Fields of Gold - (Jaime SI)

[Daario]

HOSTER | CATELYN​

---

Hoster Tully turned the roasting spit over the campfire flame with slow and steady movements. Above it, a large piece of venison, hunted by his scouts this afternoon, hissed softly as it touched the licking flames.

It was currently night, and the sky above the Riverlands was clear of clouds, showing off an expanse of shining stars. The air felt so cold, biting the skin through the gaps in the armor, due to the gentle breeze coming continuously without end from the north.

The sound of night insects could be heard chirring everywhere, filling the silence of the forest. Earlier there were many mosquitoes buzzing annoyingly around their ears, but since the fire was lit and the thick smoke spread, those insects retreated, making the atmosphere of this small camp much better and bearable.

Yellow fat oozed from the meat's pores when Hoster pressed it with his dagger. The fat fell into the embers, creating a momentarily dancing flame and evaporating fragrant smoke that immediately entered the olfactory senses. The aroma was very savory, wild, and mouth-watering, making Hoster's empty stomach rumble slightly, demanding to be filled immediately.

But this meat was not perfectly cooked on the inside yet, and honestly, Hoster really enjoyed this process. Staring at the burning fire and listening to the sounds of nature provided its own tranquility for him. It made his usually tangled mind clear again amidst the many things.

He turned slightly across the campfire.

"Do you think we can wipe out one of their groups tonight, Petyr?" Hoster asked.

Opposite him, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, his ward was wiping the blade of his longsword using a piece of oiled cloth. Petyr Baelish looked down, his eyes focused on the glint of metal in his hands.

Hearing Hoster's question, Petyr lifted his face.

"Based on the reports we received from the scouts? Yes, My Lord, of course," answered Petyr calmly. "The information we got is quite recent. They carry a lot of heavy loot, and based on the nearest unattacked village, their movements are very easy to predict. They are definitely camping in the valley near here."

Hoster turned his meat again, nodding slowly accepting the analysis. "Are you afraid to face them later, Boy?"

Petyr's hand slightly stopped its movement on the sword. A thin smile that was often difficult to interpret appeared at the corner of his lips.

"Not really, My Lord," he answered. "They are just former farmers rebelling out of hunger and anger. They swing swords like swinging hoes, and they have no skills, discipline, or formations that can match us. Honestly, we could probably even defeat and slaughter them all with fewer troops than we brought now. But, there is no use in underestimating the enemy, is there?"

Hoster snorted in agreement. Yes, Hoster would never underestimate the enemy, even one as small or weak as whatever. Desperation could make humans do crazy and irrational things.

The Lord of Riverrun stared at the boy with an assessing gaze. Petyr Baelish might not be very skilled in swordsmanship, his swordplay was very ordinary, far from the word talented knight, but the boy had a brain and self-control that made him dangerous in a different way. Petyr was very calm under pressure, never letting emotions rule him, and he was able to think faster than most adults in his castle.

"You look very sure of that," said Hoster, the hiss of falling meat fat heard again, signaling that their dish was almost ready.

Petyr chuckled softly, putting his cleaned sword into its scabbard.

"Previously rebellions like this have happened several times in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, My Lord. Although never as widespread and severe as this time," Petyr began to explain. "Only one or two villages at a time rebelling due to taxes or bad harvests. But they all lost, and they never won. Fighting a lord who has armor and horses is a futile act for the smallfolk."

Petyr leaned forward, bringing his hands closer to the fire seeking warmth.

"But this one doesn't seem too futile," continued the young man. "Because some lords, have started listening to them, haven't they? They all started considering creating jobs so things like this don't happen again in the future. They rebel, and they indirectly force the rulers to adapt."

Hoster nodded slowly. Some lords under his rule indeed as reported through letters, had started creating many small construction project jobs or expanding their new fields. This was something they should have done from the start, instead of just firing the farmers and washing their hands of it.

"This time the numbers are quite large. Rumors estimate tens of thousands of people joined and became bandits," said Hoster with a grim voice.

"And I think that is actually a good thing. Anyway," said Petyr suddenly.

Hoster raised his eyebrows, slightly surprised by the cold tone in that statement. "A good thing?"

"For now, My Lord, the production and distribution of foodstuffs in our kingdom is not fully stable in every region, especially in big cities," Petyr explained, his eyes unblinking staring at the fire. "And because of this act of rebellion, as well as disease and starvation in the streets, the population of poor people will decrease drastically. Because of that, we don't need to worry too much about food supply shortages for people who truly deserve it or can afford to buy it."

Hoster fell silent. It was a very brutal, calculating, and merciless perspective. Letting the problem solve itself by reducing the number of mouths to feed. But, in the realm of politics, it was an undeniable fact.

"Then," Petyr continued with a lighter tone, "the remaining defeated rebels later we can send them all to the North, to the Night's Watch. I heard that they are very short of members. And looking at the territory of The Gift, vast land that is never used to the maximum due to lack of manpower... that is very unfortunate. These rebels can work that land for the Wall."

Hoster had indeed heard from Lysa's letters in Winterfell that the Night's Watch was always asking for new members. They took them from city prison inmates, rapists, thieves, murderers, and so on. As far as Hoster knew from his childhood tales, long ago the Night's Watch was an honorable place that had tens of thousands of knights to eradicate Wildlings... or according to the tales, The Others.

Truly heartbreaking, thought Hoster, that the organization said to be so legendary and respected before could now become so degraded and merely a dumping ground for the dregs of society.

"So, from all these things and chaos, the one benefiting the most in the end is the Night's Watch," Hoster snorted roughly.

He checked his meat; its color was perfectly browned. The meat was cooked. He took two wooden plates from his provisions, placed those thick pieces there, and handed one plate to Petyr while he took a larger portion for himself.

Petyr received the plate and inhaled the aroma of the roasted meat with closed eyes.

"Well, they at the Wall will also be quite troubled to manage thousands of these angry rebels arriving suddenly at their headquarters, My Lord," Petyr chuckled opening his eyes. "But yes, once they wear black clothes, it is no longer our business in the South, right?"

"I cannot wait to eradicate them and finish this business," Hoster agreed.

He cut his venison into pieces and devoured it. The meat was a little tough when chewed, requiring more effort from his aging jaw, but it tasted very delicious. Salt, meat juices, and smoke flavor blended perfectly. Not bad at all for the size of a dinner in the forest. He saw Petyr also doing the same thing, cutting his food into neat small pieces before eating it.

"Have you considered what you will do when your duties here are finished and you return to your home later, Boy?" said Hoster, opening a new topic.

Petyr swallowed his food and nodded. "Yes, My Lord. I am considering opening some businesses at the port and utilizing the location of The Fingers. I want to make that rocky land prosperous. This might be very difficult and take a long time because we do not have mines or fertile soil, but we will see how everything will develop as time goes by."

"Good. You are smart," said Hoster praising sincerely. Even if not as smart as Jaime Lannister. Of course the last part went unspoken. But Hoster knew what intelligence could achieve.

"You can create or make everything better with that brain of yours, Petyr," continued Hoster. "I have seen what can be done with a brilliant mind, and you had better make the best use of your abilities."

"I thank you for your trust and upbringing all this time, Lord Hoster," Petyr smiled, bowing slightly from his sitting position.

After they finished eating and emptied their waterskins, the camp atmosphere began to turn busy. Hoster's subordinates came to give reports. It was time.

They all put out the campfires, kicking dirt onto the embers until no more smoke billowed. Everyone prepared to leave.

The sound of horse hooves and soft neighs were heard as they were mounted. The large Riverlands army began to move slowly, walking, then occasionally trotting through the dense trees. The air immediately felt colder and pierced the face due to the windbreak they created while riding. In the sky, the moon hung high and created a silvery light bright enough to let them move forward without needing to light torches.

After about an hour's journey, the vanguard suddenly stopped. Hoster spurred his horse forward.

A dirty-faced scout approached Hoster panting.

"We have found them. We can see many of them, my lord."

"Great," said Hoster. "Let us get rid of these pests ruining my land."

When they arrived at the top of the hill directly facing the valley, the sight down there was visible, they were moving. Hundreds of men in tattered clothes and armor seemed to be marching in a messy formation, walking through the darkness of the night, guided by torches flickering blown by the wind. Hoster Tully squinted his eyes, observing.

Without wasting time, Hoster raised his hand high. Along the tree line, a line of archers was immediately prepared. They moved, pulling arrows from their quivers and nocking them on the bowstrings. Hundreds of bows were drawn taut, awaiting the command. The atmosphere suddenly became very quiet, only filled by the sound of held breaths and the creaking of curving bow wood. Hoster let that be for a few seconds, ensuring every target was in optimal range, before finally he lowered his hand with one quick jerk.

The night air was instantly torn by a loud whizzing sound as hundreds of arrows were launched simultaneously. They shot arcing through the night sky, reflecting moonlight on their iron tips.

However, that deafening whizzing sound immediately became a warning to the mob below. The bandits, who apparently were indeed already on alert from the start, reacted with surprising speed. As soon as those shadows fell from the sky, they immediately raised leather-coated wooden shields and iron bucklers above their heads. A barrage of loud thudding sounds echoed throughout the valley as arrows hit shields, stuck into the ground, and some pierced the flesh of those less fortunate. Even though their formation was messy, that defensive reflex saved far more lives than Hoster expected.

From the midst of that chaos, instead of fleeing, the leaders of the bandit group started giving commands. Rough trumpet sounds and loud shouts echoed, organizing the rest of their forces. With drawn weapons, they actually changed direction and started running up the hill, charging towards Hoster's forces' position recklessly.

Hoster was undaunted. He spurred his horse forward, leading his heavy cavalry to meet the attack. Close quarters combat broke out immediately. Hoster swung his greatsword. His opponents were full of blind rage, their movements predictable and full of openings. Hoster parried an axe slash from a dirty-faced man, then spun his sword and slashed his attacker's neck in one motion. His warhorse joined in kicking and trampling enemies daring to approach.

He cleaved through the enemy lines like a sickle cutting wheat. His sword kept swinging without mercy, taking life after life.

...

"This embroidery looks very beautiful, Cat. You are truly skilled at this."

Jaime's voice sounded warm in their private room. The young man was sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning broadly. In his hand, he held a handkerchief that Catelyn had just finished embroidering. In the corner of the cloth, there was an image of a roaring golden lion, stitched with very neat and precise thread details.

Jaime held the handkerchief with a gaze radiating pure pride, as if Catelyn had just created a precious treasure out of thin air. Catelyn, sitting leaning back in her sun chair with soft pillows supporting her back, could not hold back a smile.

"The practice I did for a long time is what did all that, Jaime," Catelyn answered softly. "The Septa taught me to hold a needle since before I could even read fluently. It is the basic duty of a lady."

Jaime lowered the handkerchief, his smile not fading. He stared at Catelyn with his bright green eyes.

"If one day we have a daughter," said Jaime, "I want you to be the one teaching her how to embroider. I am not too confident in entrusting such an important task to a septa or other nurses. I want her to learn from the best."

Catelyn laughed. "You are exaggerating too much, my Husband. This is just embroidery. Thousands of women in Westeros can do it."

"Not 'just' embroidering, Cat," Jaime argued, stroking the gold thread on the cloth. "This is an extraordinary skill. An art. It takes high-level patience and precision. I couldn't even do it. If you gave me this needle, I would probably sew my own fingers together."

"Of course you cannot, because you are a man," Catelyn laughed harder. "You are not supposed to do that. Your hands are created to hold sword hilts and pens to lead."

"Who decided that? Where is it written that a man cannot sew his own clothes if they tear?" Jaime frowned, joking.

"The people, Jaime. Tradition. The Seven Gods," Catelyn chuckled, shaking her head slowly.

Her laughter slowly subsided, leaving a gentle smile. Catelyn stared at Jaime with a clearer and deeper gaze.

Since the arrival of the grain from the Westerlands easing the tension in the capital, Jaime had become much brighter. The burden perched on his shoulders for the past few weeks seemed to be lifted slightly. His green eyes again radiated the spark of life. However, Jaime became very busy. He lacked the time to be here, in this room with her.

Every morning, Jaime would leave for a meeting with Rhaegar or his father, then spend the afternoon supervising the cement manufactory or sewer expansion. Sometimes Catelyn wanted so much to come along with him, out of the walls of this Red Keep, accompanying whatever her husband was doing. But she knew it would look improper for a pregnant lady, and Jaime would surely forbid her due to reasons of dust and exhaustion.

Catelyn loved him. The Gods knew she loved this man more than she had ever imagined when their betrothal was first announced. And because of that deep love, she sometimes felt very afraid. Afraid that something bad would happen to her happiness.

With all the current problems, especially the invisible tension with the people of Essos, Catelyn's mind often wandered to the worst-case scenarios. Catelyn was afraid that someone across the sea there would try to send assassins.

She had read and heard about terrifying assassin guilds: The Sorrowful Men and also the Faceless Men who could change their faces like changing clothes. Was she exaggerating for thinking this?

It's impossible those foreign merchants would dare to do it, right? Catelyn thought inwardly, trying to calm herself. Jaime was the heir to Casterly Rock. He was the son of the Hand of the King and the King's good-brother Committing an assassination against him would result in open war that would destroy Essos's trade routes themselves.

However, cunning was not always in the form of blatantly drawn swords. At this time, there hadn't been many real actions King Rhaegar had taken to retaliate against Essos because they didn't have strong enough evidence to accuse them directly. But in the air, Catelyn could feel that right now something was brewing. A storm was gathering. And Catelyn only hoped that her feelings were not true.

She had already lost her mother when she was a little girl, a memory still leaving a hole in her heart until now. The pain of that loss was very real. She did not want to lose Jaime, someone who had just become her world.

And also... her father.

Catelyn bit her lower lip. May the Seven protect Father.

Lord Hoster Tully was currently far from the comforts of Riverrun. Her father had gone leading troops to eradicate the troubling bandits. Her father had indeed done such things before, he was a war veteran, but still, she was afraid something bad would happen. One stray arrow, one sword slash in the blind night... that was enough to make Catelyn an orphan.

THUMP!

Suddenly, a sharp yet dull jolt was felt in Catelyn's stomach.

Catelyn winced holding it in, her hands reflexively clutching her stomach. She felt the pressure again, a sudden movement from within.

Jaime, who had been watching her, immediately approached her in two long strides. He knelt straight on the floor beside Catelyn's chair, his face paling instantly. His panic was a sharp contrast to his fearless reputation.

"Cat! Are you alright?" asked Jaime, his voice rising, his hands hovering near Catelyn's stomach, hesitant to touch. "Does it hurt? Should I call Maester Baelin?"

Seeing the man usually so calm now panicking just because of this, Catelyn could not hold back her smile, even though the dull throbbing pain was still slightly felt. It was just a soft jolt, maybe their baby was moving or maybe kicking her womb walls.

"Yes, my Husband, I am alright," Catelyn laughed softly, grabbing Jaime's hand and placing it on her stomach so the young man could feel it himself.

Jaime sighed a long sigh, his shoulders slumping in relief feeling the subtle vibration from behind his wife's stomach. "By the Seven... you almost made my heart stop beating."

"But, you are with child, Cat." said Jaime after his breath returned to normal, his gaze becoming softer and probing. "Are you thinking about something bothering you?"

Catelyn looked down, sighing resignedly. She could hide nothing from Jaime.

"Only about my father," admitted Catelyn, letting her fingers stroke the back of Jaime's large hand. "I am thinking about his position right now. I am worried something will happen to him as he eradicates those rebels."

"No need to worry," Jaime assured her. "He is a lord very experienced in matters of war. His forces are large and well-trained. Those bandits will not stand a chance against him."

"Yes, I know that logically," Catelyn smiled sadly. "But these are just my thoughts as a daughter. I cannot stop it. I do not know how to make myself not worry."

"I will be here," said Jaime, pulling up a small stool to sit closer to her. "We can talk. About anything. Or I can read something for you. I will distract you until you forget it."

Catelyn shook her head slowly. "No need. It is just a small issue, like I said. Look, I don't even feel the pain anymore."

"You must rest a lot. Do not move too much or think heavy thoughts," said Jaime.

"You mean I have to stay sitting like this like a display statue?" Catelyn shook her head again, this time looking straight into her husband's green eyes with full seriousness. "Jaime, you treat me like I am made of thin glass that will shatter if blown by the wind. I am strong."

She stopped her speech for a moment, gathering her courage.

"Also, if we are talking about who should rest... it is you, Jaime."

Jaime frowned, disagreeing. "I am fine—"

"You are the one always running here and there taking care of many things every day," Catelyn cut him off with a firm tone. "Sewers, schools, road repairs, the King's security, your father's requests... I see it, Jaime. And I know that at night, when you stare at the fireplace, you have many thoughts you keep to yourself. You are slowly torturing yourself with all this."

"What we are discussing here right now is you, Cat, not me," dodged Jaime, trying to change the focus of the conversation back.

"I am discussing both of us," Catelyn continued, unwilling to back down. "I have seen what all these responsibilities do to King Rhaegar. He becomes alienated. He seems to have no time with his own son, you told me that yourself, didn't you? He rarely goes out, very rarely has intimate time to just see his wife relaxing, or just socializing freely."

Catelyn looked at Jaime with a pleading gaze, a gaze showing her biggest fear. "Will you become like that too in the future, Jaime? Will your projects and inventions take you away from me?"

Catelyn grasped both of Jaime's hands that were on her stomach, pulling them tighter.

"Your child later will need you, you know? They don't just need an heir and a castle; they need a father."

Hearing those words, Jaime's defensive expression collapsed instantly.

"By the Seven, Cat," said Jaime with a hoarse voice full of emotion. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Catelyn's forehead. "I am not going anywhere. I promise you. I will be here when this child is born, and I will always accompany them every step of their life wherever they are. You do not have to think like that."

Catelyn closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of her husband's breath hit her face. Small tears she hadn't realized dropped in the corners of her eyes.

"I know..." whispered Catelyn, her voice trembling slightly. "This pregnancy makes my emotions less stable lately. I think about assassins, wars, and loneliness... Forgive me for accusing you."

"There is nothing to forgive," answered Jaime, kissing the tip of Catelyn's nose. "You can accuse me anytime if it means I can prove that you are the most important thing to me."

Catelyn nodded in silence, grasping her husband's hand even tighter, letting the warmth of Jaime's embrace drive away the cold from her fears.

 

[Daario]

DALE​

---

Dale felt pain. A sharp, tearing pain that spread through all his bodily nerves and seeped into his bones.

He groaned softly, his voice sounding hoarse and pathetic in his own ears. His eyes were tightly shut, crinkling to endure the torment centered on the right side of his head. A burning heat throbbed there, as if hot coals had been deliberately pressed against his skin. He desperately wanted to pour a bucket of water over his head to feel even a bit of relieving cold, but his remaining common sense knew that was a stupid idea. It would only add to the endless suffering.

He panted, his chest rising and falling with difficulty as he tried to control himself. He held back with all his might so the tears welling behind his eyelids wouldn't flow down. I am stronger than this, he thought, trying to convince himself.

Slowly, he forced his eyelids open.

The bright morning light immediately pierced his vision. At first, everything looked blurry, only a dazzling colorful shadow, until finally the world became clearer as the seconds passed.

Above him, green leaves from the trees filled the view. The leaves swayed gently blown by the wind, looking very peaceful and full of life. The clear and bright blue sky was visible through the gaps. The sounds of forest birds chirping back and forth, singing a melodious morning melody.

Dale moved his eyes. Around him sat the remnants of his group. Hundreds of men who the night before were still shouting about feasts and loot, now sat huddled with bowed heads. Their faces were dirty, smeared with blood as well as mud.

Many of them were severely injured, there was no longer the fire of rebellion in their eyes. No spirit. Dale knew why. Everyone here knew that the fate of their life and death would be decided in just a matter of hours.

Dale's defenses collapsed. A tear escaped, falling down his cheek. He hurriedly raised his trembling hand and wiped it away roughly.

He had made a choice. He would not cry just because his choice failed and ended like this. He had to face this like a grown man.

But... thinking of his mother in the village made Dale feel a deep guilt, squeezing his chest tighter than the pain in his head. He had left his mother alone. His mother was old, her back already hunched from working in the fields all her life. And Dale ran away instead, disappointing her, and now might leave her forever without having the chance to say goodbye.

Steeling his jaw, Dale stood up with difficulty.

As soon as he stood upright, the morning wind hit the right side of his head. Dale winced, a hiss of pain escaping through his teeth. His right ear had been sliced off last night by a sword slash from an enemy cavalryman, and was now only wrapped in cloth. He remembered the glint of steel under the moonlight, the sound of tearing flesh, and his own shrill scream. He was still struggling to digest the reality of it.

He forced himself to walk with a limping step towards the edge of the prisoner group. He looked around. Outside their area, enemy soldiers stood watching with flat faces. Then, Dale's gaze fell on something in the distance.

There, near a large tent, was a row of wooden spears planted lined up in the ground. A foul stench was suddenly smelled, carried by the wind in his direction. The smell stung Dale's nose, similar to iron soaked in water, but much fishier and thicker.

Neatly severed human heads were spiked at the tips of those iron spears. Blood still dripped slowly from their necks, staining the spear wood blackish-red. Swallowing hard. He recognized some of those faces. The leaders of their group. And on one of the spears, Dale could see Jarett's head.

The eyes of the old man who always mocked him were now wide in disbelief, frozen in his final moment. His mouth was slightly open, and the fear on his face could no longer be hidden.

Dale just stared at the head in silence. He stared straight into those open and empty eyes. And strangely... he didn't feel a shred of pity. But he also didn't feel victory or satisfaction. Only a cold emptiness.

Jarett deserved it, thought Dale. The man was a monster. Many innocent people, especially the women and children in the villages they looted, had suffered and died by the dirty hands of that bastard. If Dale had had just a little courage before, if he wasn't a coward who only stood guarding the horses, maybe he would have been the one to slit Jarett's throat when the man slept drunk.

Dale gritted his teeth, turning his face away from the spectacle, and looked towards Lord Tully's main camp.

"Don't just stand there, Boy. Or those guards will think you are trying to resist and punish you. You know that, right?"

A rough voice was heard from behind him, making Dale flinch and turn around.

The man speaking sat on a tree root. He looked very thin, his cheekbones protruding, and his hair and beard messy. His age was probably mid-thirties.

Dale stared for a moment at the guard soldier who started noticing him, then immediately followed the man's advice and sat on the grassy ground beside him. His back touched the rough bark.

"What will happen to us?" asked Dale softly, wincing slightly as the friction nudged the bruises on his back.

The man looked into Dale's eyes, chuckling humorlessly.

"What do you think? Maybe killed? Beheaded, or hanged?" The man shrugged casually. "We can also consider other options. That they might burn us alive. After all, that is what we did to the previous villages, isn't it?"

"Are... are you not afraid?" Dale asked.

The man snorted. "Afraid? Yes, of course there is fear somewhere in there. Pain is unpleasant. But there is no use making all this complicated in your head, right? Before I joined this group, I was already so broken. I have long been prepared for this thing called death."

The man stared at the blue sky above them. "I used to always think that I would die of starvation. Slowly, cold, and very painful. Your stomach eating itself. Because of that, I will accept it. Whatever happens after this, let it happen."

The wind rustled again, a little stronger, carrying a few leaves flying and falling onto Dale's lap. Dale's gaze occasionally glanced back at the row of severed heads in the distance.

"Do... do you not have family waiting for you at home?" asked Dale carefully.

"No," the man sighed. "All my family died long before all this happened. They all died from an illness. Sometimes, when the night is very quiet, I ask myself... why I can still survive until now. What am I breathing for?"

Dale fell silent. He didn't know how to respond.

Dale's mind drifted back again. His father also died of an illness. A stomach illness when Dale was still little. He remembered very clearly how his mother panicked back then, searching for medicinal plants in the forest here and there, pounding bitter roots. But nothing worked.

Every day, Dale could only see his father getting weaker. He could only sit huddled on their straw bed, his hands constantly holding his stomach tightly bound by a cloth. The cloth was tied so tight it looked ridiculous on his body that was getting thinner like a skeleton. But his father said the wrapping could slightly reduce his stomach pain. And indeed there was nothing they could do but wait.

His father then died not long after on a cold dawn. When Dale saw his corpse, his father's face looked very peaceful. Very relaxed and different compared to when he was still breathing and always groaning in pain in his sleep.

"I... I still have a mother," Dale said suddenly. "And now, it seems I will never see her again."

"You love her?" said the man without turning.

"Of course, she is the one who took care of me since childhood, it's impossible I don't love her, right?"

"You can try to go and run away from here tonight, you know. Sneak away when those guards are sleepy. But of course, the risk is very great."

"The risk is dying instantly on the spot. At least for now I am still sure we have a chance to live. They couldn't possibly execute everyone here, right?."

"You are still very afraid of death, aren't you?"

"There is nothing more terrifying than death," Dale muttered softly, hugging his own knees. "No one truly knows what will happen there. At least, no matter how bad this world is... this world is familiar."

Suddenly, the sound of loud clapping echoed across the camp.

Dale looked up. A knight stood in front of the tent. Behind him, several fully armed soldiers began dragging dozens of men from Dale's group. The commotion made all the sitting prisoners immediately lift their faces.

There would be another trial. This apparently was still not over.

The knight stepped forward, his voice booming and echoing loudly throughout the valley.

"You all have seen what happened previously to your leaders, haven't you?!" shouted the knight while pointing to the row of spears adorned with heads.

"This is absolute punishment for you thieves, rapists, and murderers! This is the consequence you must pay for daring to lead destruction and chaos in this land! You made many innocent families suffer because of your savagery!"

The knight drew his sword, pointing it towards the men being dragged by force to kneel on a piece of wood placed on the ground.

"Now, in the presence of Lord Hoster Tully and under the watch of the Seven Gods, you will be judged! The punishment is death!"

Another man stepped forward. In his hands was a long and heavy sword. Dale held his breath. His heart beat so hard it felt painful in his chest.

He watched the people about to be beheaded. Some of them sobbed uncontrollably, begging for mercy. Some took deep breaths, closing their eyes with difficulty, their faces pale as death and almost fainting from terror.

The man raised his greatsword high into the air, then the sword swung down. The sound of flesh and neck bone being slashed sounded horrific. Blood sprayed like a small fountain, soaking the surrounding grass.

Then one by one, their heads were beheaded. Again. And again.

Dale stared at the spectacle without blinking, his body trembling uncontrollably. The metallic smell of fresh blood smelled stronger in the air, as he saw those heads rolling on the ground.

...

Those heads were spiked on the tips of rough wooden spears, lined up neatly facing towards the prisoners. While several other heads, had their hair tied using hemp rope and hung on the low branches of ancient oak trees around the camp.

Blood dripped slowly from the severed necks, staining the green grass below into blackish-brown. Forest insects began to swarm, buzzing with noisy sounds.

The purpose of the spectacle was very clear: to frighten and teach a lesson to them all. And indeed, Lord Tully's tactic worked perfectly.

The horror had silenced hundreds of mouths. Not a single prisoner dared to make a sound. Even the wounded held back their groans of pain as much as possible, afraid of attracting the attention of the guards pacing back and forth with spears in hand.

As the sun crawled up to its peak, lunchtime arrived. The soldiers threw baskets filled with makeshift roasted root vegetables into the middle of the crowd of prisoners. Exactly like a farmer feeding pigs.

Dale got two medium-sized root vegetables. The skin was charred black, leaving charcoal stains on his trembling fingers.

He ate the root vegetable slowly, peeling the skin with his nails. Honestly, he had absolutely no appetite. The image of slashed necks and spraying blood earlier still danced behind his eyelids every time he blinked. Nausea churned his stomach contents.

But his stomach kept rumbling loudly and forced him to finish the food. Fortunately the inside of the root vegetables was quite soft and sweet, making it easy to chew and swallow past his dry throat. It was not too bad food, if only there hadn't been that mass neck-cutting session previously.

"How long... will that hang there?" said Dale with a voice that almost resembled a whisper. His eyes glanced towards the tree branches, not daring to look straight.

He spoke to the man beside him again. Dale still didn't know this man's name, but in a place like this, it didn't mean it was important.

"Until we leave here, maybe?" The man shrugged. "Those hanged corpses will soon rot and cause an unbearable stench if left too long in the open air. Especially with that many corpses. Flies and crows will feast. Perhaps Lord Tully's army will burn them all later, or bury them en masse in one big hole?."

"If... if we don't die beheaded today," Dale started again, his voice trembling slightly. "What do you think those people will do to us, in the end?"

"The punishment for rebels and thieves like us, besides a quick death, is going to the Wall," replied the man. "I heard from travelers' tales, the Wall is made of solid ice. Very cold, and very, very high, so you cannot see the top from below. They have many members there, the Night's Watch, they call it. Murderers, rapists, and thieves wearing black cloaks, whose lifelong duty is to fight the barbaric wildlings from the North."

"That is far from here, isn't it?" asked Dale.

The man nodded. "Very far. At the edge of this continent. In the deepest place in the North. I heard the snow never truly melts there. The ground freezes hard as iron. There, you will never truly be able to breathe spring air like now again."

"In that case..." Dale swallowed. "Better we try to start getting used to the cold from now on, right?"

Dale tried to joke, a pathetic attempt to raise the morale of both of them. But the joke fell apart, sounding tasteless and heartbreaking.

"Yes," sighed the man. "The wind there must be very strong and freeze the blood."

Hour by hour passed slowly like drops of tree sap. They sat on the ground, talking constantly in whispered voices about anything, about food, about past memories that would never return, just to keep their sanity.

Until finally, as the tree shadows began to lengthen in the afternoon, the sound of a trumpet shrilled from the direction of the soldiers' camp.

They were suddenly ordered to stand and gather. The sound of soldiers' barks and spear tips pointed forced the injured and exhausted prisoners to move. They were herded by the soldiers like a herd of worthless cattle, pushed and hit if they moved too slowly.

They were taken to a wider and flatter grassy yard. There, the hundreds of prisoners were roughly sorted. The soldiers separated them into two large groups, forming two square formations surrounded by armed guards.

Dale was pushed into the left group, his body stumbling and bumping into the back of the person in front of him. As he turned, the thin man he talked to earlier was also pushed into the same group, standing not far from him. Dale didn't know what the criteria for this separation were. Would one group be pardoned and the other killed? Or would they be sent to different destinations? The ignorance tore at his nerves.

They were forced to wait there for hours.

While they stood enduring hunger and sore legs, Dale noticed the scene in the distance with a twisting stomach. In the soldiers' camp area, the troops' dinner time had arrived.

White smoke billowed from large campfires, and the incredibly delicious smell was carried by the afternoon wind, approaching the prisoners' olfactory senses. It smelled like thick-fleshed river fish grilled over charcoal, mixed with the sweet aroma of sautéed onions, and also a strong sprinkle of black pepper. The aroma of spices and meat felt very torturous.

Hour by hour passed again, and night finally truly fell covering the world. The sky turned starry black.

The prisoners were again given rations of the remaining cold root vegetables, then ordered to sleep on the open ground, still in the heavily guarded square formation. Luckily for Dale and the others, grey clouds did not appear. There was no rain tonight, so he could lie on the dry ground, curling up hugging his own knees to withstand the night wind. The extraordinary physical and mental exhaustion finally overcame his fear. He fell sound asleep without dreams, sinking into a peaceful emptiness.

However, that peace was short-lived.

He was forcefully awakened by someone. A hard kick to his leg made Dale jolt awake, his eyes opening wide in panic.

"Wake up, bastard! Stand up!" barked a torch-bearing soldier.

In the sky, the day was still very dark, perhaps just past midnight or approaching dawn. The air felt very freezing. Dale stood up staggering, his muscles all stiff and sore. His eyes were still half-closed from exhaustion, he rubbed them and started to observe his surroundings.

There was something strange.

The people in the two large groups had slightly decreased in number. And as he turned towards the soldiers' camp, many tents that previously stood tall had now disappeared, dismantled and placed on baggage carts. Part of the troops seemed to have moved away while he was asleep.

Before his brain could process what happened, he was already herded again with his group. This time they were pushed more hurriedly, jostling each other in the darkness illuminated only by the swaying torchlight.

They were directed towards a row of large wooden cargo carts, which were usually used by farmers to transport straw or wheat harvests in large quantities.

Dale was forcefully pushed to climb onto one of those carts. The soldiers kept putting prisoner after prisoner onto the wooden cart, not caring if they had to sit stacked or stand crowded. They were separated into several small groups for each cart, continuously put in until the cart Dale rode was truly packed tight, shoulder to shoulder, without the slightest room to move freely.

"Move!" shouted a soldier.

Whips cracked, and the large draft horses neighed softly. The wooden carts jerked forward, their thick wheels creaking loudly as they began to turn on the rocky ground.

Dale staggered, forced to hold onto the wooden edge of the cart so as not to fall onto other prisoners. He looked back, staring past the crowd of heads on the cart.

In the slowly fading darkness of the night, Dale noticed the remnants of other prisoners and soldiers left on the grassy yard slowly fading away. The further the cart drove, their shapes became smaller, until finally they became just faint dots swallowed by the morning mist and the shadows of the trees.

The cart kept driving through the cold night.

And Dale didn't know where he would be taken.

---

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[Daario]

There you go! I'll do my best to upload here at the same time as the other sites in the future. Hopefully, the paragraphs won't get messed up again like before.

 

[udkudk]

Thank You ❤

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

The King's Solar felt warm today, illuminated by the sunlight entering through the arched glass windows. There were four men sitting on the sofas encircling a low wooden table. King Rhaegar Targaryen sat in a relaxed posture, a silver goblet in his hand. Opposite him, Lord Steffon was leaning back with crossed legs, while Jaime sat in an armchair, tapping his fingers on the armrest to a rhythm only he himself knew.

And Tywin Lannister sat among them all, his eyes focused on a piece of paper that had just arrived this morning.

It was a report from Lord Hoster Tully. His handwriting was firm and slightly hurried. The report detailed the results of the cleanup operation in the Riverlands. The Riverrun forces had successfully destroyed several troublesome rebel groups. Most of their leaders had been beheaded, and the surviving remnants had been put in chains.

Hoster reported that most of them were being marched towards the North, sent to the Wall to take the vow and join the Night's Watch. But not all of them.

Tywin turned the paper over, looking at the note on the number of prisoners. Most of them would be sent to the Crownlands first at Tywin's own request.

He folded the letter and placed it on the table. In his head, numbers had already started spinning. Hundreds of pairs of extra hands. Hands that were at least only paid with rations of porridge and bread. They would begin to accelerate the execution of the Kingsroad construction project, the main highway that would connect King's Landing to all corners of the continent. That construction required massively extraordinary manual labor, and these people were the answer.

At least, thought Tywin while sipping water, these people were not doing futile work by rotting on the gallows. At least, their blood and sweat would make this realm's infrastructure easier and faster to complete.

"With the arrival of these prisoners from the Riverlands," said Tywin, cutting the pleasantries, "we will have more than three hundred extra laborers in the Crownlands next week. That will save many gold dragons from the royal treasury."

"Three hundred men," Rhaegar mused, putting down his glass and staring out the window, his mind clearly working hard. "With the large number of people coming, we also need many people to supervise them, do we not? They are forced-labor prisoners, not hired coolies who come voluntarily. If unsupervised, they will escape or trigger new riots along the Kingsroad."

"Yes, we need to record many things about them," Steffon nodded. "Especially with every kilometer of road we will build simultaneously. If we split them into ten different camps, we need to build secure encampments, record a constant flow of supplies, and then... of course we need capable foremen. Very capable. So that this road truly meets straight and merges flawlessly."

"That is the most pressing problem," Rhaegar agreed, sighing softly. "Even though schools have been built for a few years, I am quite sure we only have a few graduating classes decent enough for such a task."

Rhaegar turned back towards the table. "Most of our graduates today are still very young. Children who have just learned to count and read basic instructions. They are not yet experienced enough to lead projects or supervise thousands of rough men. So, from the school projections, we might only be able to recruit half of them at most, right? That is also if we are very certain that they currently indeed want to take on rough duties outside the city."

"So you mean a quarter, Your Grace," Tywin added flatly. "If you target half, prepare to get only a quarter who are truly competent. And the rest will cry in the first week from sleeping in leaky tents."

Rhaegar smiled bitterly. "Yes, it seems quite clear. Your math never misses, Lord Tywin. What must we do then? This work cannot be delayed, but we lack educated supervisory staff. Any suggestions?"

Opposite Tywin, Jaime leaned forward. The young man's elbows rested on his knees. He knew that posture. It was the posture that always preceded a new idea. His son had an idea, and he was not surprised at all.

"The duties of supervising supplies, recording workers, and counting materials like this certainly cannot be taken by just any coolie," Jaime began, his voice calm. "We need someone who understands numbers quite well, or at least understands most of basic management. What if we recruit the sons of nobles?"

Rhaegar's eyebrows raised slightly. Steffon looked at Jaime with great interest.

"Not the heir sons, of course," continued Jaime, laying out his plan. "But second, third sons, and so on. Landless cousins. Most of them currently do not have a clear life purpose. Especially for young men coming from a poor House. But we can agree that all of them, due to their birth status, at least can read writing, count coins, and also have a little understanding in terms of leadership because they were raised in castles."

Tywin understood where this conversation was heading, and he immediately agreed in his head. It was indeed a very interesting idea.

The Lannister family themselves had many such 'useless people' in Lannisport, distant cousins expecting allowances from Casterly Rock. Most of them were certainly useless on the battlefield; they were all arrogant, only knew how to waste money in brothels, and complained about wine quality. But, they were indeed far more capable in an administrative task compared to commoners who had just learned to hold a pen.

"Ah," Rhaegar smiled thinly, shaking his head slightly. "Your idea is good, Jaime. But most of them will definitely refuse fiercely. After all, in their eyes, this is just road-building work. It is dirty work. They are knights and lordlings. Their prestige is too high to camp with criminals."

"I think... not so, Your Grace," said Steffon, his heavy voice making them all look at him.

"Yes, those haughty young men will whine and refuse at first," continued Steffon, stroking his beard. "But most will eventually accept it. I have a strong guess how their fathers will react to this. It might sound like just road-building work, but the invitation comes directly from you, Your Grace. The royal seal. And they also don't have many choices."

Steffon laughed softly. "Especially for a petty Lord who has too many sons but his land is too small. Trust me. Those fathers will definitely force and push this onto their children. Of course, rather than letting those children keep sitting idle in the castle without producing anything."

Tywin saw a gap to perfect the plan. He knew the biggest weakness of lesser nobles: vanity.

"And let us give them uniforms," Tywin snorted. "Make them official-looking uniforms, perhaps with the royal sigil on the chest. Give them important-sounding titles, like 'Royal Logistics Overseer'. This will trick their prestige. The uniform will make them look luxurious and confident, making them feel they are carrying out an important state mission rather than just supervising piles of gravel and road construction."

Rhaegar frowned. "With such special treatment, they will become more arrogant. What if they act arbitrarily towards the workers instead? We are dealing with desperate people; unreasoned torture will trigger bloody riots."

"That will not happen if we place them in the correct chain of command," said Jaime quickly. "What we need most directly in the field are foremen. And those young nobles will not be the main foremen holding whips or giving direct instructions."

Jaime tapped the table. "Those nobles are only tasked behind the camp desks. Recording bricks, handling food supplies, and smaller administrative things. They are beneath or technically equal to the main foremen. And those expert foremen are mostly from the common folk, senior workers. So we can rely on those foremen to manage the course of the project and report if any noble crosses the line. And as double insurance, we certainly send a few veteran soldiers there to oversee security and ensure no young master acts overly authoritative."

Rhaegar listened to the explanation intently. He looked at Tywin, Steffon, then back at Jaime.

"Ah, very well," Rhaegar nodded, the tension on his face fading slightly. "For now, we will focus on that method first, and see how it is implemented in the field. If there are flaws, we can think of a better solution later. But at least, for now, it sounds very reasonable and can be executed immediately."

Rhaegar raised his goblet. "Let us make those young nobles work."

Steffon laughed, shaking his head. "I came to think of Stannis because we are talking about this."

Tywin raised one eyebrow. "Stannis? You want to make him work overseeing roads?"

"Yes," Steffon nodded firmly. "I know that in Storm's End right now, the one working hardest managing the ledgers and the castle is actually him. Robert... well, he is capable, but still, Robert is Robert."

"Also," he continued, "maybe if I pull Stannis to the Crownlands and make him take this big responsibility, Robert will be forced to get out of his bed and try harder in terms of ruling. He won't have a younger brother he can burden with dirty work. Plus, I think this could also help get Stannis out of his brother's shadow. He needs his own place to prove himself."

"Ah," Rhaegar smiled, looking at Steffon with approval. "I think that is a very good thing, Lord Steffon. If indeed that will happen, I will welcome it. Stannis looks very capable and meticulous in matters smelling of discipline like this."

"Yes, he is indeed like that," said Steffon. "And this can also make him socialize further with nobles from other regions. You know yourselves how he is, right? If he is left continuously in Storm's End, he will turn into a rock that always scowls."

"He is a stern boy," interrupted Tywin.

It had been a long time since Tywin saw Stannis, but that was indeed the impression he remembered most about the boy. A man like Stannis would never accept bribes from foremen, and he would not hesitate to whip a prisoner who tried to run. He was a perfect overseer.

...

Tywin walked out of the King's solar, Jaime walking beside him, adjusting his steps to his father's steady rhythm. One by one, internal problems had started to be resolved today. However, inside Tywin's head that never slept, he still had to think of various ways to overcome external enemies trying to strangle him.

First, the pirates in the Stepstones and Narrow Sea funded by the merchants. Tywin had handled that for now. Their merchant ships were now heavily guarded more than ever; every trade galleon was escorted by fully armed warships.

But just defending was never Tywin's style. He wanted to strike back.

Tywin had considered discussing with Rhaegar, then sending a raven to Pyke, ordering the Ironborn fleet to conduct retaliatory raids on the coasts of the free cities in Essos. Letting mad dogs loose from their chains to bite the enemy. But currently, he was still thinking about the positive and negative impacts. The Ironborn were too hard to control. If they felt too powerful, they might turn around and raid Lannisport. That risk was still too great.

Second, and more subtle. A few weeks ago, without the Small Council's knowledge, he had sent several of his confidants, to infiltrate the free cities.

The people in those free cities relied heavily on slave labor to run the economy and luxury of their cities. Farms, mines, even their beds, everything was driven by slaves. So, Tywin decided to see how those fat men would react if they felt the same panic as happened here.

Tywin instructed his men to distribute cheap weapons and gold coins in the slave districts. He would try to make those slaves rebel. Tywin knew that such an operation would cost a lot, and as a realistic man, he also didn't really expect the rebellion to successfully topple those cities.

But Tywin was not aiming for military victory; he was aiming for psychological terror. He just thought it might at least teach them a lesson and could send a very clear message: 'I know what you have done in Westeros, and I can destroy the foundation of your house from the inside.'

So, if those Essos merchants dared to continue funding the remnants of the bandits in Westeros, Tywin would not hesitate to play more seriously and destroy their market permanently.

"I didn't expect that Lord Steffon would really let Stannis do that job," said Jaime suddenly, breaking the silence between them as they descended the stairs. His voice was calm, halting Tywin's thoughts.

"Why wouldn't you expect it?" asked Tywin without turning.

"It's just that, well, he is not just any Lord's son, a second son indeed, but still," Jaime smiled. "This will convince other nobles faster to send their children. Because a Lord Paramount's son, Baratheon blood himself leads and accepts the job. This will create a wave of trend among young nobles. Not that it is bad, of course. It makes my idea run smoother."

"Steffon will not let Stannis go too far from his supervision," answered Tywin flatly. "At most he will be assigned to Kingsroad camps not far from King's Landing. And also, it is indeed true what Steffon said about his heir. Robert, needs to serve his own duty managing his territory. He is the heir to Storm's End, he cannot continuously waste day after day just to honeymoon with that Stark girl while his own land demands attention."

Jaime laughed softly. "They just got married and are in love, Father. You don't have to be so cynical about other people's happiness."

Tywin stopped his steps for a moment. He turned, staring at his son with a pair of cold green eyes.

"Love should not displace duty," snorted Tywin. "Obligations to family and a great name always come first. Remember that well."

Jaime nodded slowly, his smile fading slightly. He then cleared his throat, changing the subject.

"Speaking of the Stark family," said Jaime. "Have you considered forging a closer cooperation with them, Father?"

Tywin resumed walking. "Of course. Lord Rickard Stark has vast territory and countless sheep. They have a lot of raw wool. That is very useful to be processed in our textile industry manufactories in Lannisport. Why do you ask this specifically?"

"I am just thinking ahead," Jaime rubbed his chin, formulating words. "With you having agreed to share the recipe for glassmaking and other building techniques to King Rhaegar, can we also bargain directly with Lord Stark?"

Tywin glanced at his son, waiting for the continuation.

"The North is very freezing, Father," explained Jaime. "They struggle to grow decent food as winter approaches. They desperately need greenhouses to be able to grow vegetables amidst the snow. And because of that, our clear glass can become our diplomatic weapon."

Jaime leaned his body slightly closer to Tywin. "We can build greenhouses for Winterfell and several main Northern castles at a subsidized price, or even give them as goodwill. This can be our bargaining chip to secure a monopoly on wool and timber from them at a much cheaper and easier price. Northerners are famously holding fast to honor, they say. A service this great, saving them from winter starvation, will not simply shrink from their minds, will it? They will owe a debt of gratitude to Casterly Rock."

Hearing that explanation, Tywin's steps slowed invisibly. The North was indeed very vast, even though its climate was so cold and sparsely populated compared to the South. But they had untouched natural potential. Potential that might become very useful and highly valuable in the future once science and distribution routes also continued to develop.

Well, that would certainly take a long time, maybe decades... but if executed, there was nothing to lose.

"We will think about that later, Jaime," snorted Tywin. He stopped the conversation.

 

[Daario]

HOSTER | GERION​

---

Fuck. Hoster groaned through his tightly clenched teeth. He cursed inwardly, enduring the wave of throbbing pain in his right shoulder. The pain from the sword slash felt hot, as if a piece of glowing iron was deliberately pressed and left to burn his skin on a grill.

Inside the dim tent, the late afternoon air turning to evening felt very cold. The damp wind slipped through the gaps in the tent fabric. The light from three candles clustered on a wooden folding table created long dancing shadows.

His wound had actually been treated by the Maester a few days ago. The torn flesh had been cleaned, roughly stitched, and covered by white linen wrapping his shoulder to part of his chest. The binding was so tight that his right arm was currently slightly numb and could not function fully. Hanging uselessly at his side.

They had defeated that bandit group again. However, Hoster knew his age was no longer young. He was too tired after days in the saddle, and at one fatal moment, his guard dropped. He let someone slip from his blind spot and wound him.

Now, his bandages needed changing because fresh blood was seeping through again, staining the linen a dark red. Because Hoster had ordered the Maester to go heal other soldiers whose wounds were more severe, he had Petyr Baelish take over this task.

Besides, he was quite capable of small things that didn't require much brute force.

"Slowly, Boy," hissed Hoster, hardening his jaw.

"Hold on, My Lord. Your wound is not that dry yet. The stitches are still vulnerable," said Petyr with a very calm voice. The young man stood beside him, his face illuminated by candlelight.

"The blood around here is dirtied by sweat and dust," continued Petyr. "We must clean it thoroughly and apply more salve so it does not rot."

"Just do it, do not talk much," Hoster squeezed his eyes shut. "May the foul bastard who did this rot in the deepest hell. Bastard!"

"I have no doubt that will happen, My Lord. Considering you yourself beheaded him after he wounded you," Petyr replied lightly. He took a clean cloth that had been dipped in warm water. Petyr began to clean the wound, rubbing the remnants of dried blood at the edges of the reddened slash.

The touch made Hoster wince softly, his body tensing. His hands clenched into fists.

Petyr's hands danced among the wounds with careful precision. "This is a very unfortunate mistake, My Lord. You are a Lord leading thousands. Many lives and families depend on you, the Seven must surely hate the person who did this to you."

"You and your words..." Hoster sighed roughly, opening one eye. "Just pray that those bandits are prepared for the wrath of the Seven Gods. We have stopped enough of them in this region. Hundreds of them we have sent to the Wall and to King Rhaegar. So, certainly their plan to gather somewhere will not happen."

Hoster swallowed saliva that tasted bitter. "That is good. Very good. Because I swear, I desperately miss the abundant hot water for a bath in Riverrun. I miss my featherbed. Here, everything feels very sickening to me right now."

"Raise your arm a little, My Lord. I must clean the underside," said Petyr, ignoring his complaints.

Hoster obeyed. He raised his right arm a few inches. That small movement sent a flash of blinding pain to his neck.

He hated this very much. Hated the feeling of helplessness. Every day of his life, Hoster Tully had always held control. He controlled his army, he held the future of the Riverlands in his hands. So, when faced with a situation like this, sitting half-naked and shivering, he felt fragile and useless.

Petyr took a small container from the table. Inside was the medicinal salve from the Maester.

The boy used a small wooden spatula to apply the foul-smelling medicine onto Hoster's open wound. The smell immediately stung Hoster's nose. The aroma was rancid, like a mixture of wet moss, and something sweet yet rotten. Whether it was made from leaves or what sap. Why must a medicine meant to heal smell like poison?

Hoster watched as Petyr applied it. The salve also seemed to have started changing color. Hoster remembered clearly that a few days ago, it was deep green. Now? The color was faded, more pale grey.

Petyr took a very large dollop of the salve, slathering it along the entire length of the wound, which instantly made Hoster frown due to the uncomfortable stinging mixed with cold sensation.

"Can you apply less of that damn mud, Petyr?" reprimanded Hoster. "The smell is very pungent. It bothers my nose every time I inhale. Makes my head dizzy."

Petyr didn't stop his movements. The boy's hand remained steady spreading the salve over Hoster's torn flesh.

"The Maester instructed that this is the appropriate dose for a wound this deep, My Lord," Petyr smiled thinly. "If you reduce it just because you cannot stand the smell, this will lower its healing effect. We do not want this wound infected, do we?"

"You say that easily because your nose doesn't have to inhale it all the time, Boy," Hoster snorted resignedly. "But I swear by the Seven, that the smell feels more pungent day by day. The color is also strange. Did the Maester put it in a dung heap or mix it with ash when I wasn't looking?"

"That is only your mind and exhaustion speaking, My Lord," Petyr chuckled softly, taking a fresh clean linen and starting to wrap it around Hoster's shoulder. "The smell is exactly the same as the first time the Maester brewed it. You only became more sensitive because of the pain."

Hoster didn't answer. He was too tired to argue about salve. Petyr might be right. Pain often played tricks on an old man's mind. After Petyr finished tying the last knot and cleaning his hands with a rag, the young man looked at Hoster who was still leaning back limply.

"Would you like me to bring warm water to drink, My Lord? Or perhaps a glass of mulled wine?" offered Petyr politely.

"No," Hoster shook his head. He pointed with his chin. "I need you to fetch the letter on that table. The letter that just arrived."

Petyr followed Hoster's gaze.

"That is a letter from Catelyn," he continued. "Still neatly sealed with red wax. I haven't had the chance to open it because I was busy. I will read it now, and after that, you will help me write the reply. My right hand right now is as useless as a piece of firewood for writing."

Petyr obediently nodded. He walked to the end of the table, taking the scroll in question. Petyr's eyes stared for a moment at the wax seal bearing the Lannister lion. Hoster couldn't see Petyr's expression because the young man had his back to him, but Petyr's shoulders seemed to tense for a second before he turned and came back.

Petyr handed over the letter, and Hoster signaled with his head to break the seal. Petyr broke the wax with his thumb, then gave the opened paper to Hoster. He took the letter with his left hand, bringing it closer to the candlelight, his eyes squinting adjusting to Catelyn's handwriting.

"Father," Hoster began reading silently.

"May you be in good health and protected by the Seven when reading this. Because you are now often moving from one camp to another to hunt those bandits, I had to ask the Maester first, if there were any ravens left for the current destination. Fortunately the Maester always has them and is very helpful, even if it takes longer to find them."

Hoster smiled. "I hope you do not push yourself too hard there. You are no longer a young man who can sleep on wet rocks. I know how things are out there, even though I am now mostly just in the chambers and gardens."

"I have eyes and ears always open in this court. Conditions in the city are indeed worsening due to the flow of refugees, and I do not know when this will truly improve. Jaime is always out from morning to night. He also always looks very tired, his clothes dusty. In this castle, everyone is busy with their respective work."

"To pass the time, I have mostly just been with Queen Cersei lately. We sit in the garden, and I often play with her son, Prince Aegon. The child looks very cute and chubby, with his silver hair. Seeing the little Prince... it makes me wonder and dream... what my child will look like when born later."

Hoster stopped reading for a moment. His heart swelled. He continued reading the last paragraph.

"If everything has improved and those bandits are gone, come home soon, Father. Get a proper rest, and eat more decent food. The food in camp must taste bland and hard, right? Jaime often tells me about it while laughing when reminiscing about when he was still a squire for Ser Tygett."

"Perhaps later... after my baby is born and strong enough to travel, I can also visit you. I honestly am a little sick of the smell and noise of King's Landing. I desperately want fresh air, and the first thing that crosses my mind is Riverrun. It seems I underappreciated the beauty and tranquility of our home when I was a child. I want to write more, tell you many things, but I realize that now is not the right time. You must be tired too."

"So I will end it here. May the Seven keep you."

"Greetings and full of love, Your daughter, Catelyn Lannister."

Hoster gripped the edge of the paper tightly. His chest was now filled with a strange and suffocating swirl of feelings. He hated this emotional reaction. The thick nostalgia, the deep longing for his daughter, for the sound of Catelyn's laughter in the halls of Riverrun. This feeling sickened him because it couldn't be eliminated just by shouting orders. This feeling made him feel old and sentimental.

Hoster took a long and deep breath, filling his lungs with cold air. He consciously stopped all emotions that were about to spill over and ruin his facial expression. Here, standing just a short distance from him, was Petyr Baelish staring at him in silence. Hoster Tully would never show weakness in front of his subordinates, let alone a ward.

Folding the paper stiffly with one hand, Hoster placed it back on the table. He looked at Petyr Baelish.

"Don't just stand there like a statue," ordered Hoster firmly. "Get ink, quill, and a fresh sheet of paper, Boy. Prepare yourself."

With Petyr obeying wordlessly, pulling up a small stool and preparing his tools, Hoster thought of the words he would convey. Once the boy held the pen, and the tip hovered over the paper, Hoster began speaking.

"Your father is currently carrying out an unavoidable duty, Cat," Hoster dictated the opening sentence. He heard Petyr's pen scratching over the paper, copying his words.

"It is engraved in our family words, isn't it? Family, Duty, Honor. We cannot avoid it even if we want to bury ourselves in comfort. We have great responsibilities to undertake to keep this realm intact."

Hoster stared at the dimly dancing candle flame. The yellow light reflected in his eyes. He said all that slowly and clearly so Petyr wouldn't be overwhelmed while writing.

"And honestly, Cat, conducting this pursuit is quite easy. You don't need to worry about me. I have been through much worse things before. I am still as solid as a rock..."

Hoster paused, took a breath, continued. "It is a very good thing for you to spend time with the Queen. She is your good-sister, which in the bonds of marriage, is family. Maintain that relationship. So, at least you will not be too lonely in a court full of strangers."

Hoster smiled thinly, imagining his pregnant daughter.

"And for the child in your womb... I have not the slightest doubt that the child will be born with the most perfect features. You and Jaime have that. Unrivaled handsomeness and beauty. Blood cannot lie, Cat. I have no doubt that the child will be the pride of two great Houses..."

The scratching sound of the pen on the paper suddenly sounded different.

Hoster glanced over. Petyr's handwriting, looked drastically slowed down when he dictated the part about Jaime and Catelyn's baby. The tip of Petyr's pen seemed pressed too hard onto the paper, leaving thicker ink trails than usual. Petyr's grip on the quill looked so rigid that his knuckles tensed.

"Keep writing," Hoster reprimanded softly.

Petyr took an inaudible breath, loosened his grip, and resumed writing at a normal speed. "Done, My Lord."

"Good." Hoster leaned his head back again. "In closing... I cannot wait to see you again, Cat. If the situation permits and your body is strong enough... visit Riverrun. The door to your home will never be closed to you. Do not hesitate. Your father loves you."

…

The room looked messy, as if just hit by a small storm. Clothes scattered on the uneven wooden floor, and an overturned chair in the corner. Pale morning light entered through the cracks of windows tightly closed by a thick, dusty curtain.

On a creaky bed in the middle of the room, there was a thick wool blanket that looked to be covering something. That something rolled, then groaned softly.

It was Gerion Lannister, his eyes opening slowly, trying to fight the heavy drowsiness and piercing ache. He stared at the ceiling of his room made of dull wooden boards in the morning silence, his brain still spinning slowly searching for a sliver of spirit.

His head throbbed, hot, and also ached.

He shouldn't have drunk too much last night. He knew his body's limits, but a Lannister's ego sometimes clouded common sense. The effects were only felt now, as the sun rose, and he absolutely hated this.

Trying to get up, Gerion shoved the blanket aside roughly. He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only thin trousers, and scratched the back of his slightly itchy neck. He stood up swaying slightly, took a clay jug on the small table beside the bed, poured water into a cup, then drank it in large gulps. The water was cold, and slowly chased away some of the remaining fog.

After feeling a bit more stable, he grabbed his shirt lying on the floor, put it on haphazardly, left the room, and walked down the narrow wooden stairs to the public latrine on the lower floor.

Midway down the stairs, he crossed paths with a fierce-faced Braavosi man hurrying up. Their shoulders touched roughly. The man growled, but Gerion just ignored him, too tired to start a brawl early in the morning.

In the urine-smelling public latrine, Gerion quickly unfastened his trousers. He closed his eyes while exhaling a long breath as he emptied his bladder. The uncomfortable feeling from holding his urine after drinking beer for so long finally faded, it felt very satisfying when he released it.

Finished with his business, Gerion scooped water from a wooden barrel and splashed it directly onto his face and tangled hair. The cold from the water truly woke him up now. He rubbed his face roughly, stared at his wet and slightly pale reflection in a puddle, then smirked. Still handsome, he thought narcissistically.

He walked out, down the hallway, and arrived at the inn's spacious, low-ceilinged common room. This was where guests usually gathered, ate, and gossiped.

Gerion took an empty table near the dead fireplace. Waving a hand at the innkeeper's boy wiping a table across the room, he signaled his order. He had been renting a room here for seven days, so the boy must have memorized by heart what he usually ordered for breakfast.

While waiting, Gerion stared outside. The inn's double doors were left wide open, displaying the damp streets of Braavos. The hustle and bustle of the outside world could be heard clearly. Braavos basically never truly went quiet or slept. This was a city where every fisherman, sailor, and merchant sought coin before sunrise, and sold tirelessly in the fish markets and water canals.

Someone stepped up, then walked approaching his table. It was his subordinate and distant cousin, Donnell Lannister. Donnell was a few years older than him, had darker blond hair and a much stiffer demeanor.

"You look very tired, Gerion." Donnell chuckled while pulling a chair and sitting across from him. "I heard from the guards that you accepted a drinking challenge from those people last night and drank like a thirsty pig?"

Gerion smiled thinly, leaning his back against the wooden wall.

"I couldn't let those fat merchants demean the Lannister name, could I?" dodged Gerion, defending himself. "When there's a challenge, especially one wagering gold and pride, I accept it. And look, I came out as the victor. They all fell under the table before midnight. And where were you last night? Why weren't you here to witness my glory?"

The man in front of him had indeed disappeared during the party. Gerion actually had several other Lannister guards who went with him; they were currently around the inn, keeping watch. But those guards were all boring and uninteresting to talk to about trivial things.

Gerion suddenly remembered his old friend. Prince Oberyn Martell had gone home a few years ago, returning to Oldtown to avoid suspicion. A pity. Gerion really enjoyed their adventures together in Essos.

"I have real work here. Something called responsibility," said Donnell with a slightly reprimanding tone. "The monthly report I must send to Ser Kevan needs to be summarized in a few days. So I ventured out since yesterday afternoon, visiting markets, ports, looking for the latest information, ship movements, and so on. I do not want to be labeled an incompetent envoy at work."

"Impressive, impressive. Very honorable and very boring," joked Gerion, tapping the table lightly. "But you didn't secretly visit one of the famous brothels while looking for 'information'?"

"I really wanted to, honestly," Donnell smirked mischievously. "However apparently I can control my lust very well lately, so the temptations of those Braavosi whores didn't affect me. My purse is thankful for that."

The innkeeper's boy approached their table. He placed a large wooden cup filled with thick frothy ale in front of Gerion.

Seeing that, Gerion's body instantly froze. His stomach suddenly churned. Damn. He did order ale as a starter drink every morning, but today, his stomach wasn't ready to receive the same poison.

He shook his head quickly, pushing the ale cup across the table, handing it to Donnell who accepted it happily.

Gerion turned to the innkeeper's boy who was about to turn around. "I want a cup of warm water instead."

The boy nodded in understanding and ran back to the kitchen.

Then Gerion turned to look at Donnell, trying to refocus. "So, let's talk seriously. Did you find anything interesting while digging for information at the port? Because the news had better be worth it. You missed a very lively party with annoying foreigners."

Donnell lowered his ale cup. He leaned forward, his voice lowering into a whisper.

"Of course it's worth it," said Donnell. "I heard these rumors from the mirror merchants. This news just arrived brought by a fast-sailing sea ship. Do you know that massive chaos is happening in Myr?"

"What kind of chaos?" Gerion frowned, his dizziness starting to be replaced by curiosity.

"Word says that several merchants were murdered in their own homes. Dead due to chaos caused by their slaves."

Gerion's eyes widened slightly. "How is that possible?"

Donnell shrugged. "Well, I don't know the exact details, information from the sea is always fragmented. But think about it, Gerion, how is it impossible? They have more slaves than the population of free men in the city itself. Maybe ten to one. I am sure in the past there must have been small ripples like this. But certainly, the time span since the last one has been too long, so the news happening now is causing a great uproar throughout the port."

Donnell sipped his ale again, then continued. "So, furthermore... now I hear to quell the riots, the mercenaries in Myr slaughtered back. Many slaves were captured, tortured, killed, and beheaded in the city square. Their heads spiked on spears along the streets. That's to make the remaining slaves more disciplined, they say."

Right as Donnell finished speaking, the inn boy returned. The young boy placed a wooden plate of food, two thick pieces of toast smeared with salted butter, and three soft-boiled eggs still emitting steam, complete with a cup of warm water.

Gerion stared at the food. The sight of the semi-liquid egg yolk now mixed with the image of severed heads in his mind. His gaze did not shift from the plate.

"You are quite skilled at choosing conversation topics to make someone lose their appetite, aren't you?" quipped Gerion.

"You yourself wanted the information." Donnell chuckled softly, feeling no guilt at all.

Gerion snorted softly. His hand reached for a small knife, his brain starting to connect invisible dots from the information.

Recalling again, he remembered a warning letter from his brother, Kevan, a few months ago. Kevan suggested that Gerion should not leave Braavos in these current times. Besides the ongoing trade war heating up between Westeros and the Free Cities, this might be the cause and effect of those things.

Now, Gerion was not truly directly involved with the ongoing intrigues. He knew that sending too many details only via sea ravens could be very dangerous; letters could be intercepted by spies. Besides, he was on another continent.

So, to find out more about his family's strategies, he usually waited for an envoy or ship captain from Lannisport to bring verbal messages.

The last time the envoy came, he received information that King Rhaegar and Tywin strongly assumed that merchants in Essos were the ones financing and causing massive riots in Westeros, especially in the Riverlands.

Cutting his toast to distract his mind, Gerion devoured the first piece. He tasted the salted butter melting on his tongue. He then cut a piece of egg and chewed it too. His stomach felt a little better.

Seeing Gerion had started eating, Donnell drank his ale again, then chuckled, trying to break the previously tense atmosphere.

"Anyway," said Donnell enthusiastically. "I went to a very good eatery near the eastern port district last night. The food there is incredibly delicious, you know? The owner of the place is apparently a merchant from Yi-Ti who settled here... so well, their faces and eye shapes are quite unique, their language is weird too. But the cooking... Gods, you must try it."

"I have eaten a whole grilled fish before, by a chef from Yi-Ti as well," Gerion nodded, his mouth half full of bread. "Indeed very delicious. Their spices are strong."

"Ah, you surely haven't tried this one dish, Gerion. This is a food I have never seen before in all of Westeros!" Donnell looked increasingly excited, his hands moving mimicking something. "Chewy, the shape is long like small ropes, served in a deep bowl, and very brothy! Very warm and delicious!"

"What is it?" said Gerion, swallowing his food. His culinary interest was instantly aroused. "Explain more specifically. Small ropes in a bowl don't sound appetizing if you explain it like that."

"They call it 'Mian'," answered Donnell. "It is made of fine wheat flour kneaded for hours, then cut or pulled by hand until it becomes very long and small, resembling thick thread. Then the dough is boiled in boiling water. Once cooked, they serve it in a bowl, then add very thick chicken or beef broth, thin slices of meat, sesame oil, and some spicy herbs that warm the body. Oh, truly, Gerion... you must try it yourself to understand."

Gerion tried to imagine it in his head. Mian... Mian... a very strange language on his tongue. But the shape and description, warm broth, meat, and long chewy dough, indeed made him very curious.

His dizziness was momentarily forgotten by a new hunger. Gerion smiled broadly, pushing aside the remaining bread on his plate.

"You have successfully convinced me, Donnell," said Gerion, tapping the table cheerfully. "You must take me to that place for dinner later. Of course, I'm paying."

---

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[Luker number 5]

So looks like Hoster is going to pass away sooner then before thanks to Petyrs tender ministrations.

 

[Fellow Human]

Gerion turned to the innkeeper's boy who was about to turn around. "I want a cup of warm water instead."

Click to shrink...

"You are quite skilled at choosing conversation topics to make someone lose their appetite, aren't you?" quipped Gerion.

Click to shrink...

I thought the other guy was gonna die from poison.

 

[udkudk]

So looks like Hoster is going to pass away sooner then before thanks to Petyrs tender ministrations.

Click to shrink...

Is it a bad thing that I actually want Baelish to actually get over Catelyn and grow up?