin stared at him, unblinking. "Is that not so?"

Rhaegar slowed his pace slightly. His breath caught. Suddenly, he could not breathe. The air in the corridor felt as thin as on the highest mountain peak. His chest pounded a little harder.

He knew what had just been said. He knew what those words meant. A brief rest. This was not an invitation for a summer holiday to Dragonstone. This was not a suggestion to get more sleep.

This was a border. A line drawn on the stone floor.

He looked into the eyes of his father's Hand, the second most powerful man in the kingdom, and he saw a cold understanding there. This was dangerous. This was treason. These were words that could cost them both their heads.

Tywin Lannister was offering him a choice. An alliance.

Rhaegar thought of his mother, sitting alone in a dark room, holding a frightened babe. He thought of his father, gone to destroy himself and perhaps the kingdom with him.

He made a decision.

"Yes." Rhaegar's voice was steady, steadier than he expected. He met Tywin's gaze, Prince meeting Hand. "He does indeed need to rest for a while."

---

Tywin already knows Rhaegar well enough to know that he also 'hates' his father, so he dares to speak like that and is very sure Rhaegar will agree. Besides, it is not like they are planning to kill the king... right?
As always. Thank you for reading :'D

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR | JAIME​

---

Father was gone.

Rhaegar watched from the high window of his chambers. Down below, in the dusty courtyard, the small retinue looked pitiful for a King. Only Ser Gwayne Gaunt of the Kingsguard, a few sworn swords, and King Aerys himself. No pomp, no great banners. Only the arrogance of a man convinced that his mere presence was enough to make Lord Darklyn kneel in terror.

Rhaegar said nothing. He just watched them leave in silence, his hands gripping the cold stone of the windowsill until his knuckles turned white. He saw his father's hunched back atop his horse, his tangled silver hair blowing in the wind. It was a pitiful sight, yet also terrifying.

His mind spun, returning to the brief, yet monumental conversation he had with Lord Tywin Lannister on the walk to the tower.

'A brief rest.'

The words felt heavy on his tongue, even just in thought. It was a polite word for a coup. A soft takeover of power. Treason.

They had not spoken since that day. Rhaegar had purposefully avoided him. He needed time to steady himself, to let the reality of what he had agreed to seep into his bones. This was momentous. If they failed, their heads would adorn spikes above the gates of the Red Keep before the new moon.

He turned from the window, leaving the sight of his king riding toward potential disaster. He had to move now. It was time to stop being an observer and start being a player.

Rhaegar walked out of his chambers. The corridors of the Red Keep felt quiet, as if the castle itself was holding its breath. He passed the door to his mother's chambers. He paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the polished wood. He could hear faint sounds from within, perhaps his Mother singing softly to Viserys, or perhaps she was just weeping again.

A sharp pang of guilt pierced his chest. 'What would she think if she knew?' Rhaegar asked himself. Would she see this as salvation, or as the ultimate betrayal of a son against his father? He dared not knock. He could not look his mother in the eye right now, not with such dark plans swirling in his head.

He squared his shoulders and walked on.

The Tower of the Hand loomed before him, a sturdy and efficient structure, much like its occupant. Rhaegar nodded to the Lannister guards stationed at the door; they wore crimson and gold, not the white of the Kingsguard, a reminder of who truly held power here.

He knocked on the thick oak door.

"Enter." The voice from within was calm, flat, and full of authority.

Rhaegar opened the door. Lord Tywin Lannister was seated behind his massive desk, surrounded by neat stacks of parchment and paper. He was writing a letter, his quill moving with precise, sharp strokes. He did not immediately look up when Rhaegar entered, finishing his sentence first before carefully placing the quill into its inkwell.

"Lord Hand," Rhaegar greeted, taking the chair opposite the desk without being asked.

Tywin looked at him, his pale green eyes flecked with gold showing no emotion whatsoever. "Prince Rhaegar."

"He is gone," Rhaegar said, needing no explanation of who 'he' was.

"Yes. A mistake, as I suspected. Darklyn is a stubborn and proud man. He will not respond well to empty threats."

"So how do we handle this?" Rhaegar cut straight to the point. He had no patience for word games today.

"It requires time," Tywin replied calmly, leaning back in his chair. "And many people we need to convince. We cannot just move in the shadows. We need the support, or at least, the indifference of the great Lords."

"Yes, but how?" Rhaegar pressed, frustration beginning to seep into his voice.

Tywin looked at him for a moment, assessing his impatience. "Your role here is more vital than mine, Prince. As his son, as his heir... your words carry the most weight. Your reputation, the melancholic and noble Dragon Prince, makes you far more believable than I, whom they see only as a politician."

Rhaegar gave a cynical smile, a smile that did not reach his eyes. "A dutiful and poetic son, you mean? You want me to play the role of the concerned son while we plot his downfall?"

Tywin's face did not change. He ignored the sarcasm as if it were a small, annoying fly. "First, we must wait. Let Aerys deal with Duskendale."

He leaned forward slightly. "His temper is already an open secret among the small council, but we need to provoke him further. We need to show the world, the Lords Paramount, that the King is indeed unstable. That he is dangerous to himself and the realm."

"We do not need to provoke him," Rhaegar said flatly, remembering the scene in his mother's chambers. "We just need to look at him, and he will be emotional. He sees treachery in every shadow."

"Good," Tywin said coldly. "Then our task is easy. We just need to ensure there are enough important witnesses when he next explodes. We let him make poor decisions in public." He paused for a moment, as if calculating costs in his head. "Of course, not so poor as to destroy the realm. At most a few hundred thousand gold dragons. Damage that can be repaired."

Rhaegar stared at him in disbelief. "You want to waste all that gold just for this? For a show?"

"It is worth it," Tywin replied without hesitation. "Rather than letting the kingdom slowly crumble from within due to one man's madness. Gold can be replaced. Stability cannot."

Rhaegar fell silent. He saw the logic behind it. It was ruthless, but effective. "Fine. The coins will be borne by you, I assume."

Tywin gave a small nod.

"And now," Rhaegar continued, "how are we to convince the other great Lords? The Lords Paramount will not come to King's Landing just because we ask them to. They need a reason."

"As before," Tywin said, his eyes refocusing on Rhaegar, "your brother will be the reason."

"Huh?" Rhaegar frowned, confused. "Viserys? He is still a babe. How can he..."

"He will have a name day soon," Tywin cut in. "Therefore, a great feast will occur, as befitting his birth. Aerys always demands grandeur, does he not? He wants to show his power, his wealth. This time, I will grant it. I will give him the feast he dreams of."

Tywin adjusted his seat, his tone shifting to something almost resembling the satisfaction of a thinker seeing his plans materialize. "We will hold a tourney. The most prestigious tourney this realm has seen in recent years. The prizes will be vast, enough to attract every knight from Dorne to The Wall."

He looked at Rhaegar sharply. "The feast will be so grand that it would be considered an insult if the Lords Paramount did not come. They would not dare refuse an invitation to honor the new Prince. They certainly would not want to upset the King with their absence."

Rhaegar understood now. It was brilliant. And cunning. Using Viserys's innocence as bait to draw political sharks into one pool.

"Sending ravens for business like this is foolish," Rhaegar muttered, fully realizing the plan. "But a tourney... it is the perfect excuse to gather without arousing suspicion."

"Precisely."

Rhaegar felt a fresh wave of guilt. He was using his own brother, an unwitting babe, as a pawn in this dangerous game. But he brushed it aside. 'This is the price to pay to save them all,' he thought.

He looked at Tywin Lannister, the man sitting across from him with terrifying calm. This man was willing to spend unimaginable wealth just to bring down his king.

"You seem very eager for my father to rest, yes?" Rhaegar finally voiced his deepening suspicion. "What exactly has he done to you, personally? This is more than just politics, is it not?"

For the first time, Tywin's mask cracked slightly. A flash of emotion, something dark, hot, and full of hatred, crossed his green eyes before disappearing again.

"Do not feign ignorance, Prince," he said, his voice slightly sharper than before. "I deal with his insults every day. In open court, before the council. Aerys seems intent on destroying me, degrading me at every opportunity. Perhaps he truly does want to."

He took a slow breath, steadying himself back into an efficient ice statue. "But beyond all that, I also want this realm to continue functioning in the future. I have spent too much of my time, too much of my energy, building this stability. I will not let him burn it just because he is in a foul mood."

Rhaegar knew that was true. He had seen the insults himself. But that last sentence... there was something hanging there. Tywin's ambition was never just about serving the realm. It was always about House Lannister.

"I doubt you wish to spend your precious resources just to see me ascend the Iron Throne out of the goodness of your heart," Rhaegar said, leaning forward, challenging the lion in his own den. "So, Lord Hand, tell me. What is the price? What do you want once I sit the Throne?"

Tywin stared at him. Silence stretched between them, heavy and calculating.

"It is simple," Tywin replied. His voice was heavy, full of non-negotiable certainty. "I want only one thing. When you become King... I want you to make my daughter a queen."

Rhaegar fell silent. He should have guessed. Cersei Lannister.

He thought for a moment. Marrying the daughter of the most powerful man in the realm, a beautiful and from the wealthiest family. Politically, it was the most sensible move. It would bind the Lannisters to the Throne forever.

And compared to the risks they were taking, it was a cheap price.

Rhaegar looked into Tywin's eyes, seeing the naked ambition there. "Just that?"

Tywin did not blink. "Just that."

...

It was suffocating, Jaime thought, loosening the collar of his doublet which felt a little too tight. He could feel it, that gaze. Sharp, small, and full of disproportionate hatred for someone barely chest-high.

Petyr Baelish was glaring at him from across the hall of Riverrun as if Jaime had just stolen his favorite toy and burned it in front of him. Since the first day of his arrival, since Catelyn introduced them, those sly little eyes had scrutinized Jaime a hundred times, weighing him, measuring him, and clearly finding him severely lacking, or perhaps too excessive.

Jaime knew, with his strange and cursed future knowledge, that the boy was a ticking time bomb. In that television show, Littlefinger was an architect of chaos, a man who would burn the world just to be king of the ashes. But here, now? He was just a scrawny boy from The Fingers, overly obsessed with the daughter of the Lord who fostered him.

He hadn't done anything yet. He was still innocent, technically.

Jaime sighed softly. What approach should he take? Kill him in his sleep? Too extreme, even by Westerosi standards. Lecture him? Ridiculous. He could imagine the flat, condescending look the boy would give if he tried to offer life advice. Jaime, the golden heir of Casterly Rock, trying to tell a poor boy about life? It would only add fuel to the fire of his hatred.

He shook his head, feeling dizzy. Children were harder to predict than politicians. He would think about it later. Right now, he had a more pressing problem.

Dancing.

They were in the great hall which had been converted into a makeshift ballroom. Musicians were tuning their instruments in the corner. Jaime felt ridiculous in his bright red Lannister garb, complete with flashy gold lion embroidery. His father insisted he wear it to "show the pride of our House," but Jaime just felt like a walking target.

"Are you ready?" Sherra's voice, soft yet firm, broke his reverie.

Jaime fought the strong urge to snort. 'No, I'm absolutely not ready. I would rather fight three men at once than do this.' But he smiled politely.

He faced Catelyn Tully. The girl was beautiful, with auburn hair that gleamed under the torchlight and clear blue eyes. They were nearly of a height now, making eye contact unavoidable. Jaime stiffly took her arm as instructed, feeling like a wooden doll.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Petyr paired with Lysa. Lysa's face was beaming, a stark contrast to Petyr's expression hidden behind a mask of politeness.

"Are you well, my Lord?" Catelyn's voice was soft, drawing his attention back. There was a hint of worry in her eyes.

"I was just thinking that I am likely to step on your feet," Jaime replied, deciding that honesty, or at least some of it, was the best policy.

Catelyn giggled, a light and pleasant sound. "How could someone like you do that?"

"You do not know the half of it, My Lady," Jaime said with a wry grin. "I am terrible at dancing, clumsy and awkward. I might embarrass you in front of everyone."

Catelyn laughed again, more freely this time. "Then just relax, follow me, let me lead."

"Good," Jaime said, feeling a little relieved. "That will save us all."

The music began, a slow and graceful tune designed not to be too difficult for beginners. Jaime let Catelyn guide him. He emptied his mind, focusing only on the steps, one-two-three, one-two-three. It was... not as bad as he feared. He wasn't good, far from it, but he wasn't tripping over his own feet either.

He was normal. And in this situation, normal was a major victory.

When the music stopped, Sherra offered polite praise and a few gentle corrections about his posture. Jaime nodded obediently, then quickly escaped to the refreshments table at the side of the room.

He poured himself some plain water and drank it slowly, feeling the cold sweat on his back begin to dry.

"This is exhausting," he muttered as Catelyn joined him.

"More exhausting than sword training?" Catelyn asked, taking a glass for herself.

"Yes, sword training doesn't drain your mental energy," Jaime asserted. "Must be hard doing this every day, yes?"

Catelyn looked up from her glass, slightly surprised. "No, actually I like it, dancing is easier than anything else I usually do."

"Oh? The reason?"

"With dancing," she said, her eyes sparkling slightly, "you just have to follow the rhythm of the music while maintaining the tempo."

"You certainly seem good at it," Jaime admitted. He then glanced toward the dance floor, where Petyr was talking to Lysa who looked disappointed that the dance had ended. "And him too."

Catelyn followed his gaze. Her smile faded slightly, replaced by a small frown on her forehead. "Petyr, he is good at things like this, he is also great at sums."

"You seem to know him well," Jaime said, his tone neutral.

"I suppose, he is like my own little brother."

Jaime gave a faint smile, seeing the sad irony there. "A little brother who doesn't want his big sister to leave, it seems."

Catelyn turned to him sharply, her brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean, Lord Jaime?"

Jaime drank the rest of his water again. "I see him constantly staring at you, Cat. Then at me, that look so piercing as if he wants to tear me apart."

Catelyn's face paled slightly. "Petyr doesn't mean to do it." Her voice sounded weak.

"Does he always do that?" Jaime decided to dig deeper, his voice soft but urgent.

Catelyn bit her lip gently, looking uncomfortable. "He has been strange lately, he always surprises me and appears suddenly."

"And...?" Jaime motioned for her to continue. And honestly, it did sound creepy. Petyr's obsession seemed to have already begun.

"And, and he seems to not like you. He said that, when we spoke earlier."

"Does all that bother you? I mean when he surprises you?" Jaime asked, looking directly into her eyes.

"Honestly..." Catelyn took a breath, grappling with her own feelings. "Yes. But I do not know what to do."

"We must speak of this with your father," Jaime said firmly. This was also to neutralize future problems, Petyr was still a child, he didn't deserve to be humiliated.

Catelyn looked surprised, but she nodded slowly.

---

As always. Thank you for reading.

 

[Daario]

JAIME​

---

The next day, the afternoon air felt pleasant to breathe in Lord Hoster Tully's private solar. The room smelled of fresh flowers and beeswax, with warm sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

They were currently not seated behind a massive desk cluttered with parchment and paper, a symbol of formal power. Instead, they were on a set of comfortable sofas arranged around a low table. Here, it seemed Hoster wanted to show that they would soon be family, which meant rigid formalities could be relaxed a little.

At least, that was what Jaime thought.

"So your main goal right now is just the spread of... this paper?" Hoster asked, leaning forward. His brown hair, beginning to gray at the temples, was neatly trimmed, and he looked relaxed yet still attentive.

"Yes, for now. Production takes time, and raw materials are key," Jaime nodded, sipping the water that had been served. They were making small talk as if they were a favorite uncle and nephew having a reunion, not two people negotiating the economic future of two major regions. "The Riverlands' soil is fertile and wet, perfect for growing flax in large quantities. If you could play a role in facilitating this with your bannermen, Lord Tully, this would be achieved much faster. We can ensure the supply never breaks for the new mills we are planning."

Hoster nodded slowly, his eyes gleaming at the potential profit. "That is easily arranged. There is plenty of unused, underutilized land. My lords will be happy with the prospect of a profitable new cash crop."

Jaime smiled, adjusting his seat, Tygett next to him. Business concluded. Now, the hard part.

He glanced at Catelyn, who was sitting beside her father. The girl had been quiet since earlier, her hands folded neatly in her lap, listening to the men's talk with the politeness she had been taught.

"By the way, Lord Hoster," Jaime began. "There is something else I wish to discuss. Something a little more... personal."

Hoster's eyebrows raised. "If it is about another business plan, just say it, lad. I am listening."

Jaime shook his head gently. "No, it is not about coin. It is about your ward. Petyr Baelish."

A momentary silence blanketed the room. Hoster and Tygett looked slightly surprised by this sharp change of topic.

"Petyr?" Hoster frowned, confused. "What has the boy done? Has he offended you somehow?"

"I enjoy being here, truly. Riverrun's hospitality is wonderful," Jaime began with honesty. "But Baelish... he seems very uncomfortable with my presence. I have felt his gaze everywhere since I arrived. It is not the curious gaze of a child, My Lord. It is sharp, piercing, as if he is assessing me, and finding me a threat."

Hoster looked skeptical. "He is just a small boy from The Fingers, Jaime. Perhaps he is just intimidated by the heir to Casterly Rock."

"I thought so at first," Jaime continued, pressing slightly. "But I asked Lady Catelyn if this behavior was normal for him. It turns out it is not. He seems to dislike anyone else standing too close to your daughter."

Hoster's expression changed in an instant. From confused to alert. He turned sharply to his daughter. "So... Petyr likes Cat? In that sense?"

"More like he dislikes that someone else is playing with his friend," Jaime corrected quickly. "It is possessive behavior that might be normal for children who grew up together, but Baelish... is a bit excessive. Catelyn can explain it better than I."

All eyes were now on Catelyn. The girl seemed to shrink a little under the sudden spotlight. She bit her lip, her eyes darting from her father to Jaime, then back to her wringing hands. She was clearly struggling between loyalty to her childhood friend and the discomfort she had just realized.

Finally, she let out a soft sigh, relenting. "Petyr... he has been a little strange lately, Father."

Hoster's jaw tightened. "What do you mean 'strange', Cat? What has he done to you?"

"Oh, he has never hurt me, never," Catelyn hastily added, fearing her father's anger. "It is just that... he is always there. Everywhere. He appears suddenly when I am alone in the garden, or waits for me outside my chambers just to 'chat'. He will ask to play games we played when we were small, or ask me to sing along, even when I say I must go."

Uncle Tygett, in his deep voice, finally spoke up. "That is excessive behavior for a boy his age, Hoster. Especially considering their difference in status. The daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Trident should not be stalked by a minor lord's son, no matter how long they have known each other."

"True," Jaime agreed, locking eyes with Hoster. "If we allow this, rumors could start. one servant misspeaking could see him 'appearing' where he should not be when Lady Catelyn is alone... it could harm her reputation."

Hoster's face reddened. Jaime knew he was a proud man, and the protection of his children, especially his eldest daughter, was paramount. "I will send him home," he growled, his hands clenching on his knees. "Tomorrow. I will send him back to his father's miserable pile of rocks."

'Don't be too eager, uncle.' Jaime thought. He didn't want to destroy the boy's life completely; he just wanted to tame him. Sending him home now might only accelerate his transformation into a vengeful monster.

"That is too hasty, Lord Hoster," Jaime cut in gently.

Hoster looked at him, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean? You brought this matter to me yourself."

"True, but so far Petyr has done nothing but be a creepy nuisance. He hasn't crossed any unforgivable physical lines," Jaime assured him, using his most reasonable tone of voice. "Destroying his future over a childish crush... that might be too harsh. He is still a child, he cannot think clearly about the consequences of his actions yet."

'A bit ironic,' Jaime thought, 'considering I am technically also still a 'child' in their eyes.'

"Children are indeed careless and foolish. It is our duty as their elders to remind them of their place," Tygett added. "What about a more mundane solution? Give Lady Catelyn a personal guard. Someone who is always with her outside her chambers. That will stop Baelish from inappropriate behavior without needing to make a huge fuss."

Hoster's shoulders relaxed slightly, though anger still smoldered in his eyes. He considered the proposal for a moment. "A guard... yes. That makes sense. It sends a clear message without needing to publicly shame House Baelish."

He nodded firmly. "I will do it. Not just for Cat. Lysa will also get her own personal guard starting today. I do not want to take any chances."

Lysa too? Jaime thought that was an unexpected development, but very welcome.

...

"Is this wise?" Catelyn asked as they both walked side-by-side down the cold stone halls of Riverrun. Her voice echoed softly off the walls, full of doubt.

Jaime walked beside her, adjusting his pace to match hers. Inwardly, another part of him, his darker part, the part that had seen this world burn, thought that if Petyr were older, removing him permanently would be much easier. He wouldn't feel a shred of guilt to prevent future chaos.

Well... maybe. At most, he would just vomit.

But right now? He was just facing a heartbroken little boy. Jaime had no better path that didn't involve unnecessary cruelty. At least now Hoster Tully was aware and would keep an eye on the boy. And if Baelish still dared to try anything... well, Jaime wasn't helpless. He was a Lannister. He had far more important problems, like preventing an ice apocalypse and perhaps a civil war, than just dealing with obsessive childhood romances.

It was a rather cold thought, Jaime admitted, but that was the bitter reality he had to accept in this second life.

"It is very wise, Cat," Jaime assured her in a gentle but firm tone. "With supervision, at least Petyr can truly focus on his studies here, instead of being distracted by... other things. We are helping him, in our own way."

Catelyn bit her lower lip, looking unsure. "Petyr is clever. He might soon know what really happened and who suggested it. He will hold a grudge against you," she whispered, as if afraid Petyr would pop out from behind a pillar's shadow.

That made sense. Jaime had already calculated this. He came to Riverrun, and suddenly Catelyn and Lysa had personal guards blocking Petyr's access? Only a fool wouldn't be able to connect the dots, and Petyr Baelish was no fool.

If Petyr grew up to have the same power as in that TV show, certainly Jaime had just created a troublesome new enemy. But Jaime had the advantage of time, power, and nearly unlimited money. He could handle one angry little boy.

Jaime shook his head and chuckled softly, trying to melt Catelyn's tension. "Let him. I have experienced worse things than the angry stare of a boy."

'Far worse,' he thought. In his past life, he had faced hysterical parents, a deadly education system, and a salary barely enough to live on. This beta version of Littlefinger's grudge was nothing yet. Besides, being a Lannister meant half the realm already hated you out of envy; one more wouldn't make a difference.

They walked in silence for a while, until Catelyn spoke again, new determination in her voice. "I will try to speak to Petyr again. Perhaps if I explain it well, I can open his mind so he does not misunderstand."

Jaime stopped abruptly.

'You are so kind, Cat,' Jaime thought, feeling a mix of pity and frustration. 'Even after he made you uncomfortable, you still think of his feelings.'

He turned to face Catelyn, looking into her clear blue eyes full of good intentions. A vague memory from that TV show flashed in his mind, Catelyn Stark freeing Jaime Lannister in the naive hope that it would save her daughters, an act based on a mother's love but fatal to her son's war effort. It was a dangerous pattern: good intentions backfiring due to a lack of foresight.

He had to stop that habit now, before it started.

"Listen, Cat," Jaime said, his voice serious. "Sometimes... sometimes it is better for someone to just stay quiet than to do something. Do you understand what I mean?"

Catelyn blinked, confused. "But he is my friend... I do not want him to have bad thoughts about you, or about us."

"I know," Jaime sighed. "But if you go to him now, when he is angry and feeling left out, you will only give him false hope or make him even angrier. Sometimes, people need space to calm down on their own. You cannot 'fix' everyone's feelings just by talking to them."

"That hatred, if it exists, will only be temporary," Jaime continued, trying to sound convinced even though he knew Baelish was an extremely vengeful type. "Everything will be fine. Let your father and time handle it now. You have done your part honestly."

Catelyn looked at him for a long time, searching for reassurance in his face. Finally, she nodded slowly in silence, though doubt still lingered in her eyes.

Jaime could only hope that advice was enough for now.

----

We will see what happens in King's Landing in the next chapter. As always. Thank you for reading.

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

Fifteen days later. The Small Council chamber was tense, the air as heavy as hot iron. It was as if everyone was holding a deep breath, and no one dared to exhale it. On the large table in the center of the room, a map of Duskendale and the coastal regions of the Crownlands lay unfurled, untouched cups standing like forgotten cyvasse pieces.

This was a dire situation, an emergency, a crisis that had never entered their considerations before. And yet, if Tywin Lannister were to be honest in the silence of his own mind, this chaos... was deeply satisfying.

For years he had endured Aerys's escalating madness. And now, Aerys, in his infinite foolishness, had decided to walk alone into the viper's nest, ignoring his Hand's counsel. Aerys had wanted to prove he was still in charge, that he did not need Tywin Lannister.

The result? He was now a captive. It was poetic justice that almost made Tywin smile.

"We must act immediately. This is an unforgivable violation." Lord Chelsted, the Master of Coin, finally broke the suffocating silence. "Who would have thought that a refusal to pay taxes could push Lord Darklyn to such a reckless decision?"

"Men can do foolish things when faced with money problems," said Edward Rambton, the Master of Whisperers. He was a middle-aged man with brown hair that was beginning to turn white.

"Darklyn has killed a Kingsguard." Gerold Hightower's voice, the Lord Commander, sounded like grinding gravel. His jaw was clenched tight with rage, his white cloak seeming stiff on his broad shoulders. "He spilled sacred blood. If he steps any further than this, House Darklyn will pay."

Ser Gwayne Gaunt was dead. Stabbed in the castle courtyard, according to whispers that managed to escape Duskendale's walls. Darklyn had not mentioned that in his letter of demands, of course. But this was information that could be confirmed, as the source was reliable. The King's small retinue, Aerys, Ser Gwayne, a few soldiers, and several servants, were immediately ambushed upon entering the main gate by Darklyn's men. They didn't even have a chance to defend themselves.

Aerys had insisted on going with only one Kingsguard, wanting to show "royal courage" and settle this tax issue personally. Tywin had advised him against it, saying it was beneath a King's dignity to haggle with a petty lord over taxes. But Aerys, wanting to prove he didn't need Tywin's protection, departed nonetheless.

And now Aerys was there, perhaps in a damp dungeon, chained like a common criminal, or in a high tower. Tywin did not care where exactly.

But for now, he had to play his role as the loyal and competent Hand of the King.

Tywin finally spoke. His voice was flat, cold, yet instantly dominated the room, cutting through all the anxiety. "Darklyn demands that Duskendale be granted a new city charter. He demands privileges identical to Dorne, freedom from crown taxes, the right to administer his own justice, and full control over his port. Utterly unreasonable demands."

He paused, letting the absurdity of the request sink in. "In his letter, he states he will release the King if his terms are met. And also," he added, with a faint, almost imperceptible note of sarcasm, "if the King and the entire Council swear not to raise banners in retaliation."

"As if he believes he can walk out of this alive after killing a Kingsguard and taking the King hostage." The voice came from Rhaegar Targaryen. The Prince was beside Gerold Hightower, his posture stiff. His face was pale, but his purple eyes were sharp. "If we actually grant his wishes, even partially, a terrible precedent will be set. Other dissatisfied Houses will do the same every time they want something. It would be the end of the Seven Kingdoms."

Silence fell over them again as they contemplated the implications of Rhaegar's words.

Then Lord Chelsted nodded, "Then... then the only way is to demand Darklyn surrender unconditionally. Or we storm the castle if they refuse."

"It is my father who is hostage, Lord Chelsted!" Rhaegar raised his voice, a sharp tone rarely heard from the usually melancholic prince. "A reckless assault will only guarantee the executioner puts his sword to my father's neck before our first soldier reaches the walls!"

Tywin nodded slowly, his face a stone mask. "The Prince is correct. We cannot rush into a decision. The King's safety is paramount."

It was the sentence he had to say. If they stormed the castle now, Aerys would certainly be harmed or, even better, dead. Darklyn would be executed, and Rhaegar would be king.

Tywin also knew the other game. If they just sat here, negotiating endlessly, time would also run thin. The patience of both sides, especially the cornered Darklyn, would erode bit by bit. There, Darklyn's fear that he would not get what he wanted would escalate.

When fear takes over, harming Aerys might be seen by Darklyn as the only way to make his demands truly heard. And for Tywin, both scenarios, a failed assault or deteriorating negotiations, both held the same potential for a favorable outcome: The King could be killed.

Tywin dearly wanted to just sit still, but that was impossible, so he took the middle path. A siege.

"We will try sending another raven to Darklyn," Tywin said sharply, deciding the course of the discussion. His voice was steel. "We will refuse all his demands. We do not negotiate with traitors. We will demand the King's immediate and unconditional release."

"While he contemplates our refusal, we will gather the full strength of the Crownlands' soldiers and summon levies from other regions. We will assemble at the gates of Duskendale. We will besiege him tightly. We will give him immense psychological pressure to surrender." Tywin continued, his eyes locking with the Prince's. "A siege gives us time. Time to find an opening, time to make Darklyn think about his actions."

'And during that time,' Tywin thought, 'I myself will lead that siege. I will be there every day. I will ensure the situation becomes chaotic enough, desperate enough, that an 'accident' could happen. It must be done efficiently... Or, I just need to drag this out as long as possible, so that Aerys is killed on his own...'

'Sometimes the simplest way is the most effective.'

...

The entire Red Keep was shrouded in a tense bustle. The echo of hurried footsteps bounced off the stone walls. Lords, Maesters, and servants moved with purpose, but smiles and laughter had vanished from the place, as if they too had been imprisoned with King Aerys behind the walls of Duskendale. The music had stopped. All that remained were quiet whispers in corners and the creak of armor from the guards.

The Small Council meeting had just finished, leaving behind a heavy air and the promise of inevitable conflict.

Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, walked across the cold stone floor. His stride was calm, measured, and authoritative. He was the calm in the swirling chaos.

Behind him, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, like a restless silver shadow, followed. His usually dreamy purple eyes now radiated uncertainty and pent-up energy.

"When will the army march?" Rhaegar asked, his voice quiet but filled with a tone of suppressed demand. He had to quicken his pace slightly to match Tywin's long strides.

Tywin did not stop, did not even turn his head. "In five days," he replied, his tone as flat as a steel plate. "Ships and men cannot be readied in the blink of an eye. Gathering soldiers, securing provisions, assembling siege weapons—it all takes time. Darklyn will not dare do anything to the King for now. He still thinks he is negotiating."

'Five days is actually too fast,' Tywin thought.

Rhaegar nodded stiffly, his chin lifting slightly. "He certainly won't dare do anything right now. But the more time passes, the greater the risk we face. We are talking about a man who abducted his own king and killed a Kingsguard. The longer we delay, the less we know what that mad and desperate man will do."

"Darklyn sealed his own fate the moment his blade touched Ser Gwayne," Tywin paused for a moment near an engraved stone column, his gaze sweeping the busy hall. "He will face the wrath of the entire realm."

'But he will not get that wrath from me,' a thought flashed through Tywin's mind, a veiled promise he never spoke. 'He will get my calculation. And if my calculation says Aerys must die for this realm to survive... then Darklyn is a useful tool.'

As they continued toward the Tower of the Hand, they saw the figure of Ser Barristan Selmy. His cloak and armor seemed dull beneath the hall's torchlight. The Kingsguard's eyes were red from lack of sleep, but he stood tall, shouldering the weight of his armor and his failure with the honor of a true soldier. Exhaustion was plain on him, but his spine remained straight as steel. Tywin gave him a brief appreciation, not for his feelings, but for his unwavering strength.

"Ser Barristan," Tywin greeted with a short nod. Rhaegar nodded in kind.

"Lord Hand. Prince." Barristan's voice was hoarse. "What is the decision?"

Tywin glanced at him, assessing the man. Loyal, brave, and utterly unimaginative. A perfect soldier. "We are in unanimous agreement," Tywin said, his voice leaving no room for debate. "We will refuse all of Darklyn's offers. We will send an army to besiege Duskendale. No negotiations. Everyone must be ready in five days, and then we will march."

Barristan let out a long breath, the weight of the world seeming to lift slightly from his shoulders, replaced by the certainty of action. "Good, Lord Hand. That is the right decision. This event is most unfortunate. We have been at peace for so many years... yet it seems someone did not want that to last."

Rhaegar snorted, a cynical laugh devoid of joy escaping his lips. "Oh, Darklyn wants peace, Ser Barristan. He has stated it very clearly in those letters. Peace at the price of a city charter and full authority."

"Greed brings ruin," Barristan said, sighing again. He looked at Rhaegar, then Tywin, guilt etched on his face. "I had my doubts when His Grace said he would go alone with just his small retinue, Prince. I offered to accompany him and bring more soldiers. I insisted. But it was all flatly refused by the King."

'If it hadn't been refused, you would be dead with your sworn brother,' Tywin silently rebuked. 'Aerys's paranoia has saved the life of another loyal fool, apparently.'

"Nothing could have convinced my father once he'd made such a decision," Rhaegar shook his head in resignation. "He has many of his own thoughts lately. Thoughts that others cannot understand."

"For now, we can only pray he remains safe until we arrive," Barristan agreed, then bowed politely, his heavy armor creaking slightly. "I will go help gather the soldiers, then, Lord Hand, Prince."

After Barristan left, Tywin and Rhaegar turned, taking a quieter corridor toward the Tower of the Hand. Their footsteps echoed in the empty passage. They stopped in Tywin's private solar, a place where they could speak without fear of being overheard. The smell of parchment, old oak, and ink greeted them. Tywin closed the heavy wooden door. The castle's sounds were immediately muffled, leaving a heavy silence.

Rhaegar did not waste time. He did not wait to be offered a seat but went straight to one of the heavy armchairs in front of the desk, nearly collapsing into it. He stared at Tywin, a purple fire burning in his tired eyes.

"I want you to be honest with me, Lord Tywin. On your honor, by the Seven. Do you want to save my father... or not?"

The question hung in the air, sharp and dangerous.

Tywin moved to his chair behind the massive desk, sitting slowly, deliberately. He felt a cold draft from the slightly open high window brush his golden hair. He stared at the Prince.

"I am an old friend of your father's, Prince," Tywin said, his voice calm. "We grew up together. I have served him my entire life."

'I would love to see him die,' Tywin thought, the shadow of Aerys laughing mockingly at him flashing in his mind. 'Slowly, if necessary.'

But the words that came from his mouth were spoken with the caution of a hunter.

"Although he has insulted me much in public," he continued, his green eyes radiating calm. "It does not mean I wish to see him die at the hands of a petty, greedy rebel. I just want to resolve this mess, Prince."

Rhaegar looked at him for a long time, searching for a crack in that stone mask. Finally, he let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumped. He looked like a young man shouldering a burden too heavy.

"With Father as a hostage, our own plans... are in chaos," Rhaegar sighed, his eyes looking weary as he spoke again. His voice was barely a whisper. "I do hate my father, Lord Hand. Seven forgive me, I hate him. I desperately want to replace him as king and carry out all the plans I have thought of for this realm. But..."

He hesitated, as if ashamed to admit his weakness. "But I am not so cruel as to wish him to die like this. After all, he is still my father. And once... long ago... he was a good father."

Tywin just stared, letting the silence fill the room.

'Emotional ties,' he thought to himself, almost feeling pity. 'It's what forms men, and at the same time, it's their greatest inhibitor.'

Prince Rhaegar had just handed over his most potent weapon: his confession. He was bound by love and hate, a paralyzing combination.

And Tywin could use it at any time.

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

Rhaegar stared at his sword. The blade lay on his desk, looking incredibly dull, as if the ancient steel absorbed any light that dared to touch it, even in the darkness of his chambers.

He felt tired. Not the physical exhaustion from lack of sleep, though there was that too, but a deeper exhaustion, one that seeped into his bones. There was also confusion, and beneath that, a cold anger churned. His grip on the hilt trembled slightly with restrained emotion. He clenched his jaw, so hard he felt his teeth might break.

Standing in the darkness of his room, Rhaegar closed his eyes. The image of his father, foolish and reckless, flashed in his mind. He wanted to curse the man. He wanted to scream in his face for causing the entire kingdom to panic, for letting the situation get to this point, and worst of all, for letting his mother worry herself to death.

His mother had barely slept lately. Rhaegar often saw her at the highest window of her chamber, just standing, staring towards the heavens as if she could will Aerys back with the sheer force of her gaze. And Viserys... his infant brother was quiet in his mother's arms, as if the babe instinctively sensed that something terrible was happening and decided not to be a further burden. A tragic maturity for an infant.

With a suppressed growl, Rhaegar sheathed his sword in one slow movement. He placed it back on the table, right near the window where the first gray sliver of morning light was beginning to enter. He would leave it there and take it when he departed for Duskendale. It would be his reminder for the next four days—no longer the harp, but steel—that he must be ready to use it if things turned chaotic.

And he desperately hoped they wouldn't. Every part of his soul rejected violence, yet every inch of his dragon blood told him it was inevitable.

Turning from his weapon, Rhaegar opened his chamber door. The air in the corridor outside felt richer, fuller with the scents of the waking castle, baking bread, old dust, and the remnants of last night's torch smoke. It filled his lungs, calming him slightly.

He would have breakfast. Breakfast would give him energy, and with energy, he could think more clearly. He had to think for everyone now.

He walked down the quiet corridor. The guard named Orick, standing watch at his door, nodded silently, his eyes beneath the helm full of unspoken worry. Rhaegar nodded briefly in return.

He arrived at his mother and father's chambers. A Kingsguard stood watch here, Ser Jonothor Darry. He saluted. "Prince."

Rhaegar just knocked softly on the thick wooden door. After hearing a quiet answer from within, he entered.

The room was bright. The morning sun flooded the chamber through the large open windows. And there, in the light, stood his mother, Queen Rhaella. Her back was to him, holding Viserys wrapped in a blanket. The scene was so peaceful and serene, a fragile bubble of tranquility in the midst of the storm. As if their troubles beyond these walls never existed.

"Mother?" Rhaegar called softly.

"Hmmm?" His mother didn't turn. Her voice sounded distant, light as the wind. "What is it, Rhaegar? Look. Viserys is enjoying the view outside. There are so many birds flying out there, gracing the sky. You can come closer to see, too. It's very beautiful."

Rhaegar's throat tightened. He swallowed what felt like coarse sand. He moved forward slowly, his footsteps nearly silent on the carpet, until he was beside his mother.

He looked where his mother was staring. There, in the bright morning sky, there were indeed hundreds of birds, crows, perhaps, or sparrows, flying to and fro in large flocks. They flew beautifully, orderly, and strong. They wheeled and turned as one, never colliding, as if they all knew what the others were thinking.

'If only men could be like that,' Rhaegar thought bitterly. 'If only Father could...'

"Where are they going?" Rhaegar whispered, more to himself.

"To someplace that makes them comfortable," his mother replied just as softly. "A place that is warm, and safe."

There was a longing in her voice that made Rhaegar's heart ache. He nodded, then gently changed the subject. "Mother. It's time for breakfast."

"I know," his mother said, still staring outside. "You go ahead and eat, Rhaegar. I'll follow. Viserys and I still want to watch the birds."

Frowning, Rhaegar shook his head. There was no way he would eat breakfast alone in that quiet, silent hall, accompanied only by the stares of frightened servants. Especially when he knew his mother was running on fumes. She had barely eaten anything yesterday.

"Don't jest, Mother," he said, more firmly than he intended. "Are you still thinking about Father?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Rhaella's eyes dimmed instantly, her faint smile vanishing. The light in them died. When he mentioned Aerys, Rhaegar knew it was a painful subject, a constant exhaustion, even when his father was still here, in this castle, terrorizing her at night.

"Aerys?" Rhaella whispered, her voice returning to earth. "Of course I'm thinking of him. Everyone in this kingdom is thinking of him."

Rhaegar sighed, smelling the faint scent of dried flowers that filled the room. "We will save him, Mother. Lord Tywin is gathering the army. Everyone is trying. You don't have to torture yourself with these thoughts, by not eating."

Queen Rhaella finally turned from the window, looking at Rhaegar. Her purple eyes, so much like his own, were weary and ringed with dark circles. But she forced a thin smile for her son. A smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"I know," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "You are very persuasive, my son. Far more persuasive than your father." She sighed. "If you insist... very well. Let's go have breakfast."

...

"It's very crowded, isn't it? They answered the call quickly," Jon Connington said beside Rhaegar.

The three of them, Rhaegar, Jon, and Ser Arthur Dayne, stood atop the highest tower of the Red Keep, looking down on Blackwater Bay. The sight was incredible. Dozens of sailing ships crowded the harbor, while many more were visible on the horizon, their sails like flecks of chalk on the dark blue water.

On the docks, the situation was more like organized chaos. Thousands of men poured from transport ships, carrying crates, horses, and the banners of the Crownlands Lords. They immediately sought places to eat and drink before this siege would begin. King's Landing, usually busy, now felt like it was overflowing.

"Look at all those ships," Jon continued, his voice tinged with his typical cynicism. "They all look like ants from up here. Ants very interested in honey."

"Honey, or blood," Arthur Dayne commented quietly on Rhaegar's other side. The Sword of the Morning stood still, his white Kingsguard cloak fluttering softly. "It will be like this for the next few days."

"The more the better," Rhaegar finally spoke, his eyes sweeping the fleet. He didn't see 'ants'. He saw strength. "We need many ships to blockade Duskendale's port completely. Nothing must be allowed in or out."

"If Darklyn doesn't surrender immediately after seeing a force this large, he must be the stupidest man in Westeros," said Jon Connington. "This will clearly crush him in a single day."

"If he didn't have the King right now, I'm sure that's what would happen," Arthur added flatly, bringing the harsh reality back to the surface. "But he does have the King. That changes everything from an assault to a hostage rescue."

Rhaegar nodded, feeling the weight in his chest grow heavier. Arthur was right. This was not a normal war.

"Let's go see the other soldiers," Rhaegar decided suddenly, turning from the view. The view from the tower made him feel too detached, like a god looking down. He needed to come down to earth. "Let's hope they don't all wilt like leaves blown by the wind."

He descended the narrow spiral staircase, Jon and Arthur following behind. The sounds from below grew louder, replacing the whistle of the wind at the tower's peak. As they stepped out into the main castle courtyard, Rhaegar was greeted by the true sights and sounds of war.

In the courtyard, scores of soldiers were already lined up, perhaps hundreds, organized into companies by their Lord's banner. The air was filled with the smell of sweat, oiled steel, and horse dung. The sounds of captains shouting orders, the clang of hammers from the smithy, and the restless whinnying of horses mixed into a deafening symphony.

Rhaegar saw Ser Barristan Selmy in the thick of it, his armor already complete even though the battle was still days away. His usually calm face now looked hard and tired. He saw Rhaegar and nodded curtly, a shared acknowledgment of duty between them.

Rhaegar, Jon, and Arthur walked past the lines of soldiers. Rhaegar observed them carefully. Many of them were green youths, their eyes shining at the thought of saving the king, not yet fully understanding what a siege meant.

"They look ready," Jon said, clapping a startled soldier on the shoulder as he passed.

"They look green," Rhaegar whispered. He then turned toward the smithy, where the most intense activity was happening.

Dozens of blacksmiths and their apprentices worked tirelessly. Forges blazed hot, hammers rang on anvils, scattering sparks. They weren't just making swords or repairing armor; they were preparing siege equipment. Piles of newly made arrowheads mounted in a corner.

Lord Tywin had ordered all this. Rhaegar had to admit the Hand's efficiency. The Red Keep had transformed from a peaceful palace into a true military fortress in less than a day.

"So much preparation," Jon muttered, wiping sweat from his brow even though he was just standing near the entrance. "Lord Tywin seems intent on leveling Duskendale stone by stone."

"He intends to win," Arthur said.

"But how long?" Rhaegar asked quietly, more to himself. "All these preparations... this is for a long siege."

Rhaegar felt a coldness in his stomach that had nothing to do with the wind. Tywin was preparing for a methodical, inevitable war. He would surround Duskendale, cut off its supplies, and wait. Waiting for Darklyn to starve. Waiting for Darklyn to become desperate.

But what will happen to my Father while Tywin waits?

"Prince?" Arthur's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

Rhaegar blinked, tearing his gaze from the flames. "It's nothing, Ser Arthur. I was just... thinking."

They left the noisy smithy and returned to the slightly quieter courtyard. Rhaegar stopped, staring at the high walls in the distance.

"Jon," Rhaegar said. "What do you think we should do?"

Jon Connington looked surprised by the direct question. "Do, Prince? We gather the army, we march to Duskendale, we show our strength. If Darklyn doesn't hand over the King, we break down his gate and take him."

"And if he kills my Father while we're breaking down his gate?" Rhaegar's voice was sharp.

Jon fell silent, his cynicism fading in the face of that reality. "Then... he dies, you will be King. And your first act will be to take revenge in the most terrible way."

Rhaegar closed his eyes. That was the problem. Jon saw the end result, the throne. Arthur saw duty, protecting the King. But only Rhaegar seemed to be trapped in the middle, thinking of the morality and the blood that would be spilled.

"I do not want to be King over a pile of corpses, Jon," Rhaegar said quietly. "Especially not my father's."

He turned and began to walk away, not to the tower, not to the throne room, but towards the castle sept.

"Prince, where are you going?" Arthur asked, confused.

"Seeking solace before the madness begins," Rhaegar replied without turning. "You two, keep an eye on the preparations. Make sure the soldiers are well-fed. I want them strong, not just numerous."

Jon and Arthur exchanged a look, then bowed. "As you command."

Rhaegar pushed open the heavy door of the sept. Inside, it was cool and silent, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. There were only a few serving women praying, and the colored light from the stained-glass windows danced on the stone floor.

He walked to the altar, but he did not kneel. He just stood there, staring at the stone-carved faces. He hadn't come to pray for victory. He hadn't come to pray for his father's safety.

He came because this was the one place in the Red Keep where no one expected anything of him. Here, he was not the Dragon Prince, not the son of the King. He was just a tired man, trapped between duty and emotion, listening to the silence and hoping, for once, that the silence would speak back.

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

"You have done very well, Lord Velaryon."



Tywin Lannister's voice was flat, nearly swallowed by the roar of the salty wind and the frenetic bustle of Blackwater Bay. They walked along the wet, moss-slicked wooden docks, Tywin's footsteps maintaining a steady rhythm amidst the organized chaos surrounding them.



Everywhere, men moved like insects whose hive had just been kicked. Sailors scrambled up thick rigging, shouting coarse orders to stevedores whose backs bowed under the weight of supply crates. Salt pork, barrels of cheap ale, and sacks of grain were rolled into the gaping maws of transport ships. Amidst them, soldiers stood tall, overseeing the loading of weapons.



Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, walked beside him with a gait that was slightly limping as he tried to match Tywin's long strides. The man wore a proud smile—a wide, wet smile that did not reach his eyes.



"There are a few ships currently inoperable, Lord Hand," Lucerys reported, his voice carrying an annoying, high-pitched timbre. "Six at the moment; it seems their hulls suffered minor leaks during last week's storm. They should be repaired quickly, mere basic damage. My carpenters are working day and night. They may not depart at our designated time, but they will catch up swiftly. I guarantee it."



Lucerys replied with a feigned enthusiasm, his face beaming as he reported the minor failure as if it were an achievement. Tywin did not stop walking, offering only a flat, unblinking side-glance in return.



Tywin knew exactly who this man beside him was. Lucerys was Aerys's most loyal lackey, the kind of spineless creature who would laugh the loudest at the King's witless jokes, and nod the fastest at Aerys's whims. Tywin knew that Lucerys Velaryon often insulted him behind his back, whispering in Aerys's ear about the 'Lion who had grown too large for his cage' or how Tywin had forgotten his place.



Yet, Tywin harbored little grudge... at least not for this man. Hatred required energy, and Lucerys Velaryon was not worth that energy. Tywin's hatred was a deep, cold ocean, reserved entirely for Aerys. The man before him was but an ant compared to the King. House Velaryon, who once rode dragons and wed Targaryens, had lost its glory long ago. They were merely a dim shadow of past power, rotting on their damp island. Later, when the dust settled and the new order was established, Tywin could easily flick this louse from the Small Council with a snap of his fingers.



"As long as they catch up within the expected timeframe, it matters not," Tywin finally said. His green eyes fixed on the shapes of the royal ships bobbing in the water.



The timber was good, he had to admit. Pitch-black hulls, their upper decks gleaming under the sunlight. They were well-maintained, at least on the surface.



"We are not sailing there to fight a great naval battle, Lord Velaryon," Tywin continued. "We are going there to catch a mouse that thinks it is a cat."



The sentence carried a dual meaning, a double layer Tywin often employed.



The first meaning, which the shrimp-brained Lucerys likely understood, was a calming message: 'No need to rush, we have plenty of time. Lord Darklyn in Duskendale isn't going anywhere. This is a standard siege, not open warfare.'



The second meaning, understood only by Tywin himself, was far darker: 'Bring however many ships you have, I do not care. Six, sixty, it is irrelevant. The naval blockade is a formality. All of this is merely a cover for what I will do on land.'



"Ah, yes, of course, Lord Hand! The poor mouse," Lucerys chuckled, agreeing too quickly, his nervous laugh sounding like a choked seagull. "Lord Darklyn must have gone mad. We shall show him the Dragon's fangs... and the Lion's claws, of course!"



Tywin stopped walking. He turned his body slowly and looked Lucerys dead in the eye. The gaze was void of emotion, yet it held a crushing weight. Lucerys's laughter died instantly in his throat, freezing into an awkward grimace.



"Just ensure those ships are ready," Tywin said softly, yet every syllable was distinct. "I want no further distractions. No excuses. No further delays."



"Yes, Lord Hand. Of course. I will oversee the repairs myself."



They parted ways at the end of the pier. Lucerys hurried back toward the shipyard, starting to shout orders at his subordinates with a voice raised louder than before, attempting to project the authority that had just been stripped away.



Tywin did not look back. He walked toward his waiting horse, a black destrier guarded by four Lannister household guards. He mounted the saddle with efficient movement.



The ride back to the Red Keep was a journey through the belly of a sick dragon. King's Landing smelled as it always did—a mixture of human waste, woodsmoke, and rotting fish—but today there was an additional scent: fear. The common folk scattered from his path as if he were a plague. Their eyes were cast down, but Tywin could feel their stares. He ignored them.



Upon arriving at the Red Keep courtyard, he handed his horse to a stable boy and headed straight for the Tower of the Hand. He passed lesser lords trying to catch his attention, dismissing their greetings with cold silence.



Inside his solar, silence finally greeted him. The room was spacious, dominated by dark wood and tapestries. Tywin sat, feeling the stiffness in his back ease slightly. With the King taken hostage, Tywin had been increasingly busy of late. He was practically the King in all but name. He arranged troop movements, ensured grain supplies were sufficient for a winter that might come at any moment, and kept the Seven Kingdoms from collapsing due to Aerys's folly. This was the price of power.



However, amidst the pile of royal duties, Tywin never forgot his primary purpose in King's Landing: the glory of House Lannister.



His large hand picked up a neatly wrapped letter sealed with the wax of Casterly Rock. It was from Kevan.



He broke the seal and began to read. The letter was written in Kevan's hand. Tywin skipped the opening, the formal pleasantries, the condolences for the King's situation—which Tywin knew Kevan wrote just in case the letter was intercepted—the harvest reports, and minor complaints about dissatisfied bannermen.



Tywin's eyes stopped at the final section, the most critical paragraph.



"...It is unfortunate that just as our paper enterprise has begun to flourish, the realm faces such trouble. The crisis in Duskendale was certainly unforeseen, and with this, perhaps some trade routes to the Crownlands will be temporarily hampered. However, Gerion has done his task well in Essos. What we possess now has spread by word of mouth further than we anticipated.



"Thanks to his promotion, there are more merchants from the Free Cities, Braavos, Pentos, even Myr, continuing to visit Lannisport. They no longer come just for gold, but for paper. They favor its texture and practicality. It seems we did not waste our coin 'squandering money' to build those mills. The schools we established are also constantly full; for now, they can accept no more students and must wait until next year. Or we must accelerate the construction of others.



"This signifies that behind all the flaws and massive initial costs, this project is succeeding. Little by little, we are shifting the dependency on learning away from Oldtown. We will reap the true benefits, not just in coin, but in control."



Tywin nodded slowly, a rare satisfaction touching his heart. A knock at the door broke his concentration. Three times. Firm, but polite.



Tywin folded the letter and stored it in a locked drawer. "Enter."



The door opened. A man stepped in with calm but wary movements. He had red hair and a beard that was beginning to whiten, a face forged by sea wind and sun. His clothes were of good quality, made of fine wool but unobtrusive. He looked like a successful middle-class merchant, the type one would see a thousand times in the market and forget in a second.



Luke. A fish merchant from the Westerlands, or so his cover went.



"Good afternoon, Lord Hand." The man bowed, a friendly smile etched onto his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, yet his movements were still agile. "An honor to see you again."



"Sit," Tywin said, wasting no pleasantries. He pointed to a hard wooden chair across his desk. Tywin disliked wasting time in situations like this, especially with hired men.



Luke's eyes practically sparkled. Of course. Tywin was the man who had saved him from ruin ten years ago. Luke was just a poor fisherman with mounting debts when Tywin saw potential in his cunning and his network of contacts in the Lannisport harbor. Tywin paid his debts, gave him ships, and invested. In return, Luke gave his soul.



"How do you fare?" Tywin asked, his tone flat, though the question itself was a boon for a man of Luke's station.



"My business has flourished since last time, My Lord. Truly flourished," Luke answered enthusiastically, sitting on the edge of the chair. "This time I am not only shipping salt fish and shellfish to Oldtown or Dorne, but also Gulltown, Duskendale, Maidenpool, and of course, King's Landing. My merchant fleet grows larger thanks to your aid. And naturally, I have capable crews... men willing to do hard work and ask few questions."



He clasped his hands together at the end of the sentence, his rough fingers interlocking. He fell silent, his eyes on Tywin, waiting for instructions. He knew he wasn't summoned to the Tower of the Hand just to discuss fish prices.



"Good," Tywin said, leaning forward slightly. The afternoon sunlight cast sharp shadows across his face. "I need your men in Duskendale. Not for trade."



Luke's face turned serious in an instant. The mask of the friendly merchant cracked. "Duskendale is in trouble, My Lord. Lord Darklyn has closed his gates."



"Gates are closed for armies, not for food merchants bringing supplies in a time of crisis," Tywin interrupted. "Make sure to choose the men you can control most. Those who have something they value that we can hold as collateral... or simply, those who desire gold the most and do not fear blood."



The Tower of the Hand was Tywin's absolute domain. These walls were thick, and the guards outside were deaf to anything but his commands. There was no need for him to use excessive metaphors. He had to be careful, yes, but being paranoid was not Tywin's nature.



"I have many such men, My Lord," Luke said quietly. His fingers began tapping his knee, an old habit. "They are loyal as mongrels fed meat. They will listen to whatever I desire, and they have never disappointed so far. They know who truly feeds their families."



Luke paused, weighing how far he could ask. "If I may know, My Lord... what is it you want with them inside?"



Tywin did not answer immediately. He stared at Luke, measuring the man once more.



"I need someone to slip in there. As you already know, we will lay siege. We will cut off their access from land and sea. The city will go hungry. And when a city hungers, the people become restless."



"So..." Luke smiled crookedly, a guess forming in his head. "You want my men to sneak in, find where the King is held, and rescue him? To be heroes in the shadows?"



Tywin suppressed a harsh scoff. He leaned back in his chair, shadows obscuring his eyes.



"Do not jest," Tywin's voice was ice cold. "Aerys is surely guarded heavily by Darklyn's best soldiers. It would be difficult, even impossible, to rescue him in such a manner. The risk of failure is too high."



Tywin stared straight into Luke's eyes. "Furthermore, this is not a rescue mission. Quite the opposite."



Luke's fingers stopped tapping his knee instantly.



His eyes widened slightly, his pupils contracting. He stared at Tywin rigidly. Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Luke was a smart man; he understood the implications of those words. Quite the opposite.



This was high treason. This was kingslaying, even if done with a passive hand.



But Tywin was his master. Tywin was the god who plucked him from the mud. And more importantly, Tywin was the man who could crush him back into dust before the sun set.



Luke's lips twitched. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Slowly, his large fingers began to play again, kneading the fabric of his trousers. He exhaled a long breath.



"You shall have exactly what you desire, My Lord," he whispered, his voice slightly hoarse but firm. "I will ensure it is provided."



Tywin nodded, satisfied. No hesitation, no moral questions. Only business.



"I want you in the vicinity of Duskendale. Use your identity as a merchant trapped or trying to profit from the war. Send your three best men to sneak into the city, through the sewers, through the sea wall, I do not care how."



Tywin picked up a blank piece of paper, as if inspecting its quality, but his eyes remained on Luke.



"Their task is not to approach the King. Their task is to hear everything. And then... to speak." Tywin set the paper down. "I want them to spread fear."



"You want to corner Darklyn," Luke concluded.



"I want to create chaos," Tywin corrected. "I want the situation inside to be so heated, so desperate, that Darklyn makes a fatal error. Or better yet... in the midst of that chaos, if the King's guards panic, or if a riot reaches the holding cells..."



Tywin let the sentence hang. 'If Aerys is killed in that chaos, then it is a regrettable tragedy. A tragedy that puts Rhaegar on the throne and puts me back in full control without the interference of a madman.'



"We will squeeze them little by little, for as long as possible," Tywin continued. "Until we find an opening to end it all. Do you understand, Luke?"



Luke stood, bowing deeply. His merchant's smile had returned, but now there was a dangerous glint within it.



"Yes, yes. Of course, My Lord. Chaos and despair. That is an expensive commodity, but I can deliver it."



"Go," Tywin commanded. "Do not disappoint me."



As the door closed behind Luke, Tywin Lannister picked up his quill once more. He pulled a fresh sheet of paper, paper made in Lannisport, and began to write orders for the vanguard.



Outside the window, the sun began to set on King's Landing, casting a blood-red shadow over the entire city. The Siege of Duskendale had only just begun, and Tywin intended to win it, without a living King at the story's end.

---

 

[Daario]

JAIME | TYWIN​

---

The leaves in the gardens of Riverrun rustled softly, following the morning breeze that blew gently toward the east. The gust carried a few yellowing leaves, sending them spinning through the air in a slow dance before landing on the surface of the tranquil pond. The atmosphere was peaceful, wrapped in the warm embrace of the morning sun. It was the kind of warmth that invited one to stop and stand still, simply to feel the serenity seep into their bones.



However, that peace felt wrong, a thin facade that failed to mask the cold new reality. The atmosphere felt entirely incongruous with the news that had just arrived from King's Landing. The news had stopped the laughter in the hall, frozen conversations, and cancelled whatever joy nature and the morning flora had provided.



The King had been taken captive.



The words seemed to swirl in everyone's mind within the castle, from Lord Hoster Tully in his solar to the servants whispering in the kitchens. The words also echoed in Jaime Lannister's mind.



Jaime sat alone in his room, in a chair by the open window. In his hands, he clasped a simple porcelain cup filled with warm water. He did not look at the garden below; instead, he gazed up at the bright blue sky and the clean white clouds drifting slowly by. His green eyes, usually so sharp and lively, shimmering under the morning light, looked slightly dim, as if a shadow had passed over them.



Jaime—Steven, knew this would happen. At least, the broad strokes. In what he remembered of the original story, Duskendale was a pivotal moment. He didn't know what to do in a situation like this. He was hundreds of miles away, trapped in Riverrun, while the great events that would shape the future began to move. All of this was beyond his control.



And that was what frightened him. He feared that this was the inevitable turning point. This was the event that, in the story he remembered, truly broke Aerys's mind. The King would not just be rescued; he would return as a monster. He would become the 'Mad King' as portrayed in that TV show. This was the end of the road for the man. If that happened, when that happened, the great war he feared, the war that would destroy so many, the war that would put Robert on the throne, would have a much higher probability than before.



Moving his right finger slowly, Jaime lifted the porcelain cup. He felt the faint warmth of the cup spreading through his fingers, a strange contrast to the cold knot in his stomach. It was perfect to accompany the cool morning air. He sipped slowly, letting the soothing sensation of the warm water fill his mouth. He swallowed, feeling the water go down, falling into his throat and warming his chest.



Holding the cup in silence, he steeled his resolve. He could do nothing. Not right now. He was an eleven-year-old boy. He was not Ser Jaime the Kingsguard, he wasn't even the heir in command. At this moment, he was merely a political guest in his betrothed's castle.



His role now was what he had been in his previous life: a spectator. He would only observe, take notes, and then think of a way to prevent things from worsening in the future. His focus had to remain here.



He stared at his faint reflection in the water in the cup. The face of a boy stared back. Instantly, his thoughts shifted to another family that would soon be destroyed by the King's madness. Eddard Stark.



A good man. Too good to survive in King's Landing.



And his father and brother... if he wasn't mistaken, Eddard's father and brother, Brandon, were burned alive by the Mad King. Brandon went to King's Landing to seek Lyanna, who was 'kidnapped' by Rhaegar. Jaime didn't remember the exact details, when exactly it happened, but he knew, that was when the real war began.



Jaime felt like laughing bitterly. Before, this was all just a story on a screen, evening entertainment after a day of teaching. Now, that story was his life, his brutal reality, and he was the only one in this entire world who knew what was coming. It truly sucked. It was like someone had placed a thousand weights on his shoulders, and then left him just like that to bear it alone.



He shook his head, banishing those dark thoughts. Father. His father should be marching with his army toward Duskendale by now, leading the siege. Lord Darklyn was truly brave, or foolish. Who knew what entered the man's mind to do such a thing. Jaime mused, the line between brave and crazy seemed to lie on a very thin wire indeed.



Deciding that there was no point in dwelling on problems hundreds of miles away and completely out of his control, Jaime stood up. He was currently wearing casual black attire, a soft cotton tunic and comfortable trousers. He had to focus on what was in front of him. He would go out of his room. Perhaps practice swords with Uncle Tygett. Or maybe sit with Lord Hoster and pretend to be deeply interested in river politics. Or, most likely, he would share adventure stories with Edmure as he had always done lately.



The boy, so eager when Jaime explained the world of Middle-earth, about Hobbits and rings. Edmure even made up his own theories. That was good. Imagination was something children should have; it was something to be protected.



Walking out of his room, Jaime found the castle corridor deserted. He looked up at the high arched ceilings above him, supported by thick ancient oak beams. As Steven, a modern man, even after years in Jaime's body, he still felt a deep awe for the castle architecture he constantly encountered. They were so grand, built with hands and sweat, not machines. Every castle had its own uniqueness, all crafted with care like an artist who would not be satisfied if the result did not match their imagination.



"Jaime!"



A voice called out, full of unrestrained energy. Jaime turned just in time to see Edmure Tully running toward him down the corridor. Of course, the kid was always energetic. He ran very fast, ignoring the servants who were dusting the tapestries or carrying dirty linens to be washed. Edmure's fiery red hair looked like moving embers.



"Are you going to tell another story this time?" Edmure asked with a wide grin, his breath slightly panting as he stopped in front of Jaime.



Jaime chuckled softly, looking at the boy who was clearly the heart of Riverrun. "Maybe later, Edmure," he said. "How about we focus on the reality of this morning? And you shouldn't run indoors like that. Look, you startled that servant."



"That's easy," Edmure nodded quickly, looking not at all remorseful. "But reality is boring. Stories are much better! Except for swords! When are we going to practice swords?"



"Yes. We can go to the training yard."



"Great!" Edmure exclaimed. "And after that?"



"After that," Jaime said as he started walking side-by-side with Edmure, "you have lessons with Maester Vyman, right? About the various Houses of the Crownlands."



Edmure immediately rolled his eyes dramatically. "Ugh, yes," he groaned. "Just hearing it makes me tired. He just lists names and castles. There are so many of them they look like ants gathering in my head. Who cares about Lord Stokeworth or whoever Rosby is?"



"You should care," Jaime said. "You should be excited, you will lead Riverrun one day."



Edmure's eyes immediately lit up at the prospect. "And fight on the front lines?"



'Oh, don't be too eager for that,' Jaime thought to himself, remembering the war that might soon occur. He kept smiling on the outside. "That's one part of it. But the bigger part of leading is knowing who your neighbors are. That's why those lessons are important."



"How can a list of names be important?" Edmure asked, genuinely confused.



"Because those names own land," Jaime explained. "That land grows wheat, or raises sheep, or controls roads. You have to know who your neighbors are, what they need, and what you have to trade. Knowing that can stop a war before it starts."



Edmure seemed to ponder this for a moment, as if he had never thought of it from that perspective. "That sounds... that sounds like a lesson on managing a kitchen and a granary."



Jaime chuckled. "Exactly. Managing a region is like managing the world's biggest kitchen. You have to make sure everyone has enough food and isn't fighting over the last scrap of meat."



"Huh. I guess that makes sense," Edmure said, though he was clearly still more interested in the war part. "Alright! But we train first. I want to try that disarming move you showed me the other day! I bet I can beat you this time!"



"We shall see," Jaime said with a smile. They continued walking down the corridor, Edmure now enthusiastically explaining his strategy for their practice fight, while Jaime's mind was still divided between the spirited boy beside him and the shadows gathering in Duskendale.



As the two of them continued their steps, descending the wide spiral staircase toward the main courtyard, another boy emerged from an adjacent hallway. He walked with a calm, unhurried gait. He wore simple but neat black clothes and was carrying a stack of books clamped tightly against his chest. Petyr Baelish.



"Petyr!" Edmure called out cheerfully, waving.



The small, slender boy stopped and turned. A thin, polite smile immediately formed on his lips. "Edmure. Good morning."



His eyes then shifted to Jaime. His polite expression didn't change a bit, but Jaime felt a barely perceptible shift in the air. Something assessing, observing.



"Lord Jaime." Petyr Baelish gave a small nod, a sign of respect perfectly calculated.



"We're both going to the training yard to practice swords," Edmure said, his wide grin returning. "You want to come?" He then glanced at the books Petyr was carrying with a hint of scorn. "Come on, forget those boring books. We can spar together. Three is more fun."



Petyr chuckled softly, a laugh that sounded too mature for a child his age. He shook his head. "I cannot, Edmure. I have financial records I've been studying all week, and it's time to see if the lessons have soaked into my brain. Maester Vyman will test me by having me rewrite them."



"Bleh, you can do that anytime," Edmure urged, clearly not understanding.



"Perhaps," Petyr agreed amiably, unaffected by Edmure's insistence. "But I prefer to finish it now. Besides, you have Lord Jaime here." He glanced at Jaime again, his smile unwavering. "He is surely a far better sparring partner than I am."



Edmure pouted. "Of course I know that," he grumbled, his tone clearly deflating. "But it would be more fun with more people... fine, if that's what you want."



The Tully heir then turned and resumed walking, his steps stomping slightly in annoyance. Jaime paused for a moment, smiling at Petyr. "Good luck with your records," he said, sincere.



"You as well, Lord Jaime," Petyr replied, his eyes holding Jaime's gaze a moment longer than necessary. "I hope your sword practice is enjoyable."



The two of them parted ways. Petyr continued his journey toward the library, while Jaime caught up with Edmure, who was now walking faster down the stairs.



"He's never excited to practice swords," Edmure whispered when Jaime was beside him. "At all. How can he fight bandits if he leaves the castle later?"



Jaime chuckled softly at Edmure's simple logic. "Everyone has their own interests, Edmure. Petyr, for instance, he likes numbers and counting. That is very useful for managing many things in a castle or a kingdom. Far more useful than you think."



"But what about bandits?" Edmure insisted.



"For bandits," Jaime shrugged, "he can go with a dozen armed guards. Not too difficult, right? Some men fight with brains, others with steel."



"But still..." Edmure shook his head quickly, unconvinced. "Never mind. Come on, hurry, I want to hit the practice shield!"



Jaime laughed, freer this time. Edmure's overflowing energy was contagious.



...



The wind blew fiercely over the command ship's deck as the small fleet cut through the waves toward Duskendale. The sharp scent of salt rose from the sea, mixed with the faint smell of tar and wet rope. The air felt crisp, full of the promise of life, or death, depending on which side the sword fell. Seagulls circled above the ship's masts, their cries piercing the wind as if guiding them north.



Tywin Lannister stood at the prow, his crimson cloak billowing violently behind him, yet his body remained still as a stone statue. He watched the birds intently, not out of admiration for nature, but out of a sailor's instinct. The weather would hold; he could feel it in his bones. Their journey today would be logistically smooth. That was the only thing he cared about.



"Nature seems just as eager as we are to save the King, Lord Hand."



The voice came from beside him. Ser Barristan Selmy. The man stood tall in his brilliant white Kingsguard armor, his face glowing with holy determination. There was a fire in his eyes, the fire of a knight who believed in songs of heroism.



'Just your imagination,' Tywin commented silently, suppressing the urge to scoff at such naivety. To Tywin, nature cared for neither kings nor beggars. The wind blew where it willed.



However, he did not voice that. "Let us hope that enthusiasm is sufficient to make Darklyn surrender immediately," he said flatly, without turning. His eyes remained fixed on the hazy northern horizon.



"It still takes time to reach Duskendale, Lord Hand," Barristan said, his tone dropping slightly, realizing the reality of the situation. "Do you have another plan if Darklyn truly refuses to yield? If he uses... his hostage as a shield?"



"For now, we simply must cut off the food supply," Tywin replied. "Hungry men are more likely to lose their minds quickly. An empty belly is a poor counselor, but a master agitator."



In his mind, Tywin calculated. This was a delicate situation. A situation that could derail his plans if he wasn't careful. If Darklyn surrendered too quickly, fearing the sight of this fleet, then Aerys would return to the throne unharmed, and his madness would continue to rot within. That would destroy the golden opportunity Tywin was trying to create. He needed time. He needed pressure.



Luke, the fish merchant, had left for Duskendale the same day they met. That meant, if Tywin's calculations were correct, he should be near there by now. Luke's men would be poison in the well.



By the time Tywin's fleet cut off the sea lanes and his army besieged the land, Luke's men would begin to whisper. They would create chaos, spreading rumors that Tywin Lannister came not to negotiate, but to raze the city to the ground. That even surrendering would not save them.



Tywin wanted Darklyn to feel cornered. He wanted the Lord of Duskendale to know the risks, that he would not get out of this alive unless he did something drastic.



"He lost his mind the moment he dared to take the King captive and kill a Kingsguard," Barristan gritted his teeth as he said it. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. The death of his sworn brother, Ser Gwayne Gaunt, at the hands of Darklyn's soldiers evidently still haunted the knight. "That is a stain that must be cleansed with blood."



Tywin glanced briefly at Barristan. Honor. It was a heavy chain.



"Your vengeance will be paid, Ser Barristan. You simply must be patient," Tywin explained, his tone slightly sharper. "We do not fight to satisfy your anger. We fight to restore order."



"Justice, Lord Tywin," Barristan corrected, his eyes staring sharply. "Justice is what I shall uphold. For my King, and for my brother."



Tywin did not answer. He returned his gaze to the sea. He had no energy to entertain such nonsense. Justice was a word small men used to feel better about the cruelty of the world. Tywin knew the truth: there was only power, and those who held it.



'As you will, Barristan. As you will.'

---

By the way, I made a new story, maybe you guys want to read it. The Sound of Silence - (Viserys SI)

 

[Daario]

JAIME | RHAEGAR​

---

"So in the end, the Prince succeeded in finding Cinderella and taking her to wife?" Catelyn asked, a soft smile blossoming upon her youthful face. Her eyes sparkled, reflecting the glint of sunlight that pierced through the leaves of the great tree sheltering them.

"It was so romantic and magical," Lysa added quickly, her hands cupping cheeks that were slightly flushed from the heat. She giggled, the sound of a young maiden full of dreams. "I was most satisfied to hear that Cinderella's stepsisters were shamed before the Prince whilst trying to force their great feet into that glass slipper. They were so wicked; they deserved their fate!"

Jaime Lannister sat at ease in a carved wooden chair within the Tully's private gardens. All around him, summer blooms were in full flower, red roses, bluebells, and towering sunflowers. The sun above shone fiercely, the azure sky stretching cloudless as far as the eye could see. The heat bit at the skin slightly, yet the breeze from the river made Jaime feel alive. He stretched his arms slightly across the back of the chair, savoring the warmth.

Nearby, Edmure sat with legs crossed, looking slightly skeptical yet listening intently. In a corner far enough away to be unobtrusive but close enough for propriety, Catelyn and Lysa's guards stood tall, their armor gleaming intermittently, watching over their young lord and ladies with quiet vigilance.

"But the Prince ought not to have wed a commoner," Edmure finally voiced his protest, his red brows furrowing in amusing disapproval. "It makes no sense, Jaime. His bannermen would be wroth. A Prince must wed a daughter of a Great House, or at the very least a powerful Lord's daughter for an alliance."

Jaime smiled in amusement. Little Edmure was already thinking like a feudal politician. Hoster Tully's nature had clearly trickled down to him, raw though it still was. 'He has a point,' Jaime admitted, nodding to Catelyn who looked ready to scold her brother.

But Lysa huffed, waving her hand as if swatting a fly. "Why does it make no sense? True love cares naught for castles or family names, Edmure. Look at history! Prince Duncan Targaryen did just that with Jenny of Oldstones. He gave up everything for love."

"And look what came to pass," Edmure retorted stubbornly, pointing a finger. "He lost his claim to the throne, and King Aegon was furious! It caused a great many troubles. Father always says we must put duty before desire."

"Even so, he wed her still. And they were happy, for a time at least," Lysa insisted, shaking her head until her hair swayed. "Besides, this is a tale of Jaime's making! Tales need not make sense! In tales, mice can turn into horses and pumpkins into carriages. Why cannot a maidservant become a princess?"

"Aye," Catelyn interjected with a soothing voice, acting as the wise eldest sister. "Tales are made to comfort, Edmure. That is why there is much magic in them. Our world may be harsh and full of rules, but in stories, we may dream of something sweeter."

Jaime chuckled softly. It felt strange to debate the logistics of a fictional Disney royal wedding in the middle of Westeros, but it was refreshing. "True," he said, then added a small white lie to maintain his image lest he seem too childish. "These stories I actually crafted only to tell Tyrion."

"You tell girls' tales to your brother?" Edmure widened his eyes in disbelief, his mouth slightly agape.

"Tyrion likes stories," Jaime replied casually, picturing his brother. A sudden pang of longing surged within him. "It matters not if it is about knights or princesses with glass slippers, so long as it entertains him and keeps him from weeping at night. He is a clever lad; he fancies the magical."

"That is truly sweet," Catelyn said, her gaze upon Jaime softening.

"We women often hear tales meant for boys about wars and dragons," Lysa defended, still unwilling to lose to Edmure. "Do not be surprised if boys also hear of such romantic tales."

"Uh, aye. Very well. I suppose you have the right of it," Edmure yielded, raising both hands in defeat. He then looked up at the sky, his expression turning slightly dreamy. "Lysa… if there were magic in this world, magic like that fairy godmother, it would be exciting indeed. I would wish for magic that could make me a master swordsman overnight."

Jaime smiled at that. "There are no shortcuts for the sword, Edmure. Only calluses and sweat."

Silence reigned for a moment, filled only by the sound of bees buzzing around the roses. Then, Edmure leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes squinting childishly as if he were sharing a state secret.

"And perhaps… hark, do you think the King will be freed?"

The question burst their bubble of fantasy sharply. The harsh political reality of Westeros came rushing back into the small garden.

"I heard," Edmure continued in a low voice, "that Lord Darklyn has gone mad. The servants say he might turn into a demon later for daring to defy the dragon. That he drinks blood for strength."

"From whence did you hear that?" Lysa was clearly astounded, her eyes round with fear. Her hands reflexively clutched her dress.

Jaime was no less surprised, though for different reasons. Demons? Drinking blood? Rumors in Westeros truly worked like an extreme game of broken telephone. The imagination of the smallfolk was always wild when it concerned things they did not understand. Yet, behind the ridiculous rumors, there was real danger. Fear created monsters.

Edmure seemed to think, trying to recall his source. "When I walked through the kitchens this morning seeking lemon cakes, I overheard the servants whispering whilst scrubbing the plates. That is what they said. That Duskendale is cursed."

Catelyn shook her head, clearly feeling both amusement and pity for her brother's naivety. She smoothed her dress gracefully. "You need not listen seriously to whisperings in the wind, Edmure, especially ones so wild. Servants love to dramatize matters to chase away boredom. Lord Darklyn is a rebel, aye, but he is a man, not a demon."

She looked at Jaime and her brother in turn with a firm yet gentle gaze. "Let us pray that the King will be freed as soon as possible and peace restored. That is the best thing we can do at this moment. Leave the matters of war for the Lords to ponder."

Jaime nodded in agreement, though his mind was in turmoil. 'Aye, let us pray he is freed,' he thought cynically. 'And let us pray that once freed, he does not decide that burning people is his new favorite hobby.' Jaime knew that prayer was likely in vain. The Aerys who walked out of Duskendale would not be the same Aerys who walked in. The Steven inside him knew this history too well. That madness was like a slow-burning fire, and Duskendale was the oil.

Heeding his sister's words, Edmure nodded, looking slightly relieved that no actual demons would be crawling out of Duskendale. Then he looked at Jaime, his spirit reigniting, forgetting politics and demons in an instant.

"Very well, enough about demons and glass slippers. 'Tis better we go fishing now! You promised, Jaime!" Edmure stood, patting his trousers which were slightly sullied by grass. "After all, you leave on the morrow, do you not? This is our last chance."

Ah, yes. That reality hit Jaime again. He had been at Riverrun for a month. Thirty days spent far from Casterly Rock. His father, Tywin, had done this with the aim of drawing him closer to Catelyn to build the foundation for a future marriage.

And it must be admitted, it worked. At least the Catelyn part. Their interactions this time were not truly awkward. They could speak as friends, not strangers forced into a match. Catelyn was no longer just a tragic character or a face on a screen; she was a real girl, intelligent, caring, and possessing a warm laugh. Jaime found himself quite enjoying this company as a friend, a peaceful feeling he rarely felt.

"Of course," Jaime said, rising from his chair and stretching. His muscles felt comfortable after resting; he spoke with a hint of wryness. "I could never break a promise to my future good-brother, could I?"

Catelyn's face reddened slightly at the title, but she did not look away. She smiled politely. "Go on. But be careful by the riverbank; the current can be swift after the rains upstream yesterday."

They walked away from the garden, passing through the sturdy stone gates toward the riverbank accompanied by a few guards. Riverrun was a unique castle, a triangular fortress built at the confluence of two great rivers: the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. Water was their natural defense, as well as the vein of life here.

The river flowed calmly, the water clear and cold; they chose a spot where willow trees dipped their branches into the water.

Jaime sat on the edge, his legs dangling over the water. In his hand was a simple fishing rod. Beside him, Edmure was busy with his hook, his face scrunched in concentration.

After several minutes of waiting in comfortable silence, filled only by the sound of rippling water and chirping birds, Edmure pointed into the distance.

"Look at that," he said, pointing to a boat moving slowly in the distance. It was heavily laden, perhaps with grain or wool. "They must be heading to Saltpans."

Jaime squinted, shielding his gaze from the sun. "A calm journey," he commented.

"Aye," Edmure complained. "Uncle Brynden says river travel is easy, but sea travel is the vexing part. He once told tales of how hard it is for ships from Lannisport to sail around past Dorne if they wish to go to King's Landing or the Free Cities. The winds in the Stepstones are perilous, and there are many pirates."

"The sea is cruel indeed," Jaime murmured. "And sailors are blind at night without stars."

"True!" Edmure exclaimed. "Uncle says if a storm comes and covers the stars, they can only guess or try to sight the coastline. Imagine being lost in the middle of the sea, seeing only water as far as the eye can see. It is terrifying."

Edmure's words, simple and innocent, suddenly triggered something inside Jaime's brain. Like a light switch flipped in a dark room.

'Guessing. Sighting the coastline.'

Steven, the modern soul inhabiting Jaime's frame, was suddenly struck by a realization most fundamental. Something that in his former world was a trifle, a child's toy, yet here... in Westeros, it could be a revolution.

Navigation in this world was still somewhat primitive. They sailed hugging the coastlines, or depended upon the stars and sun. If clouds covered the sky, or fog descended, a fleet could be crippled entirely or lost.

'A Compass.' Yes, he had thought of this once, but being too busy with papers and other matters, he had done nothing.

The principle was simple. Magnetism. He knew of lodestone—natural magnetic rock. He remembered seeing Maester Creylen at Casterly Rock possessing several stones that could attract iron. The people of Westeros knew of magnets as curiosities, toys for Maesters, but none had applied them for maritime navigation en masse.

Jaime stared at the river barge again, but his mind had already drifted far to Lannisport.

If the Lannisters possessed the compass...

Imagine the advantage. Lannister ships would no longer need to hug the treacherous coastlines. They could cut directly across the open sea, saving weeks of time. They could sail when it was overcast, during storms, during starless nights, whilst their enemies had to drop anchor and wait for the weather to clear.

In war? It was a priceless strategic advantage. The Lannisport fleet could appear from unexpected directions, maneuvering in thick fog to ambush.

In trade? It was a monopoly. They could chart new trade routes that were safer and faster to the Free Cities, perhaps even further.

A needle that points North.

Jaime began to construct the schematic in his head. He needed an iron needle, which would then be rubbed against a lodestone to magnetize it. He could ask the best smiths at Casterly Rock to forge a perfectly balanced needle, and glassblowers to enclose it so it would not be disturbed by the wind. He would add a compass rose beneath it—North, South, East, West.

"Jaime?" Edmure's call jolted him back to the present.

"Huh?" Jaime turned, blinking.

"You were dreaming. Your bait is taken," Edmure said, pointing at Jaime's rod which was bending slightly.

Jaime quickly pulled up his rod, feeling a small resistance. A medium-sized silver fish thrashed at the end of the line. He pulled it in with practiced movements, but his mind was still half-left on the design of the compass.

"A fine catch!" Edmure praised.

"Aye," Jaime muttered, unhooking the fish and tossing it into the woven basket. "A very fine catch."

He stared at the flowing water. He would try to realize this idea to distract his mind from the problems at hand. This must become another secret project of House Lannister. Something he would present to his father one day.

"You are smiling strangely," Edmure commented, looking at him suspiciously.

Jaime laughed, genuine this time.

"I was just thinking about... direction," Jaime replied. "About how we know where we are going."

Edmure frowned, not understanding. "We go downstream, of course. Or that way if you wish to go home."

"Precisely," said Jaime, casting his hook back into the water. "Sometimes it is that simple."

"Hey, Jaime," Edmure spoke again, his voice slightly hesitant. "If you leave on the morrow... will you write letters?"

Jaime turned, seeing the boy's slightly sad expression. Edmure, the youngest child in a great castle, clearly enjoyed having a new 'big brother' for this past month.

"Of course," Jaime promised. "I shall send a raven. Perhaps I shall slip a new story or two inside. About a pirate who could find his way home in the darkest storm."

Edmure's eyes lit up. "That sounds grand. Tell me later!"

"I shall."

The sun began to dip, touching the horizon, turning the river's surface into a sheet of shimmering copper. The afternoon wind began to blow colder.

Jaime packed up his fishing gear. "Come," he said, clapping Edmure on the shoulder. "Before your Lord Father scolds us for being late to supper."

…

The wharves beyond the walls of Duskendale were a living, breathing entity, wrought of wood, rope, and organized despair. The place was bustling and clamorous, a sickening contrast to the deadly silence that hung over the Dun Fort itself. Cask upon cask was stacked in every available corner; inside them lay salted fish still smelling of the sea, fruits beginning to rot under the heat, wilted vegetables, and of course, cheap wine and ale to drown the soldiers' fears.

Men moved on foot hauling these goods, their backs bowed under the burden of siege logistics. They scurried to and fro like ants whose hill had been disturbed, and every so often, their weary eyes would glance toward the royal retinue atop the deck of a great ship flying the three-headed dragon.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the prow of the command ship. He observed them from above with scrutiny, his violet eyes sweeping over the scene below. The atmosphere here seemed business as usual, trade continued to flow, bellies had to be filled, but there was a tension creeping through the air like the breeze before a storm.

Lord Tywin Lannister did not play games. The Hand of the King had already ordered every soldier to board the merchant vessels, inspecting every hold and crate, restricting existing supplies with brutal efficiency. Access to the Dun Fort had been severed completely. No grain went in, no messages came out. The town was being slowly strangled, and Tywin was the hand holding the rope, tightening it inch by inch without emotion. All were guarded with rigorous precision.

The royal soldiers, in armor reflecting the sunlight with a blinding glare, walked with steady steps down the gangplank. The company traveling by land had not fully arrived, hindered by mud on the Kingsroad, so there were few horses on the docks. Yet, the sound of every stomp of their boots upon the wooden wharf was loud, rhythmic, and merciless, as if they would shake the earth and bring down the city walls with their steps alone. Their faces were flat, expressionless, disciplined to show no doubt; their bodies stood rigid as pikes ready to thrust.

Firm footsteps, heavier than a common soldier's, sounded from behind Rhaegar. Without needing to look, he knew who it was. He turned to find Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, walking toward him. His white armor was stained by the dust of travel, but his white cloak still hung with undeniable authority. The old bull's face looked harder than stone.

"How stands the situation, Ser?" asked Rhaegar, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of unspoken worry.

Gerold wore a serious countenance, the only expression to be found on any face Rhaegar had seen of late, on the faces of lords, knights, and he was certain if he looked in a mirror, he would find the same shadow upon his own visage.

"It is secured, my Prince," Gerold reported, his voice gruff and low. "No man shall approach the Dun Fort within the designated perimeter. Archers have been stationed on the rooftops. Merchants have been warned with threats of asset seizure should they breach the blockade, let alone the locals. And if any rat attempts to scurry out of that castle, we shall catch it, alive or dead."

"No word of the King?" Rhaegar asked, his eyes shifting back to the grim stone fortress looming in the distance, where his father was held.

Gerold shook his head, an expression of frustration crossing his weary eyes. "None. Lord Tywin has already sent an envoy to deliver the ultimatum. We must only wait for Darklyn's response now. There is naught else we can do. Time and patience are the only path, so says the Lord Hand."

They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the shouts of ship captains barking orders. Rhaegar felt estranged. He was the Prince, the heir to the throne, yet here, in this slaughterhouse being prepared, he felt like a spectator. Tywin Lannister was the master of this siege, and Rhaegar was merely a royal ornament required to be present.

"They say Darklyn has gone mad to dare this," Rhaegar murmured, more to himself than to Gerold. "But what drives a loyal Lord to this point? Fear? Or desperation?"

"Greed and folly, my Prince," Gerold answered firmly. "There is no reason that justifies touching a King."

Suddenly, a commotion below drew their attention. They saw the figure of Lord Tywin Lannister, in armor of crimson and gold, standing amidst a throng of soldiers. He looked like a living golden statue, unaffected by the chaos around him. Then, a horse ridden hard approached him, mud splashing everywhere. It was the envoy they had sent.

The man dismounted in haste, nearly falling from exhaustion or fear. He offered a trembling salute and began to speak to Tywin. The distance was too great for Rhaegar to hear the words, but he needed not hear to understand. He saw the envoy's expression—pale as a sheet, eyes wide, cold sweat drenching his brow. And he saw Tywin's reaction, or rather, the absence of one. The Lord of Lannister's face did not change in the slightest.

"Come," said Rhaegar, urgency suddenly gripping him. He and Gerold hurried off the ship, their steps quick across the wooden planks toward the docks.

They approached the circle of commanders. The smell of horses and sweat assaulted them. Tywin turned as he saw the Prince approaching, his gaze calm and analytical.

"What is it, Lord Hand?" Rhaegar asked, his voice slightly demanding, though he already knew the answer from the aura of darkness shrouding the group.

Tywin looked straight into Rhaegar's eyes. There was no sympathy there, no fear.

"Darklyn refuses to yield," Tywin said sharply, every word cut with precision. "He refused the offer of pardon for his family should he surrender himself. His mind remains unchanged; he will only agree to hand over the King if we accede to all his demands."

"So... He threatens Father's life?" Rhaegar felt his blood run cold.

"He seems to still possess the nerve," Tywin continued, his tone flat, as if discussing the rising price of wheat.

"Then what is our plan?" Rhaegar pressed.

Tywin's pale green eyes flashed, a glint that sent a shiver down Rhaegar's spine. "We shall not retreat, my Prince. We shall wait. And if Darklyn believes he can use the King as a shield forever, he shall learn that the Lion does not treat with rebels."

Nodding, Rhaegar thought that this would be a very long day indeed...

---

 

[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.

---

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