Fields of Gold - (Jaime SI)

[Daario]

JAIME | RHAEGAR​

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And of course, Uncle Tygett.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I promise."

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

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

The holiday was over.

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Rhaegar knew something Arthur might not have fully grasped.

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

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

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

…

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

"You can do it, Pete?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pete gaped for a moment, before Jaime chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jaime grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Deal," Jon answered confidently.

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

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

Paper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not a single word about Aerys Targaryen.

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

People seemed completely unaffected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Explosion.

That was the only word that could describe it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Daario]

CERSEI​

---

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

"Cersei, do you know where Jaime is?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cersei raised a perfectly formed eyebrow. Stories.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Secret."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are too"

"JAIME!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jaime laughed. "Frozen? How cruel."

"But effective!" Tyrion exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

"A giant whale?!"

"Very big. As big as Casterly Rock!"

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

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

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

Maybe it was loneliness.

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

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

"See you, Cersei!" Tyrion exclaimed innocently.

---

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

 

[Daario]

JAIME​

---

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

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

Compass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gunpowder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cat women, maybe," Jon replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That works too."

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that needle... that needle remained still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hope so," said Jaime.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Daario]

DENYS​

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now his wish was granted. His harbor was full.

But in a strange and terrible way.

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

The irony tasted bitter on his tongue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Denys pushed open the door to his solar and entered.

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

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

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

"Enter," Denys growled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Speak."

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

Serala.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

"FIRE!"

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

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

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

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

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

The view outside froze him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was total chaos.

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

And now, Denys had to reply to that message.

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

Denys stepped inside.

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

Aerys Targaryen.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, recognition came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world seemed to stop spinning for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a swift movement, Denys drove the dagger downward.

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

Aerys screamed.

---

As always. Thank you for reading. :'D

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

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

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

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

"Let me go in, Lord Hand."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barristan seemed shaken by those words.

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you, Ser," Rhaegar said sincerely.

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

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

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

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

"I will step out," said Rhaegar.

Tywin only nodded without looking.

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, that peace shattered instantly.

SWOOSH!

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

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

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

Thud.

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

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

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

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

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

However, there was something strange about this raven.

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

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

And the smell...

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

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

"Quiet," Arthur ordered sharply.

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

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

The folds of the cloth opened.

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

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

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

It was a finger.

 

[Daario]

TYWIN | BARRISTAN​

---

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



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



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



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



"We need his head!"



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



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



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



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



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



Tywin had not expected the man to do this.



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



"Enough!"



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



"Two days," Tywin said finally.



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



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



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



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



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



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



The question hung in the air heavily.



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



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



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



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



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



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



…



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



Perfect.



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



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



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



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



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



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



'Now or never.'



He began to climb.



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



As he moved away from his friends, Barristan charged.



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



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



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



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



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



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



The hinges screamed in protest. Barristan stepped inside.



The sight before him made his blood boil.



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



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



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



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



Barristan stepped forward and thrust his sword.



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



She screamed.



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



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



"Damn," cursed Barristan.



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



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



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



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



"There! Catch him!"



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



Not one, but many.



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



However, the second arrow did not miss.



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



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



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



His legs gave way.



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



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



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



Darkness swallowed Barristan's vision completely.



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



If only he had waited two more days…

---

The king is dead, long live the king!

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR | TYWIN | DENYS​

---

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

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

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

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

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

"The King is dead!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barristan...

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

A knight's arrogance had killed a King.

"We will avenge him, Prince."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He walked out of the tent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Prepare my horse," Rhaegar commanded.

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"FORWARD!"

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

He signaled the battering ram with his outstretched arm.

"BREAK IT!"

The ram operators began to swing the giant trunk.

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

THUMP!

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

THUMP!

Again. The old wood groaned and cracked.

THUMP!

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

CRACK!

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

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

"ATTACK! NO MERCY!" Tywin shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

This was outside the plan. This was all wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

"Denys! Denys! What must we do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That lie was the final straw.

"DON'T PRETEND TO BE INNOCENT!"

Denys swung his hand with all his might.

SLAP!

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

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

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

BOOM!

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

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

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

Surrender.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR | DENYS​

---

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

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

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

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

Rhaegar stared at Lord Darklyn with a hollow gaze.

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

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

"What were you thinking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Prince..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Enough."

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

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

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

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

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

"Hang them!"

"Flay them!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence fell on the courtyard.

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

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

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

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

…

The world narrowed into a single, deafening rhythm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Denys closed his eyes.

And in that moment, the world changed.

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

He saw the sea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then, the floor beneath his feet disappeared.

The sensation of falling was sudden and absolute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was only for a moment.

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

Then stopped.

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

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

 

[Daario]

WHISPER IN THE WIND​

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the change happened.

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

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

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

…

Aerys was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, she had a second chance with Viserys.

She kissed her son's smooth forehead, inhaling the scent of a baby, holy and clean. Tears flowed down her cheeks again, but this time, they felt different. These were not tears for Aerys. These were tears for a promise.

"Good boy..." she sobbed softly, rocking Viserys as the baby began to whimper quietly. "Good boy... do not cry. Mother is here. Mother is not going anywhere."

…

The night wind blew gently, carrying the scent of salt that clung to the tongue. On the deck of the merchant ship Sea Silence, the atmosphere was quiet enough, a contrast to the hustle and bustle of the Oldtown harbor hours ago. The ship sailed slicing through relatively calm waves, its sails billowing with a favorable wind, carrying them closer to their destination: Lannisport.

Rowan sat on a wooden crate near the ship's rail, away from the crowd of crewmen gambling near the mainmast. In his hand was a glass of blood-red wine, the best quality that Lord Hightower's money could buy. He raised the glass to the moon, admiring the dark ruby color reflected within.

He sipped it slowly, letting the sweet and tart liquid wash over his tongue before swallowing. He was no barbarian like the sailors there who guzzled cheap ale as if it were ditch water. Rowan was a craftsman. He liked to enjoy small things, observing details, feeling textures. That was what distinguished him from coarse men. That was what made him the best cabinetmaker in Oldtown before his business was ruined.

"You're not eating it, Rowan?"

The voice shattered his reverie. Rowan turned and saw Shayne sitting across from him, on a coil of rope. The man was completely bald, his face round and oily, with eyes that were always hungry. Shayne stared at the plate in front of Rowan with disturbing intensity. On that plate, a piece of white wheat bread, another luxury on this ship, lay untouched.

Rowan smiled thinly. His clean, clean-shaven face hid a subtle disgust. He slid the plate towards his friend.

"Eat it," said Rowan softly. "My stomach is still full from the fried fish earlier. I'm not confident enough to put anything else in without vomiting it into the sea."

"You're the best!" exclaimed Shayne, his eyes twinkling. He snatched the bread with a zeal that was nearly savage, and immediately took a huge bite. Breadcrumbs fell onto his thin, sparse beard.

Rowan watched his friend eat. They were two childhood friends who grew up in the narrow alleys of Oldtown. Once, they were both woodworkers. Rowan made cabinets with intricate carvings for lords, while Shayne made sturdy chairs and tables. They once had a future.

"Later if—" Shayne spoke with his mouth full, spraying a few crumbs, "If we get the money, I will surely pay you back ten times this bread! I'll buy you sweet cakes from Highgarden every day!"

Rowan grimaced softly. "Just eat, Shayne," he chided gently, sipping his wine again. "It is impolite to speak with a full mouth. Taste the bread. Enjoy the texture, the flavor. And be grateful that we can still eat."

"I am grateful!" Shayne swallowed his chew with difficulty, then grinned widely. "It's just in my way! My way is to finish it until nothing is left!"

Rowan did not answer. He looked out at the dark, choppy sea. His thoughts drifted to their mission.

One hundred and twenty gold dragons. That was an extraordinary amount. Lord Hightower, the ruler of Oldtown, was very generous this time. He gave them an advance of two hundred gold dragons for this journey. Rowan had already handed thirty pieces to his wife, to ensure she and the children could eat while he was away. Fifty pieces were kept by Shayne, the rest, one hundred and twenty pieces, were in a hidden pocket inside Rowan's tunic.

Bribe money.

Their task was simple yet dangerous. They had to infiltrate Lannisport. Not as spies, but as craftsmen looking for work. They would seek out the workers of the Lannister paper mill. At that moment they could discuss, and Rowan would whisper words. And slip a few coins to them.

Rowan was sure he could do it. As a craftsman who often made precision tools, he understood the nature of making. He understood wood. If he could see the device, the printing press or whatever its name was, and the paper-making tools even if only at a glance, or get a rough sketch from a worker, Rowan could reverse engineer it. He could determine if it was truly an unstoppable threat, or just a cheap trick that could be copied.

Lord Hightower and the Maesters at the Citadel were in a panic. Rowan could smell the fear when he met them. They felt threatened. Their city was the center of the world's knowledge, the light of wisdom. And suddenly, a Lannister boy appeared with paper and a magic machine, making their ancient methods look obsolete and slow. It wounded their ego. It made them look foolish.

And men with wounded egos would pay dearly to restore their pride.

Rowan understood that. He understood very well the fear of becoming irrelevant.

"I envy you," Rowan said suddenly, breaking the silence between them. He looked at Shayne who was now licking his greasy fingers. "Your stomach seems able to expand at your will to devour more food. You are never full, are you?"

Shayne raised his thin eyebrows, then laughed heartily. "Well, this is my family's advantage for generations! I suppose it is a blessing of the Seven to enjoy everything in this world while one can."

"In that case, you perhaps should open an eatery if we make it home," Rowan suggested, half-joking, half-serious. "If you want to enjoy it deeper, be the one who cooks it."

"Bah." Shayne shook his head, his face turning slightly gloomy. "I'm not good at cooking. My wife... my wife's cooking is delicious. She used to make amazing meat pies. But..."

Shayne fell silent. Rowan knew the rest. Shayne's wife was a beautiful woman, though to Rowan still less graceful than his own wife. But Shayne's wife had poor health. Her spine was weak, she couldn't stand too long without pain. Her stomach often cramped violently, 'like it was twisted' she said.

Rowan knew that was the reason why Shayne's business went bankrupt. Not just because he was lazy, but because he spent every copper he had to pay healers and medicines that never cured his wife. He ran out of capital to buy wood. He lost his shop. And finally, he lost his pride, ending up as a hired lackey for this dangerous mission.

"She will get well, Shayne," said Rowan quietly, trying to give hope. "With the gold we bring home, you can pay a real Maester for her. Not a street healer."

Shayne's eyes glistened for a moment. He nodded quickly, then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yes. Right. A real Maester. She will get well."

He took Rowan's wine bottle without permission and swigged directly from the neck, a crude way of drinking that usually annoyed Rowan. But this time, Rowan let him.

Rowan looked back at the moon. In Lannisport yonder, there was wealth waiting. There were secrets to be stolen. And if necessary... there was a fire to be lit.

…

The walls of Winterfell were made of grey granite, cold, sturdy, and built to withstand winter winds that could freeze blood in the veins. But inside one of the chambers, there was a fire burning that did not come from the hearth.

That fire was Lyanna Stark.

The maid of ten and one name days spun in the center of her room, her thick wool skirt flaring around her like the petals of a wildflower blown by a storm. She was not dancing the polite dances taught to a lady, stiff and boring steps designed to attract a husband. No, Lyanna danced to the rhythm of freedom she created herself in her head.

Her feet stomped the stone floor covered in bear skin rugs, her arms outstretched as if wanting to touch the walls that had confined her all this time.

King's Landing!

The name tasted like honey on her tongue. The South. A place where, according to the stories of singers who stopped at Winterfell, the wind was warm and intoxicating, smelling of lemon blossoms and salty sea, not of wet snow and frozen horse dung. After so long trapped in this cold stone castle, guarded by walls that seemed to say 'you may not leave', finally the cage door was open.

The King was dead.

The news came with a jet-black raven shivering from cold. Her father, Lord Rickard Stark, received it with a grim face that was appropriate. Maester Walys spoke of it with feigned respectful tones. All of Winterfell wore a mask of grief.

Lyanna knew she should be sad. He was her King, protector of the realm. Yet, tears refused to come. She did not know the man. Aerys Targaryen was just a name in history books, a distant figure unreal in her eyes. He was nobody to her but an excuse for a journey.

But Lyanna, in her own strange way, still sent a brief prayer. May the King die in peace, and thank you, she thought sincerely, thank you for your sacrifice that allows me to see the world.

She spun again, faster this time, until her head felt a pleasant dizziness.

She imagined the journey awaiting. The Kingsroad stretching thousands of miles. Flowers blooming in the Riverlands. Vast green meadows. And adventure!

Her grey Stark eyes twinkled mischievously. They might meet wolves on the road later, not the direwolves of her family sigil, but real wild wolves. Or perhaps bandits? Or mountain clans coming down seeking prey?

The thought should have been terrifying for a little girl, but for Lyanna, it was an opportunity. She glanced at the corner of the room, where a wooden sword, which she had stolen from the armory and hidden behind her clothes chest, leaned. She could practice her swordsmanship without hesitation! She would prove to her Father that she was not weak. That wolf blood flowed just as swiftly in her veins as in theirs.

She picked up a small wooden stick from the table, her temporary sword substitute, and began slashing the air, imagining she was fighting an evil knight on the Kingsroad.

"Hia! Take that!" she cried, stabbing the pillow on her bed.

"What are you doing?"

The voice, full of amusement and annoying familiarity, shattered her fantasy like a falling mirror.

Lyanna blinked, her body freezing mid-slash. She immediately lowered her stick and spun toward the door.

There, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed and a characteristic smirk on his face, stood Brandon Stark. Her eldest brother. Heir to Winterfell. And the person most skilled at annoying her in all the North.

He entered without permission! Again!

Lyanna's face reddened instantly, heat creeping from her neck to the roots of her dark hair, from anger at her privacy being violated.

"What am I doing, you ask?" Lyanna hissed, throwing her wooden stick onto the bed. She put hands on her hips, glaring at her brother with a challenging gaze. "Look at what you are doing! You entered my room without knocking! Did Father never teach you manners, or did your brain freeze outside?"

Brandon laughed, a deep and rich sound. He stepped inside, not intimidated in the slightest by his sister's anger. "And watching you go mad, it seems," he commented casually, his eyes sweeping the room messy from Lyanna's 'dance'.

"I am not mad!"

"You're jumping around and stabbing innocent pillows," Brandon grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Lyanna hated him when he was like this, too handsome, too confident, too Brandon. "You're like a hen roasting on a pan, Lya. Or perhaps a wolf with fleas?"

"Quiet!" snorted Lyanna loudly. Her cheeks were still flushing, but now embarrassment began to mix with her annoyance. "You better have something important, Brandon. Something very important. Or I will punch you right in the gut."

Brandon raised both hands in a mock surrender style, though the smile never left his lips. "Peace, Wild Wolf. I come in peace."

He walked closer and sat on the edge of the large wooden chest containing Lyanna's things. "I just wanted to ensure that you have packed all your gear. The journey will take place in two days, right at dawn. The journey South is long, Lya. I don't want you whining in the middle of the road because you forgot your hairbrush or your doll."

Lyanna rolled her eyes so hard her head hurt. "Of course I've packed them," she said sharply. She kicked the chest lightly with her toe. "Everything is in here. The stupid dresses Father told me to bring, thick cloaks, boots. No need for you to check me like a babe. I am ten and one name days, not three."

"Ten and one" said Brandon, his tone suddenly changing a bit softer, more serious. He looked at his sister with a gaze hard to interpret, a mix of brotherly affection and awareness of how fast time passed. "Grown up."

Lyanna didn't like that change of tone. It made her feel she was being observed as merchandise, not as his sister. She changed the subject.

"Ned will be there too, right?" she asked, mentioning the name of her quiet and reserved second brother, Eddard, who was being fostered at The Eyrie. She missed Ned. Ned never teased her like Brandon.

"Yes," Brandon nodded, the mischievous grin returning to his face. "Ned will come from the Vale. We will meet in King's Landing."

Brandon paused for a moment, as if savoring a secret he was about to tell. "And he will be with Robert Baratheon..."

The name fell between them like a heavy stone.

Lyanna's spirit that had been overflowing suddenly receded. Her shoulders slumped slightly.

Robert Baratheon. Heir to Storm's End. Her betrothed.

The name sounded gallant to many ears. But to Lyanna, the name sounded like a prison door slamming shut. She only knew little about the man from Ned's letters and servants' gossip, that he was strong as a bull, loved to laugh loud, and loved... women.

But it wasn't Robert's reputation that bothered her most. What she hated most was the concept itself. That she, Lyanna Stark, who had wolf blood and dreams of flying free, would be 'owned' by a man. That she would be handed over like a racehorse or a plot of land to strengthen alliances.

She hadn't gone anywhere in this world! She was just about to see the South for the first time. She didn't want anyone locking her in a strange castle, forcing her to wear silk dresses, and spending the rest of her life just to serve the 'husband' and bear his children. The concept was an unpleasant, suffocating thing, and she couldn't bear to think of it without wanting to scream.

Why did women have so few choices? Why could Brandon choose his own path, could fight, could wander, while she had to sit sweet and wait to be chosen?

"I don't care about him," Lyanna said quietly, her voice losing its fire, replaced by the chill of ice. She looked away, staring at her bedroom window. "I don't want to meet him."

"You must, Lya," said Brandon, his voice now serious, the voice of an heir who understood duty. "He is your future husband. He is a good man, Ned likes him. They are like brothers."

"That is because Ned likes everyone who isn't evil," muttered Lyanna. "And Robert likes Ned. That doesn't mean he will like me, or I will like him."

Brandon grimaced slightly, not expecting his sister knew the gossip. "Robert will be a strong and protective husband. Storm's End is a great castle."

"A castle is still a cage, no matter how great," retorted Lyanna sharply.

She turned to face Brandon again, her eyes lighting up again with determination. She didn't want to ruin her mood today. She was going South. She would be free, at least for a while.

"Never mind," she said, waving a hand. "I don't want to talk about husbands or marriage. I just want to see the tourney."

Brandon looked at her with a flat stare, eyebrows raised. "Tourney? Lya, we are going there for a funeral. King Aerys is dead. The whole city will be in mourning. Flags at half-mast, bells tolling, septons chanting. This is a somber event."

"Why must there be a tourney at a funeral?" Brandon asked sarcastically.

"Why not?" Lyanna rolled her eyes. "If I were buried, there must be a tourney. I want people to fight to honor me! I want to see knights knocking each other off horses. I want to see swords clashing. What is the use of dying if people only cry in boredom?"

Brandon laughed again, this time a laugh full of disbelief but also admiration. He shook his head, looking at his sister as if she were the strangest creature he had ever met.

"You're mad, Lya," said Brandon grinning widely. "Truly mad. The wolf blood is too thick in you."

"Better mad than boring," replied Lyanna, picking up her wooden stick from the bed. She pointed it at Brandon's chest. "Now, get out of my room. I have an imaginary dragon to slay before supper."

Brandon stood, raising hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, Princess. See you at the dining table. Don't forget to wash your face, you're red as a tomato."

He stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Lyanna stood still for a moment after he left. Her smile faded a little. She stared at the closed door, thinking of King's Landing, thinking of Robert Baratheon, and thinking of the future awaiting her.

But then she shook her head, banishing the gloomy image. She had a wooden sword in her hand, and the world out there awaited her.

She spun again, slashing the air with a spirit more burning than before. She decided she would enjoy her journey.

And nothing would stand in the way of that.

…

The sea breeze blowing over the hill no longer carried a fresh scent. Today, the wind was heavy, wet, and smelled of death. The smell of wet ash, charred wood, and something sweet but sickening, the smell of burning flesh, still clung to the air of Duskendale like a ghost refusing to leave.

Talia stood silent, her feet buried in the cold mud of a makeshift graveyard on the hill. Before her, a mound of freshly dug wet earth looked black and pathetic, marked only by a rough piece of wood stuck in askew. No headstone, no beautiful name carving. Just scrap wood bearing one name scratched with a knife: Clark.

Drizzle began to fall again, wetting Talia's dull brown hair and sticking it to her gaunt cheeks. She didn't feel it. She felt numb, as if half her soul had been forcibly ripped out and buried in that mound of earth.

Her left hand felt warm. A small hand, soft and tiny, gripped her fingers tightly. Clara.

The little girl of three name days looked up, her round and innocent eyes staring at her mother with confusion. She didn't understand why her mother cried soundlessly. She didn't understand why her father didn't come home to hold her and spin her in the air as usual. She only knew that her mother was sad, and that perhaps frightened her.

"Dada?" asked Clara softly, her voice squeaking amidst the sigh of the wind.

That one word shattered Talia's defenses. The sob held in her throat broke, coming out as a painful choked sound. She crouched, ignoring the mud dirtying her already worn wool dress, and hugged her daughter tight. She buried her face in Clara's neck, trying to absorb a little warmth in a world that suddenly felt so cold.

The man was gone. Clark, her husband, father of her child, her childhood love. He would never come home. He would never again sit before the hearth, mending fishing nets or sharpening his stupid sword while whistling.

And all because of one person. One greedy Lord. Denys Darklyn.

The memory came painfully. Talia remembered that day, two years ago. The sun shone bright, and Clark ran home to their small hut, his face beaming, filled with dust and sweat from the training yard. He looked so young, so full of hope.

"Talia! Talia, look!" he had cried then, lifting a small leather coin pouch. "I was accepted! Lord Darklyn is increasing the number of guards! He needs strong men to guard the Dun Fort!"

Talia remembered how she laughed, hugging her husband who smelled of sweat. Clark recounted with fire how their fate would change. A fort guard's pay was far better than a dock worker or shepherd. They would get a ration of wheat, salt beef in winter, and silver coins every month.

"We won't lack for food again, Tal," promised Clark then, his eyes twinkling. "Clara's future is secured. Maybe... maybe one day I can become a captain. Or even... who knows? A household knight?"

Clark was a good man. Simple, honest, and possessed a heart too big for this cruel world. They were friends since childhood, growing up together in the meadows outside the city, under trees while herding neighbors' sheep. Talia remembered how she would bring provisions, hard bread and cheese for Clark, and they would sit for hours, joking and chatting about everything, from sunrise to sunset.

Clark always dreamed of more. He didn't want to just be a shepherd or fisherman. He wanted to be a hero like in the songs. He saved coin after coin, setting aside their food money, to buy a second-hand sword that was blunt and rusty from the market. He polished it every night until it shone, practicing slashing the air behind the house, imagining he was fighting a dragon or saving a princess.

He even once tried to register for a local tourney, though he was laughed at by the real knights and told to go home.

"Fool," sobbed Talia, her tears falling onto Clara's hair. "You fool, Clark. You and your knight dreams."

The dream had killed him.

Inside the grave before her, there was actually no body of Clark. No whole corpse she could wash and dress in his best clothes. The man's body was never found.

When Prince Rhaegar's forces stormed, when hellfire devoured the Dun Fort, Clark was on duty inside. Then never seen again.

All they found were piles of corpses charred, trampled, and crushed out of shape. Faces she knew, Clark's drinking buddies, all turned to ash and unrecognizable bone. Talia buried a piece of guard uniform cloth she found in the ruins when sneaking in, hoping it was her husband's, just so she had a place to pray.

Anger began to boil within her grief, hot and burning.

Denys Darklyn. The name felt like poison on her tongue. That Lord, with his arrogance, with his madness to hold the King, had dragged them all into hell. He promised glory for Duskendale, but all he brought were fire and death. He played the game of kings, betting with the lives of his smallfolk as coins.

And he lost.

But it wasn't Denys who suffered most. The Lord died quickly, his neck snapped on the gallows. Done. His suffering ended.

Talia? Her suffering was just beginning.

What should she do now? They dreamed of raising Clara together, watching her grow until she married a good man. They dreamed of owning a bigger house, perhaps with glass windows. They dreamed of growing old together.

But now it was Talia who had to face this alone. She was alone. Without income. Without a protector. In a ruined city, where the price of bread skyrocketed due to the siege, and where new widows like herself were on every street corner, crying over the same fate.

It felt heavy. Too heavy.

Talia released her hug on Clara. She reached out, her rough palm touching the wet earth of the grave. She stroked it gently, as if stroking her husband's cheek for the last time.

"Sleep well, Fool," she whispered. "I... I will take care of Clara. I promise."

She stood, her legs feeling shaky but she forced herself. She wiped her face with her sleeve, cleaning tears and snot. She must not look weak in front of Clara. She had to be strong now.

"Come, Sweetling," said Talia, taking her daughter's small hand again. "Let's go home."

"Dada not coming?" asked Clara, looking back towards the mound of earth.

"Dada, Dada has to sleep here now," answered Talia, swallowing the lump in her throat. "He is tired. He watches us from here."

They walked down the hill, leaving the silent graveyard. The wind blew harder, fluttering Talia's skirt.

From the height of the path, Talia could see the view below. The harbor of Duskendale stretched in the distance. There, in the grey waters, the fleet of siege ships had begun to move.

Large ships with sails bearing the three-headed dragon began to weigh anchor. They left the harbor bit by bit, like giants satiated after eating their prey. They were going home to King's Landing, to their warm palaces, celebrating victory, drinking wine, and forgetting names like Clark overnight.

To them, this was history. A victory crushing a rebellion. To Talia, this was the apocalypse.

She shifted her gaze towards the Dun Fort.

Or, what used to be it.

The fortress pride of House Darklyn was now leveled to the ground. Its sturdy walls had collapsed, its towers crumbled into piles of stone. Rhaegar Targaryen didn't just kill its Lord; he killed the castle. He wiped it from the map.

Destroyed without a trace. Just like House Darklyn itself.

The ancient family was extinct. Every male, female, bearing the name Darklyn and also Hollard had been executed or sent to the Wall. A bloodline of thousands of years severed in one day.

Talia stared at the destruction with dry eyes. There was a dark satisfaction seeing the fort destroyed. The symbol of power that had claimed her husband was now just rubbish. But that satisfaction didn't fill Clara's belly. That satisfaction wouldn't warm the empty bed tonight.

She continued walking, her steps quickening as she approached their hut on the outskirts of the city. The houses around seemed bleak, doors shut tight. The city was grieving, and fear still hung in the air. People were afraid if the soldiers decided to loot before leaving.

They reached home. A small wooden hut with a thatched roof leaking in places. Talia opened the creaking door, and they stepped into the familiar darkness.

The room was cold. The hearth had been dead since morning. Clark's wooden chair stood empty in the corner, a ghost from a life that used to be.

Talia sat Clara on the wooden cot. The little girl looked tired, her eyes beginning to close.

"Mama... hungry," mumbled Clara.

Talia went to the pantry. Empty. There was only half a loaf of stale bread left that had begun to mold and a little dry cheese.

She took the bread, cut off the moldy part with a knife, and gave the rest to Clara.

"Eat, Child," she said softly.

She watched her daughter eat voraciously, unaware of how little was left.

Talia's heart hardened. She looked around this poor room. She saw the bleak future stretching before her. Maybe she had to wash soldiers' clothes. Maybe she had to beg. Maybe she had to sell her body if things got really bad.

No.

Talia clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms.

She remembered Clark's stories about knights and honor. Those stories were beautiful, but those stories were lies. Honor didn't save Clark. Honor didn't feed him.

This world belonged to people like Denys Darklyn. People who took what they wanted. People who didn't care whom they stepped on.

But Talia was still alive. And she had Clara.

She knelt in front of her daughter, holding the small hand holding the bread.

"Listen to me, Clara," whispered Talia, her voice trembling but full of newly forged iron resolve.

Clara looked at her with a mouth full of bread.

"This world is wicked," said Talia. "The Lords, Kings, Knights... they are all monsters playing with our lives. They do not care for us. Papa believed in them, and Papa is gone."

She stroked her daughter's dirty cheek.

"But we will survive. You hear Mama? We will live. Mama won't let you starve. Mama will do anything. Anything. You won't end up in the mud like Papa. You will grow big, you will be strong, and you will live far from this cursed place."

Talia kissed her daughter's forehead, an oath spoken inside a shattered but hardening heart.

She didn't know how. She didn't know what she had to do tomorrow. But she knew one thing: she wouldn't let the Lords' 'game' take the only thing she had left.

She stood, took the broom from the corner, and began sweeping the dirty earthen floor. Dust flew.

---

Thank you for reading. You can read chapters early on Patreon!

 

[Lamb (Verified Gooner)]

You madman, i intended to sleep. But apparently you had the bright idea to dump out a fuck ton of chapters. Whatever, sleep is for the weak anyways.

 

[Fellow Human]

You madman, i intended to sleep. But apparently you had the bright idea to dump out a fuck ton of chapters. Whatever, sleep is for the weak anyways.

Click to shrink...

They were on SB updated regularly.

 

[Lamb (Verified Gooner)]

They were on SB updated regularly.

Click to shrink...

Im a gooner with a cause, i would sooner go to ao3 before i go to sb or sv. And ao3 is a hive of scum and villany. Filled with the worst sort of refuse imaginable.

 

[Fellow Human]

Im a gooner with a cause, i would sooner go to ao3 before i go to sb or sv. And ao3 is a hive of scum and villany. Filled with the worst sort of refuse imaginable.

Click to shrink...

I wouldn't be going on SB if unfortunately it didn't have some amazing and exclusive stories.
Fresh authors keep learning the same lesson when they start getting harassed by the net-nazi mods, that they should crosspost or leave SB entirely.

I haven't found much serious and good stories on AO3. I just go there for smut, everything else is angst, woke, Harry x Snape X Voldemort no matter how you filter, and incompetent female MCs.

 

[Lamb (Verified Gooner)]

I wouldn't be going on SB if unfortunately it didn't have some amazing and exclusive stories.
Fresh authors keep learning the same lesson when they start getting harassed by the net-nazi mods, that they should crosspost or leave SB entirely.

I haven't found much serious and good stories on AO3. I just go there for smut, everything else is angst, woke, Harry x Snape X Voldemort no matter how you filter, and incompetent female MCs.

Click to shrink...

SB and SV are too busy fighting for second place and ao3 is in the corner praying the feds dont find their browser history. Fanfic.net has become a diabetic grandpa who cant keep up with the times ,and god forbid webnovel and wattpad devolve any further. QQ is king of my heart

 

[Fellow Human]

SB and SV are too busy fighting for second place and ao3 is in the corner praying the feds dont find their browser history. Fanfic.net has become a diabetic grandpa who cant keep up with the times ,and god forbid webnovel and wattpad devolve any further. QQ is king of my heart

Click to shrink...

Surprisingly I'm not here for smut, the best stories are here, and you can also have an opinion!

SV is slightly more lenient than SB but tends to be a ghost town.

Meanwhile AO3 users self congratulating themselves on writing 1000 words!
Also, don't like don't read!
r/fanfiction = r/ao3, they have these yearly fanfic awards for stories you've never heard of!
All under 100k and literally none of the well known great stories will appear, nothing from QQ, SB or SV, only random short and abandoned AO3 and FFNET fics.

 

[Spearow]

Now that i think about it, Ned was not supposed to be lord stark, he was bellow his father and his brother, his brother was the one trained to rule, the one that knew all the lore and secrets, Ned did not learn much from his father, now that neither the lord stark and his heir did not got burned alive the north will be much more prosperous, and while ned had the good pr of being honorable due to fat king robert repeating that non stop, having an actual competent king ruling the north can change many things in the balance of power.
I doubt lyana will have the opportunity to run away with her oldest brother and father alive, it will be true divine intervention for Jon Snow to be born on this timeline.

 

[Fellow Human]

I'mma pretend OP continued updating here.

Jaime needs to have a personal chat with Rhagar to cancel the disastrous bethrothal with Cersei, and instead ask for a bunch of smaller but more valuable favours.

Small Council needs to be expanded and Lannisters could use any of the current or additional seats.
Education might be too early to require a seat, but in a few years...
Jaime could take one, perhaps Law, though it would time vamp him from improving Westerlands and reinventions.

 

[Daario]

​

---

JAIME​

---

The wooden carriage wheels creaked softly as it stopped in the courtyard of the Red Keep. The door opened, and Jaime Lannister stepped out, followed by Uncle Tygett. Cersei was in a different carriage behind them, keeping a polite distance.

Jaime narrowed his eyes, shielding them from the glare of the sun. King's Landing was very different from the last time he set foot here.

It was sunny today, so sunny it felt improper. The sun shone brightly in a flawless blue sky, as if mocking the grief that should have shrouded the city. A gentle breeze blew from Blackwater Bay, carrying the fresh scent of salt and leaves from the green trees in the gardens, not the stench of filth that usually stung. The air was so fresh that it made anyone who breathed it want to pause for a moment to appreciate nature's beauty.

But that beauty felt like a cracked mask. They, the gathered nobles, seemed out of place with nature's mood today.

The castle courtyard was filled with somber colors. There were many banners with various House sigils from different regions across Westeros flapping listlessly, Arryn, Tully, Tyrell. Yet above them all, the three-headed dragon banner of the Targaryens flew at half-mast, adorned with black ribbons as a sign of mourning.

Horses lined up, their steps steady as they were led by servants to be fed and stabled. The animals snorted and creaked under the weight of the long journey, yet remained obedient, unaware that their masters were holding their breath in tension.

Other people looked very exhausted from their journey. Jaime saw Lord Cockshaw of the Reach dismount with difficulty. The old man looked gloomy, his short white hair ruffled by the wind, his shoulders stooped as if he carried the weight of the world. He had no desire to be here; his eyes implied a longing for a warm bed, not court intrigue.

The others were no better. Their faces were tense, their eyes wary. They knew they were not here to feast, but for the King's funeral which would be held in three days. And after that, they had to bow their heads to Rhaegar Targaryen on the day of his coronation as King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jaime scratched his forehead slowly, tidying his windblown golden hair. His first thought was to see Father immediately, but realizing that Tywin Lannister must be drowning in preparations for the transition of power, he decided to postpone it.

He walked slowly toward the guest wing, his mind spinning.

This was a completely absurd development. Even in his wildest scenarios as Steven, he never expected that Aerys would die this quickly, and in such a... pathetic way. Jaime knew he had changed many things in this world compared to the original story. Paper, compasses, schools. But Aerys's death? That was the biggest deviation.

At least, Jaime thought, this was not a bad thing. The Mad King would never exist. That meant no one would burn a Stark alive. No abduction of Lyanna. No Robert's Rebellion to destroy the kingdom. Civil war might have been prevented.

However, the downside was that he did not know what happened with the future now. The roadmap he remembered from TV had been burned to ash. The entirety had changed drastically.

At the same time, it also calmed him. It meant he was free. He carried no burden of canon destiny anymore other than the existential threat far in the North: the White Walkers.

And would Dragons truly return? In the original story, dragons were born from Drogo's funeral pyre and blood sacrifice. Here? Daenerys was not there. The dragon eggs were also on a different continent.

But, there was still dragonglass or obsidian on Dragonstone. That could handle them, though this would depend on human military strength in the end. Fortunately, that was still a very long time before it happened, there were still decades, so he had time to prepare,

"Your room, My Lord."

The servant's voice broke his reverie. They were led to their respective guest rooms. Jaime's room was quite spacious, with thick rugs and a window facing the sea. The bed was large with silk sheets, everything high quality.

Jaime placed his belongings on the table. Before long, a servant knocked and brought a silver tray containing drinks, water, Arbor wine, and a plate containing lemon cakes and nuts.

He sat and drank the water slowly, enjoying the cold sensation washing over his dry throat. It was refreshing. But he did not touch the cakes there. He felt no appetite for sweet foods amidst an atmosphere that felt like a held-back storm.

...

"Can you tell me what happened in more detail, Father?"

Night had replaced day quickly, bringing with it a cold wind from the bay. In the private dining room of the Tower of the Hand, the Lannister family gathered. Jaime, Tywin, Tygett, and Cersei sat quietly at the same table, a perfect happy family table, if the family was viewed only from a distance.

Candles were lit on the walls and chandeliers, so the room was very bright, banishing shadows. On the table, dishes were served that could make commoners weep: whole roasted chicken glazed with honey and spices until the skin was glistening brown, river fish fried crisp with butter and almonds, and wild boar sausages rich in aroma.

Everything there looked tempting, but the Lannisters ate with practiced efficiency. They only took enough, took small bites, chewed slowly, and swallowed without unnecessary sound. Food was merely fuel for their brains.

Tywin stared at his son from the end of the table. Those pale green eyes were sharp, flaying. Before, that gaze made Jaime a little uncomfortable. But now? Jaime returned the gaze casually, while cutting his chicken. After years of facing those eyes, he received no intimidation effect whatsoever. No fear, no hesitation. Only the ordinary respect he gave to his father.

Tywin put down his knife, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.

"As you know, we were cornered when we were in Duskendale," Tywin began, his voice calm and heavy, filling the room. "With the king as a hostage inside a closed fortress, we could do nothing but wait. My plan was to play that game, a passive siege. Block all food supplies, let them starve, and wait for Darklyn to make a mistake."

Tywin took his glass, swirling it slowly. "But at one point, Denys Darklyn turned out to be bolder, or perhaps foolish, the difference was invisible. He started sending body parts. A finger, sent via raven, fell right in front of Rhaegar."

Cutting his steak slowly, Tygett glanced at his brother, his voice low and hoarse. "And I heard he accused you of burning his stables and granaries?"

Jaime stopped chewing. Yes, that was it. Jaime looked at his father. He knew very clearly that Tywin hated Aerys. So the fact that Tywin might have ordered the burning to provoke the situation... that was very possible. Though it was a high-risk action. If a hired hand was caught by the Prince's followers and confessed, it could be a deadly boomerang.

But then again, Tywin was Tywin. If that happened, he could easily deny it, saying that the confession was false, bought by enemies to divide the alliance of the Hand and the Prince.

"Only a fool does that openly, and even more foolish is he who believes the accusations of a cornered madman," Tywin snorted, his tone dismissive. His face showed not a shred of guilt. "I have no interest whatsoever in doing so recklessly. Aerys's safety is the main thing in the eyes of the public. That is why I was always waiting for the right moment to find an opening."

A diplomatic answer. Neither denying nor admitting, only calling it foolish. Jaime smiled faintly.

"And the rescue was thwarted by foolish heroism," Cersei added.

The girl sat straight, slicing her sausage with precision. She put the piece in her mouth, chewed, then smiled thinly, a cold smile. "Barristan Selmy has earned a new nickname among the court ladies. Barristan the Fool. Isn't that interesting? From The Bold to The Fool."

"Very fitting for him," Tywin agreed, drinking water from his cup. "He was so very stubborn. For days he wanted to act as a lone hero, whining like a baby not getting milk because I held him back. In the end, that man's stubbornness won. He snuck in, and led him to his own death. And of course, he also took the King with him to hell."

"A great pity..." Tygett stared at his plate, shaking his head. There was a tone of warrior's respect in his voice that Tywin or Cersei did not possess. "As a knight, he had extraordinary skill. He should have been able to think clearly and be an example to others. As a Kingsguard, his position was highly respected. Dying like a rat in a dark tunnel... that is not a fitting end."

"Arrogance was what ate him," Cersei said sharply.

Jaime laughed inwardly, feeling it very ironic that his sister could think like that. Looking back at the original story, and a few years ago, it was Cersei who was so arrogant she could not accept other people's opinions. Now? She analyzed other people's failures coldly. She was better at keeping her emotions, and bit by bit developing for the better thanks to Jaime's 'lessons', though occasionally her bad nature would still slip to the surface.

Tywin swallowed his food. "It was a fitting repayment for his pretentious behavior. He valued himself too highly, and underestimated the enemy. The lust to be a savior truly blinded him. Instead, death was a cheaper price for him. If he had lived after failing to save the King, he would have faced many people wanting him burned on charges of negligence."

Indeed, Jaime thought. He admired Barristan's loyalty, but here, his actions were a disaster.

"How is Rhaegar?" Jaime finally asked, his voice breaking the analysis of the death.

He hadn't met the man in a very long time. They still often exchanged letters about music and poetry, but that was all. Cersei and Tywin immediately glanced at him. This topic was one that caught the attention of everyone at the table. The New King was prey for each of these lions.

Tywin took a breath for a moment, so subtle, that even Jaime only just realized it. "He is grieving deeply."

Of course he was grieving deeply. Jaime knew Rhaegar. He was a melancholic person who loved his family, at least this version he knew now. Jaime at that time could see a ray of light when Rhaegar told stories about his mother and father, even though at that time his father had already turned a bit short-tempered.

Now, with his father dying while at that time they were only a few dozen meters apart... guilt must be eating him. He must feel useless. That was a heavy blow that could not be underestimated. Coupled with the upcoming coronation as king, this would be a very hard year for the man's soul.

"I will try to speak with him when there is a chance," Jaime said while nodding.

"Yes," Tywin answered quickly. "Of course you must see him."

Jaime raised an eyebrow.

His father continued, his voice full of calculation. "You are his good 'friend'. He will need your support. At this moment he only leans on Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington. They are loyal, but stiff. They do not share the same interests as you do with him, music, stories, new ideas. You are the one who understands that side of him best, Jaime. He will be very pleased to speak with you again."

Tywin stared at Jaime sharply. "Use that."

Tywin was not a person who would let Jaime do something in vain. This statement was very clear: Control him through friendship. Tywin was worried his position and plans would be threatened due to the arrival of many other Lords to King's Landing for the funeral. They could whisper like snakes clinging to the Prince's ear, trying to shift Lannister influence. Tywin needed Jaime to be the counterbalance.

"I will try, Father. Hopefully my rambling will amuse him," Jaime replied with a slightly cynical tone that only he understood.

Tywin ignored the tone. He then looked into Jaime's eyes, the topic shifting to business. "I heard you made a device called a 'compass'?"

Jaime nodded casually, taking a piece of chicken. "Yes. I made a few. Uncle Kevan and I already tested them in the sea of Lannisport and it works quite well. At least now we don't need to fear getting lost as long as we know how to read it."

"Good," said Tywin. "Keep it. Do not let this be allowed to spread to our competitors. Our trade and military superiority will depend on it."

"That would be quite difficult," Cersei suddenly spoke.

Jaime stopped chewing for a moment, looking at his twin.

"Compasses were indeed given to ten skilled captains chosen by Uncle Kevan himself," Cersei continued, her voice analytical. "However those captains will go traversing the vast ocean. There are quite a few pirates, also Ironborn. Surely some of them will face bad luck, their ships wrecked or robbed. And that compass will certainly change hands, sooner or later. A small object like that is easy to steal."

Jaime already knew this, of course. No secret is eternal. However he did not expect it would be Cersei who would say it before him. He underestimated how the girl had grown in her strategic understanding.

"As Cersei said," Jaime agreed.

Tywin put down his fork, speaking. "They might get one of them, yes, but they will never be able to make it, you are still keeping this a secret right, Jaime?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "I told no one the manufacturing process, except perhaps Uncle Kevan and Jon, the latter is not very interested and I only gave nonsense in passing."

"Jon will do nothing, he is loyal," Tygett said that. Somehow his uncle defended Jaime's guard suddenly.

"I am quite sure," Tywin snorted. And dinner passed in continuous small conversation until finally finishing in order.

---

Feels like I'm writing a prologue again, lol

 

[Daario]

JAIME​

---

The sun had not yet fully revealed its light, but the sky above King's Landing had transformed into a mesmerizing canvas. Deep purple slowly faded, mingling with soft sweeps of orange in the east, signaling a shy dawn. The morning air bit at the skin, cold and damp, carrying the salty scent of the sea.

Jaime Lannister walked through the Red Keep's inner garden, his footsteps light on the stone path. Around him, morning dew still sat on every leaf of the vines and the petals of unbloomed roses, glittering like fragile little jewels. He touched one of the leaves as he passed, feeling the cold water on his fingertip, a tangible sensation that helped him banish the remnants of sleep.

His eyes still felt heavy, his eyelids fighting against drowsiness. His body, though young and strong, protested at being woken before its time. However, Steven's mind within him knew that discipline was key. He could not let himself be lulled by the luxury of a featherbed, not when the world around him was in the midst of great change.

Though dawn was just breaking, the Red Keep was already awake. This castle never truly slept, especially now, approaching the King's funeral and the coronation of his successor.

Jaime passed through the busy stone corridors. Servants hurried here and there like hardworking ants. They carried stacks of linen sheets that looked soft and pure white, thick velvet blankets to replace dirty ones, as well as silver trays containing breakfast, warm bread with steam rising in the cold air, slices of fresh fruit, and pitchers of watered-down wine.

They walked with practiced caution, their eyes fixed on the floor or straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with any nobles who might pass. However, Jaime could see the exhaustion clearly etched on their faces. Dark circles under the eyes, shoulders slightly hunched, and dragging steps. The death of a King meant not only grief for the kingdom, but also endless hard work for those who served behind the scenes. Black mourning cloth had to be installed in every window, dust had to be cleaned doubly so, and food had to be prepared for the hundreds of highborn guests flooding the capital.

Jaime gave way to a serving girl carrying a stack of towels, who looked startled and almost dropped her load upon seeing a Lannister step aside for her. Jaime just gave her a thin smile and continued his stride.

He arrived at the training yard. The place was still quiet, there were only a few guards changing shifts in the distance, yawning widely. The ground in the yard was packed and sandy, the perfect place to spill sweat.

Jaime ignored the bone-chilling cold of the air. He walked towards the weapon rack, taking a heavy wooden practice sword. The wood was old, full of scratches from thousands of previous blows, yet the hilt felt familiar and comfortable in his palm.

He began to warm up. Movements rotating his shoulders, stretching his arms, feeling his stiff muscles start to loosen. Jaime Lannister's body was a biological miracle, Steven thought. In his old life, he had to struggle hard just to stay fit. Here, this body responded to every exercise with rapid muscle growth and sharp reflexes. This was a body created for war.

He stepped closer to the straw dummy standing mute in the center of the yard.

Hup.

He swung his sword. Wood clashed with dense straw.

Jaime struck again. And again. He did not do it with complex technique or full speed. He was not trying to show off his skills to the morning ghosts. This was just morning exercise, a ritual to wake his blood. A horizontal strike to the ribs. An upward parry. A thrust to the neck.

His movements were fluid, repetitive, and meditative.

His final blow was hard, making the straw dummy spin on its axis.

Jaime took a step back, his breath hitching slightly. A thin sweat began to coat his forehead and neck, a warm layer protecting him from the morning air. He wiped his face with his sleeve, feeling his strong pulse in his neck. His energy was drained a little, but his mind was clear.

He put the practice sword back on the rack. Then he walked again, this time towards the inside of the castle. Then he saw someone.

Arthur Dayne.

The Sword of the Morning looked... fine, at least physically. His body was sturdy, his posture perfect like an illustration of a knight in a storybook. An aura of quiet confidence radiated from him, a natural charisma that made people want to follow him into battle. However, Jaime, who had learned to read people better than reading books, saw fine cracks there.

Arthur's face had become more serious than the last time they met. There was a slight furrow in the center of his forehead, parallel to his brows, the sign of someone who frowned too much or thought too much. His eyes, though sharp, looked tired.

He wore white armor that gleamed clean, polished to brilliance, and a white cloak that fell neatly on his shoulders. Arthur was walking, seemingly about to enter the castle, perhaps to start his watch shift or having just finished it.

Jaime did not call him. He just stood there, leaning casually against a pillar. Waiting for the person to realize his presence.

A few seconds later, Arthur's eyes shifted. His gaze swept the yard, then stopped on Jaime's figure.

There was a moment of recognition. The tension in Arthur's shoulders lowered slightly. The corners of his stiff lips slowly formed an upward curve, a smile that was genuine though small. He changed the direction of his steps, walking faster towards Jaime.

"You look like a child lost in a crowd, standing alone here," Arthur greeted, his voice deep and warm. "When did you arrive?"

"A week ago," Jaime replied with a light joking tone. "I am disappointed that you guys did not notice. Joking. I just arrived yesterday. I spent more time in the bedchamber, passing out from exhaustion due to the journey."

Arthur nodded, accepting the explanation. He then took a step back, looking Jaime up and down with the assessing gaze of a veteran soldier.

"You are growing quite fast, apparently," Arthur commented, there was a tone of admiration in his voice. "What have you been eating these years at Casterly Rock? Gold?"

Jaime chuckled. "Maybe a cow every day? Who knows? The cooks at Casterly Rock are very enthusiastic." He straightened his body, trying to stand as tall as possible. "What is clear, I might surpass your current height in another year. And when that happens, I will call you 'Short Arthur'."

"Daydreaming is not good, Lad," Arthur snorted with amusement, shaking his head. "Height does not guarantee victory. But even if that happens, I will still kick your arse in the training yard anytime. Technique beats size."

"Well, about that I have no doubt," Jaime admitted with a laugh. "Dawn has a cheating reach."

Their laughter subsided, leaving a comfortable silence between two people who respected each other. Arthur gestured with his head.

"Come with me. We cannot talk in the middle of an open field."

They began walking side by side, towards the interior of the castle. They passed several servants and courtiers who bowed respectfully upon seeing the white cloak of the Kingsguard. Arthur's armor jingled softly, a constant metallic rhythm.

As they entered a quieter area, Arthur asked with a tone that sounded light but Jaime knew was serious. "Have you met Rhaegar?"

"No," Jaime answered honestly. "Besides my family, my father who is busy arranging the kingdom, you are the only one I know whom I have just met this morning." He turned to the side, looking at Arthur's face. "How is he?"

Arthur's pace did not slow, but his shoulders tensed. He let out a long sigh, a sound that sounded heavy.

"Physically healthy," Arthur replied. "He was not injured in Duskendale. But mentally?" Arthur shook his head slowly. "He is a mess, Jaime. A real mess."

Jaime was silent, letting Arthur continue.

"He has not smiled for these few months. Not once," Arthur continued, his voice lowering. "Since that incident... since he saw his father's corpse... he withdrew. He does his duty, yes. He signs documents, he plans the funeral, he meets the Small Council. But his eyes are empty. His mourning period has not passed, and I doubt it will happen anytime soon. Guilt is eating him alive."

"Losing someone precious would make anyone like that," Jaime said quietly.

His mind drifted for a moment. Jaime, or rather Steven, remembered the original memories of this body. The memory of Joanna Lannister. His mother's death. The memory of a small child losing his world was still imprinted on Jaime's brain, sharp and painful, even though Steven himself did not feel the same emotional grief because he never really knew the woman. But he remembered the emptiness little Jaime felt. He remembered how Tywin turned to stone.

"I have experienced it too," added Jaime. "Grief is like a fog. You can get lost inside it."

"True," Arthur agreed. "But Rhaegar is not just a son who lost a father. He is the King who will be crowned. And the kingdom... the kingdom cannot wait for him continuously like this."

They began to climb the wide stone stairs.

"The Lords have gathered," Arthur said, a tone of frustration starting to leak into his voice. "They are like vultures. They smell blood and weakness. They will not care whether Rhaegar is still mourning or not, they demand attention, decisions, and favoritism. Rhaegar must do his duty, or they will start eating each other."

Jaime looked at the hall they entered. On the walls hung portraits of past kings, oil-painted eyes staring at them arrogantly.

"Therefore," Jaime said, formulating his thoughts, "I think he must voice his thoughts more. He cannot keep everything to himself. He must ask for other people's opinions, discuss, argue. About kingdom matters, of course, but also about what he feels. Isolation is the worst enemy for a grieving person."

Arthur snorted roughly. "Many people have tried. Even Lord Commander Gerold tried giving him military advice to distract him."

Then Arthur turned to Jaime with a serious look.

"But as you probably know, and as you see yourself in this court... there are many people who care more about themselves. They do not want to help Rhaegar; they want to control Rhaegar. They want to be the voice in the new King's ear. Rhaegar knows that. That is why he closed himself off. He does not trust anyone."

"Except you," Jaime said.

"Except me," Arthur admitted. "And maybe Jon Connington. But we are soldiers, Jaime. We can protect him from swords, but we cannot protect him from his own thoughts. We do not understand his music, his books, or his complicated sadness."

They arrived at a long, heavily guarded corridor. At the end of the corridor was a large double wooden door. The Prince's room. Or now, the King's room.

Arthur stopped in front of the door. He turned to face Jaime fully.

"That is why I am glad you are here," Arthur said, his voice sincere. "You are different, Jaime. You understand that side of him. The artistic side, the feeling side. He needs a friend who can talk about things other than taxes and war. He needs someone who can remind him that there is still beauty in this world."

Jaime felt the burden of that responsibility. He was not a psychiatrist, but he had been a teacher. He knew how to handle children, and a few troubled adults.

"I will try, Arthur," Jaime said. "I do not promise miracles, but I will try to make him talk."

"That is already more than enough."

Arthur turned to face the door. Ignoring the other guards. He raised his hand encased in a steel gauntlet, then knocked on the thick wood with his knuckles.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound of the knock echoed in the silent corridor, a request to enter the fortress of grief.

The two of them entered the room which smelled of fragrant flowers, inside it was very tidy, and the faintly shimmering morning light, making it suitable to be a moment for a painting that would hang on the wall. Arthur walked first preceding Jaime, they walked a few steps before finding Rhaegar sitting on a sofa, on the table, there was a lot of food and also fragrant tea.

The Prince raised an eyebrow upon seeing Jaime, then smiled, although his eyes were a little tired, he stood up, opened his arms and embraced Jaime. Jaime was certainly a little surprised, but returned it and patted the Prince's shoulder gently a few times. When they separated, there, Rhaegar smiled.

"You've grown quite tall."

…

AN: Well, this is a relaxed chapter, we will build the foundation first as usual :'p

 

[Spearow]

oh wow, you made a cool image with the mc and the king side by side, very cool, shame the image is broken, it looks cool

 

[Daario]

JAIME | ROBERT​

---

"You've grown quite tall." Rhaegar grinned, a glint dancing in his eyes.

Jaime shrugged, a gesture perhaps lacking in courtesy before a Crown Prince, or rather, the new King. Yet in this moment, within these lavender-scented chambers, they were but old friends long parted.

"Arthur said much the same. You too look older, Your Grace."

The words slipped out easily enough, yet Jaime's mind outpaced his tongue. Of course he looks older, Jaime thought. The weight of the Iron Throne had scarce just fallen upon his brow. The Rhaegar before him was no longer merely the melancholy Dragon Prince with his silver harp; he was the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

Laughing, a sound melodious yet weary, Rhaegar patted Jaime upon the shoulder. "You have a glib tongue. With your height and your bearing, one might mistake you for something other than a lad of ten-and-one name days."

Rhaegar's touch was warm, human. He released him, glancing at Arthur who stood rigid as a statue by the window. "Come, sit. I feel a discourteous host for not offering it sooner."

They moved towards the velvet settees that circled a low table. The chamber was bathed in soft sunlight, a stark contrast to the shadow of death that hung over the Red Keep.

"How do you fare?" Rhaegar asked as they took their seats.

With a graceful wave of his hand, he bade a serving girl, young and nervous, to pour for them. The scent of soothing herbal tea wafted up, displacing the smell of steel and road dust that seemed to cling to Jaime still.

"Well. Hale and hearty." Jaime smiled, a smile practised to seem sincere whilst maintaining a respectful distance. "As you know, I squire for Ser Tygett now. He is a fine knight, and teaches me much."

Jaime sipped his tea. Hot, and bitter. Tygett Lannister was a hard uncle, a man who believed pain to be the best teacher. Yet for Jaime, the lessons were potent; he had felt the proof of them already.

"Like scouring armour and grooming horses?" Rhaegar chuckled, the clink of his teacup mingling with his soft laughter. There was a touch of nostalgia there, as if Rhaegar yearned for days when his heaviest burden was but rust upon a breastplate.

"Like scouring armour and grooming horses," Jaime confirmed with a feigned flatness, then lowered his voice, allowing the air to grow grave. He set down his cup slowly. Drawing a breath, he looked directly into Rhaegar's indigo eyes. "I... I grieve for what has passed, Your Grace."

Silence.

The chamber grew still, as if the very air held its breath. The song of birds beyond the window seemed distant. Arthur, cup in hand, paused, his sharp eyes fixing upon Jaime for a heartbeat before returning to Rhaegar.

Rhaegar smiled, a brittle thing. It was the smile of a man seeking to convince himself that all was well. Then the corners of his lips lifted further, though his eyes remained shadowed.

"Such events are unforeseen, are they not? So sudden. Though we suspected something amiss with Darklyn and his insolence in refusing the taxes, yet what came to pass... Father's death... that was beyond all reckoning."

Jaime nodded slowly, tapping a finger against the back of his left hand.

Aye, beyond all reckoning indeed, Jaime thought. In the true course of time, Aerys should have survived the Defiance of Duskendale. He should have been rescued by Barristan Selmy, returned to King's Landing, to grow madder, paranoid, and finally to burn men alive with wildfire.

"Aye, the King is gone. That cannot be undone." Jaime looked at him, ensuring his voice was firm and filled with empathy. "But we can make the days to come better. His legacy rests with you now, Your Grace."

It is the realm I speak of, Jaime thought loudly in his head, praying that Rhaegar had not inherited the taint. Please, be a sane Rhaegar. Be the King the people have yearned for.

Jaime watched Rhaegar, searching for signs of the taint. But all he saw was the sorrow of a son.

Sighing long, Rhaegar leaned back against the settee. He seemed younger as the burden lifted a trifle through plain speaking. He laughed softly, a sound brittle yet resolved.

"Aye, I shall honour my father in my own fashion. I shall ensure that what comes from him, what comes from this throne henceforth, is good. I cannot let the shadow of his death haunt me for all time."

Rhaegar's fingers drummed absently upon the table, as if plucking the strings of an unseen harp.

"That is the spirit," Arthur said suddenly from beside them, smiling. The voice of the Sword of the Morning was deep and soothing, an anchor for Rhaegar's tumultuous emotions. Arthur set down his cup and gazed at his friend and King with a look of unwavering loyalty. "And you have us, Rhaegar. You shall not build that future alone."

"The realm has need of healing," Jaime added, emboldened. "And I deem the smallfolk would sooner see their King smile than see him mourn the past within these stone walls."

Rhaegar looked at Jaime, his gaze softening. "You speak true, Jaime. You speak true." ...

...

Robert Baratheon slumped on the too-soft velvet sofa in the parlor of the House Arryn guest residence. He swirled his silver goblet in frustration. He was a simple man, with simple desires: abundant good food, sweet wine that could make him forget his own name, and most important of all, beautiful women with crisp laughter.

But at this moment, in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, he could enjoy none of those pleasures.

Jon Arryn, that dull old man, had delivered a lengthy sermon this morning. "It would be highly disrespectful to visit a brothel while the realm is still in mourning, Robert," he had said in a fatherly tone that made Robert's ears ring. "We are here to attend the King's funeral, not to sate your lusts."

Robert could only roll his eyes inwardly at it all. He didn't even want to be here! By the Seven, the air in this city was thick with sticky despair and a suffocating gloom, exceeding even the long face of Ned Stark, who currently sat silently beside him like an ice statue from the North.

He did not know the king. He had certainly met him when he was very small, when his father, Lord Steffon, brought him to court. But Robert remembered nothing but the shadow of a silver-haired man laughing too loudly. He knew the stories, of course. Robert knew that his father had been best friends with King Aerys and Tywin Lannister when the three of them were still cute little boys. An inseparable trio.

But the friendships of the past did not make the boredom of the present any more bearable. It was still infuriating to know that he could not do what he wanted, even though the brothels were only a few feet away, calling his name with promises of warmth.

Robert sighed, a sound more like the grunt of a hungry bear. He downed his wine once more, letting the acidic liquid burn his throat.

In the room, Jon Arryn was reading a scroll with a furrowed brow. Eddard Stark sat upright, his hands folded, his eyes staring blankly at the unlit fireplace. Elbert Arryn, Jon's nephew, was not there. The poor lad had been languishing in the privy since morning because he had eaten stale clams or some such thing at the harbor. His stomach had been rumbling all day like a toad in mating season. Pity him, having such a weak stomach. Robert could eat iron and drink poison without issue.

"How long are we going to sit still like this? It's stifling!" Robert slammed his goblet onto the table furiously, making the wine splash a little.

"You just have to be patient, Robert," Ned said quietly. On his gloomy face, Robert could see a hint of amusement, an expression that made him want to punch this Stark boy. "Besides, this is good for you. You can use this time to train with the knights in the yard."

"I've done that," Robert grumbled, ignoring the awkwardness. "They are embarrassing. Claiming to be knights, yet possessing not a shred of strength. Yesterday, I recall I used only a little force when swinging a blunt sword, and one of them was pushed back several steps and fell into the mud. Annoying. They fight like dancers, not warriors."

"Do not cause unnecessary trouble, Robert. Control yourself when in public territory," Jon Arryn warned without lifting his face from the letter, his voice calm but firm as if he were speaking to a naughty child.

"Trouble would be better than watching the mutes out there..." Robert muttered softly, staring out the window.

Aye, mutes. In the streets, in the corridors, in the markets. They whispered from ear to ear about Duskendale, yet no one dared say it aloud.

The King is dead. Rhaegar is too soft.

That is what they said. Indeed, if one thought about it, why did Rhaegar only hang the people who killed his father? Denys Darklyn and his mad wife died quickly. Too quickly. If it were Robert... if it were Robert whose father was mutilated and left to die in such an unforgivable way, he would not have given them a clean death. He would have mutilated them finger by finger, burned them slowly, and ensured their screams were heard all the way to Storm's End!

The Darklyn family was finished. The children of the House associated with the rebellion had been sent to the Wall or handed over to the Silent Sisters. This was actually something Robert wouldn't even be angry about. He was hard, but he wasn't a monster. Killing children who understood nothing was a very cruel act, even for him. No need to add useless fuel to the fire of hatred any further.

"People are whispering outside, you know?" Robert frowned, twirling his empty goblet. "Rhaegar this, Rhaegar that. They all seem to have nothing more important to talk about than how sad Rhaegar is."

"It is natural," Jon said finally, putting down his letter. He looked at Robert and Ned with the gaze of a weary man. "A situation like this is very shaking for the realm. The final result was very unexpected. When the initial news that the King was held by Darklyn reached my ears, I was very sure that the King would remain alive. Because there was no way Darklyn would dare kill him."

"Darklyn indeed didn't kill him in the end," Robert chuckled cynically. "Barristan the Fool did it. The foolish hero who wanted to be a legend."

"And that resulted in the total destruction of the Dun Fort," Ned nodded in agreement. "Duskendale now has no Lord. The land is scorched."

"Who would want to lead a destroyed and cursed land?" snorted Robert.

"The Dun Fort is indeed in ruins, but the town of Duskendale isn't quite destroyed. The harbor is still intact, the outskirts of the town still remain and are populated. That is what I heard," Ned corrected. Of course, he always corrected. Starks and their cold facts. Damn it.

"That is why Prince Rhaegar is said to be too soft by some," Jon sighed, leaning his back. "He destroyed his Lord's family, but he let the town live. And you know what happens if we have a king who is considered too soft at the start of his reign?"

"It means the King will be weak," Robert answered quickly, refilling his own goblet. "And the lords will try to bite him."

"Aye. And a weak King will always be consumed by whispers entering through his ears," Jon explained. "There are many now doing just that. They try to speak with Rhaegar, slipping in false sympathy. Especially when they all know that Rhaegar is unmarried. They try to offer their daughters." Jon laughed lightly, a dry laugh. "Also, Queen Rhaella. She cannot be overlooked of course. The Dowager Queen will have great influence."

Ned scratched his dull brown hair, looking deep in thought. "But everything they do will be in vain, will it not? People here must already be aware. The Hand of the King... Tywin Lannister must have offered his own daughter to the Prince long ago. And now that King Aerys is gone, who can stop him?"

"But there is no harm in trying." Jon tapped his finger on the wooden table. "Everyone has a chance in this matter. Those whispers will play their part even if only a little, perhaps able to influence the Prince if done continuously. People have feared House Lannister growing too strong lately. They see Tywin as a shadow too large for the new King. They will try to stop him; they already know what Tywin Lannister's reputation is like."

"I heard that the Lannisters made a 'school' for children in Lannisport," Ned added, his face full of curiosity. "It raised many eyebrows, though they quite didn't care. Except maybe the Citadel. The Citadel does not like it if they are not the only place of learning in existence."

"It's just for children, Ned. Learning to count coins. They need not worry," Robert shrugged, not understanding why people made a fuss about trivial things like schools. What mattered were swords and courage, not books.

Jon shook his head, his face serious. "Do not underestimate it, Robert. Right now it is indeed just for children. But later? It is not impossible they will create something the same as the Citadel. The Lannisters have unlimited resources. Their gold can buy teachers, books, and buildings. Whether it be a few years, or decades from now, it will happen. A new center of knowledge in the West."

"Aye," Ned agreed again. "Jaime Lannister is the one behind all this. I heard he started it. The Gods know where a child our age got the idea about making paper and that printing press. It is not impossible that in the future he will create something else, something never thought of by the Maesters for thousands of years. It creates cracks in the people's belief who have all this time thought that the Citadel is the only source of truth."

"He got it from the Seven," Robert whispered dramatically, mimicking the gossip he heard in the taverns. Then realizing Jon and Ned were looking at him with a 'you fool' look, he coughed. "I mean, the people here say that! The smallfolk! Did you not see that the first thing printed by him was The Seven-Pointed Star?! The holy book!"

Jon shook his head again. "That is the most probable action to be taken by anyone intelligent who first created such a tool. Jaime Lannister... he is no prophet. He is strategic. He aims for support from the Faith. It will increase the support he receives and become a shield if he is rejected or attacked by the Citadel. Who would dare forbid the one printing the words of the Gods?"

"Still, it doesn't stop some people from calling him a 'prodigy'," Robert snorted, feeling a bit envious. People talked more about that Lannister boy than about him.

Damn, he was dizzy with this conversation. Politics, schools, printing presses, marriage strategies. It all made him sick. He came here to see the world, not to sit inside a room and argue like old maesters.

Robert drank more of his wine in several large gulps. One. Two. Three.

Warmth spread through his belly, blurring his boredom slightly. He felt refreshed again. He filled his goblet more, until it almost spilled, and drank it in one draft.

"I want to go out," Robert said flatly.

He stood up, his muscles stretching under his thick tunic. He felt a bit stiff in his back and legs from sitting too long on that too-soft sofa. The sofa might be comfortable for Jon Arryn's old arse or Ned Stark's skinny arse, but for Robert, it was like a trap slowly swallowing him.

"When will your family arrive, Ned?" asked Robert while cracking his neck until it popped. "They will miss the funeral. Even though we will only be burying ashes. But still, it is the main event."

Ned lifted his face, his expression calm like a frozen lake. "The North is very far, Robert. The roads are hard to pass during the rainy season. What is certain is they will be here when the coronation ceremony begins. My father would not miss swearing fealty to the new King."

"Good," muttered Robert. "At least there will be more faces that don't look like they've just swallowed a lemon."

He stepped towards the door, his hands already itching to hold something real, horse reins, a sword hilt, or at least a door handle.

"Where are you going?" asked Ned.

"To see my brother," Robert answered, half-lying. "I prefer listening to Stannis grumble about duty and obligation than talking about marriage politics and these children's schools. At least Stannis is consistent."

He snorted softly. Thinking about it again, Stannis never really rambled. He was as serious as Eddard Stark, perhaps even worse because he didn't have the brotherly warmth Ned had. Stannis was old, rusted iron, hard and stiff. But at least, if both their parents were here, Stannis wouldn't dare talk about things that made Robert's head hurt. He would just stand there and grind his teeth. That was better than in this room.

Robert didn't wait for their answer. He immediately went out of the room, slamming the door softly behind him.

The corridors of the Red Keep were crowded as usual, but Robert walked with wide strides, making the servants and lowly guards step aside quickly. He was bored of looking at stone walls. He needed air. He needed the smell of horse dung and sweat.

His feet carried him to the outer yard, near the royal stables.

The sun had started to descend, yet the heat still felt like it was baking the dust in the yard. There, activity never stopped. Dozens of horses belonging to guest lords were being tended to. Some were brushed, some fed, some had their shoes changed.

Robert stood at the edge, observing with arms crossed.

Then his eyes caught something else.

There, standing near the wooden fence, was a boy with golden blonde hair. He wore a deep red tunic that was stitched very well, brown leather breeches, and boots that looked expensive yet functional. A small gold lion pin was pinned on his chest, glittering, reflecting the sunlight.

Lannister. That was certain. That hair, those clothes, that quiet arrogance. And if Robert's guess was right, that might be Jaime Lannister, whom Jon and Ned had just discussed.

The boy stood still, completely still, amidst the hustle and bustle of the yard. He wasn't playing at swords with other squires. He wasn't flirting with serving girls. He just stood, his eyes fixed on the scene before him.

Robert frowned. What was he looking at? Horses? Robert followed the direction of the boy's gaze.

In front there, an old horse was being brushed by a scrawny stable boy. The horse was rickety, its coat dull, and one of its legs looked lame. Nothing special.

Robert forgot his intention to look for Stannis. His curiosity, and a bit of annoyance at the Lannister boy's stillness, took over. He strode over to the boy who was shorter than him. His large shadow covered the boy.

"As far as I know, old horses aren't interesting to look at," Robert's voice boomed, deliberately made loud to startle. "Why are you so serious, lad? You look like a Maester examining dragon dung."

Jaime Lannister did not jump. He was not startled. He just turned his head slowly, his face calm, as if he had known Robert was there all along. His green eyes were clear, showing not a shred of fear at Robert's large frame.

"I wasn't looking at the horses," the boy replied calmly, his voice polite but not submissive.

Robert snorted, folding his arms across his chest. "Then what are you doing here? Are you mad? Standing in the middle of the smell of horse shit while daydreaming?"

The boy chuckled. A small laugh that sounded genuine, not a polite, made-up laugh. He looked at Robert again.

"No, I just have a lot on my mind, and sometimes I like to look at simple things to clear my head."

"Clearing your head by staring at rickety horses and tired people?" Robert shook his head, feeling amused and confused at the same time. "You are truly odd. If I wanted to clear my head, I would hit something or drink something. That is more effective."

Jaime smiled thinly. He looked back ahead, pointing with his chin towards the stable boy who was brushing the old horse. The boy was sweating profusely, his face dirty, yet his hands moved with a steady and patient rhythm.

"No, I wasn't watching the horses, My Lord," Jaime said. "I was watching the people. The people taking care of those horses."

Jaime pointed in another direction, where a blacksmith was fitting a horseshoe with a loud clanging hammer.

"Look at them," Jaime continued. "They must be exhausted. Guests have been arriving ceaselessly since a week ago. Thousands of horses, thousands of requests. They work from dawn till night. Their backs ache, their hands blister. But they keep trying. They do not stop. They scrub, they hammer, they feed."

"That is their job," Robert answered flatly, not understanding the point. "They are paid for it. If they stop, they don't eat."

"Exactly," Jaime nodded. He turned to Robert, extending his hand politely. "What is your name? I am Jaime Lannister."

Robert shook the boy's hand. His grip was strong for a child his age, and there were calluses on his palms, a sign that he held a sword, not just a quill. That made Robert respect him a little more.

"Robert Baratheon."

"Well, Lord Robert," said Jaime, releasing their handshake. "That is indeed their job. But do they want it? Not necessarily, right? That boy might want to be a knight. That blacksmith might want to be a sailor."

Jaime sighed softly, his eyes sweeping the busy yard again.

"But the circumstances of the world force their hand. They have no choice. A hungry belly is a cruel master. And seeing them work hard just to survive... it makes me realize."

"Realize what?" asked Robert, starting to feel like he was listening to a sermon at the sept, but strangely, he didn't feel like leaving.

"That I am lucky enough," Jaime said, his voice lowering, without a hint of arrogance. "Very lucky. I was born at Casterly Rock. You were born at Storm's End. We can do whatever we want right now. We can stand here, chatting, while they work until their bones crush. We need not worry about what to eat tomorrow. We have a choice."

Robert fell silent. He looked at the stable boy again. He had never thought of it like that. To him, commoners were... commoners. They were there, like trees or stones.

"You talk like an old man," Robert said finally, grinning lopsidedly. "Or like Jon Arryn after he's drunk too much herbal tea."

Jaime laughed again. "Maybe. Uncle Gerion says I swallowed an old book when I was a baby."

"So, you feel guilty for being rich?" asked Robert challenging.

"Not guilty," corrected Jaime. "Aware. Guilt is useless. Awareness... that is useful. If we know we are lucky, we should use that luck to do something useful, not just complain about being bored."

Those words stung Robert a little. He had just complained about being bored five minutes ago.

"And what are you doing that is 'useful', Lannister?" asked Robert, turning his discomfort into a challenge. "Making paper?"

"That is one of them," Jaime shrugged casually. "And also ensuring that if one day that stable boy has a brilliant idea, he has the chance to make it happen, not die buried in a pile of hay."

This boy... he was odd. Truly odd. He talked about the fate of commoners as if it were his business. He saw the world in a complicated way, full of layers that made Robert's head spin.

But on the other hand, there was honesty in his eyes. He wasn't trying to impress Robert. He was just... thinking.

"You're odd, Lannister," Robert said frankly, then he patted Jaime's shoulder hard enough to make the boy stumble a little. "But you're not boring. That is at least entertaining."

Jaime just smiled, rubbing his shoulder.

"Come," Robert invited suddenly, feeling thirsty again. "You talk too much. Your mouth must be dry. Accompany me to find a drink. I bet you won't refuse a glass of wine, right? Or do you only drink milk?"

 

[Daario]

oh wow, you made a cool image with the mc and the king side by side, very cool, shame the image is broken, it looks cool

Click to shrink...

Thank you. I don't know why it's broken here. AO3 and Spacebattles are works fine.

 

[Daario]

ROBERT | RHAEGAR​

---

The Great Sept of Baelor towered atop Visenya's Hill like a giant crown hewn from holiness itself. Its walls of pure white marble gleamed brilliantly under the scorching midday sun of King's Landing, reflecting a light so blinding it seemed to challenge the darkness shrouding the hearts of its inhabitants. The crystal and gold dome at its peak caught the sunlight, refracting it into an ironic rainbow amidst the atmosphere of mourning.

Beneath that architectural grandeur, a sea of people moved slowly like a river of ink. Thousands, from high lords to household knights, wore all black or somber dark colors. Black velvet, charcoal grey wool, and midnight blue silk dominated the view, creating a sharp and painful contrast against the white marble floor of the holy sept. Black and white. Life and death.

Robert Baratheon stood among them, feeling like a giant trapped in clothes that constrained him. He wore his finest black tunic, embroidered with gold thread forming the Baratheon stag. The fabric was thick and hot, yet he dared not loosen his collar.

Beside him stood Stannis, his younger brother. Stannis's face was calm, his eyes staring straight ahead without blinking. On the other side, his mother, Lady Cassana, stood gracefully with a black lace veil covering part of her face, while his father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, stood as a pillar of family strength. Little Renly, only a few months old and unable to understand the meaning of death, had been left at the Red Keep with wet nurses, for fear his cries would stain the silence of this ceremony.

This was the seventh day. The end of the official period of mourning.

In the center of the vast chamber beneath the main dome, a golden urn carved with the three-headed dragon was placed upon a marble podium surrounded by hundreds of burning candles. The ashes of King Aerys II Targaryen rested there. For seven days, that urn had been the center of the world, prayed over ceaselessly by Septons, surrounded by thick incense smoke and holy chants that echoed up to the ceiling.

People walked quietly in long lines, taking their turn to pay their final respects. Their footsteps were muffled by thick tapestries, creating a soft, hypnotic rhythm.

Robert shifted his gaze to the side, looking at his father's face. Lord Steffon was observing the ash urn with heartbreaking intensity. His father's blue eyes, usually warm and full of laughter, were now dark and very serious. There was a deep sorrow there, the grief of a man who had lost a childhood friend, a grief that transcended politics and titles. Robert knew, for his father, what was inside that urn was not just a King, but Aerys, the boy who used to play with him and Tywin Lannister, then fought alongside him in the Stepstones.

Seeing the depth of his father's grief, Robert suddenly felt a sharp pang of guilt in his chest. The feeling was cold and uncomfortable.

Just a few days ago, his mind had been filled with the desire to escape and find a whore to forget the boredom of this city. He wanted to get drunk. He wanted to laugh. While his father bore the burden of losing a best friend, Robert had only thought of ways to sate his own lusts.

Self-loathing crept up his throat. That was his greatest flaw, he realized now. He always prioritized his own pleasure. He was a slave to it. He spent his days playing at war, practicing hitting people with hammers, drinking, or simply boasting with Ned Stark.

He was shallow. In the face of this real death and grief, Robert felt small and insignificant.

His breath felt heavy. Perhaps... perhaps this was the time for him to change. He was the heir to Storm's End. One day, the burden his father carried would shift to his shoulders. If he continued to act like a boy who only knew how to satisfy himself, how could he lead men as hard as stone and storm?

He promised in his heart, a silent vow he might forget tomorrow or perhaps not, that he would try to be better. He would try to listen to the Maester's prattle about history and strategy without falling asleep. He would try to understand taxes and laws, not just how to hold a sword. He had to develop his brain to see the world the way his father saw it, with responsibility.

Robert shook his head slightly, dispelling those dark thoughts, and shifted his focus forward.

In the very front row, closest to the urn, stood Rhaegar Targaryen.

The Prince stood tall like a spear planted in the earth. His black cloak fell perfectly over his broad shoulders. His face was as firm as Valyrian steel. No tears. No trembling shoulders. Not a hint of weakness.

Robert observed the figure with a growing sense of respect in his heart. Rhaegar had just lost his father in a horrific way, yet he stood there, becoming the anchor for an entire shaken realm. He bore the weight of the crown even before the object was placed on his head.

Then, the High Septon lifted the book of The Seven-Pointed Star with both hands, the ancient parchment looking fragile and yellowed by age, yet radiating an aura of holiness that made thousands in the room hold their breath.

The voice of the religious leader echoed throughout the chamber, bouncing off the cold white walls. He spoke of the inevitable cycle of life, of how the Father judges justly, the Mother loves tenderly, and how in the end, every soul, be it a ruling king or a beggar, would be collected by the Stranger to be taken to the world beyond. None were exempt from death, and no crown could bribe fate.

The narrative then shifted, flowing like a calm river remembering the figure lying in ash before them. The High Septon painted the youth of Aerys Targaryen, not as a king who ended tragically, but as a gallant young prince in the Stepstones. He spoke of friendship, of visions of building, and of long years of peace under his reign. The words were woven beautifully, wrapping the memory of the King in a silk cloth of pure honor.

Silence then descended to blanket the giant room, heavy and pressing.

At a silent signal, everyone bowed their heads. Thousands of pairs of eyes closed in unison, creating a rare moment of unity in the capital.

Robert bowed his large head. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness behind his eyelids give him a brief respite from the blinding grandeur around him. The scent of sweet and heavy incense filled his nose, a scent identical to holiness and farewells.

In silence, Robert offered his own prayer. He was not the most pious man, but his heart was sincere in that moment. He hoped Aerys's soul found the peace he did not get in his final days at Duskendale. He thanked the figure, not as a king, but as a keeper of the peace.

The realm had run peacefully while he lived. Robert realized that now. He had grown up in a long summer, without knowing the horrors of civil war, without seeing villages burned or fields pillaged by foreign armies. His childhood had been spent in laughter and safe sword practice, not life-and-death battles. That was the gift given by the stability of Aerys's rule, despite all his flaws. People were happy, or at least, they were safe.

Robert took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that smelled of wax, then exhaled slowly.

When he opened his eyes again, the atmosphere had shifted.

The Knights of the Kingsguard, in their brilliant white cloaks, stepped forward with trained, synchronized movements. Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, and their other brothers surrounded the podium. Their faces were hidden behind helms, expressionless, like living statues of guardians.

With a gentleness that contrasted with their strength, the knights lifted the gold-plated litter where the ash urn rested. There was no sound of friction, no shaking. The urn rose, glittering under the incoming sunlight, as if Aerys himself were floating for the last time above his people.

The procession began.

The Kingsguard slowly headed towards the back of the holy altar. There, a wrought iron door that was usually closed was now wide open, revealing stone stairs descending into darkness. It was the way to the crypts of the Great Sept.

They carried the burden of their king down those stairs, into the belly of the earth, away from the sunlight and the cheers of the world, towards eternal silence among his ancestors.

Behind them, Rhaegar Targaryen followed with his mother. His steps were steady yet rhythmic as he descended those stairs, disappearing into the shadows to say a private final goodbye.

Robert watched those backs, receding until swallowed by the darkness of the passage.

…

Their footsteps echoed softly on the descending stone stairs, a somber rhythm swallowed by the darkness down below.

Rhaegar walked slowly, adjusting his long strides to his mother's hesitant steps. Queen Rhaella, now the Queen Mother, was beside him, her thin hand gripping Rhaegar's arm as if it were the only anchor preventing her from falling into the abyss.

Under the light of torches flickering on the passage walls, his mother looked so fragile. The black mourning cloth wrapping her body made her skin look as pale as a dim moon, almost transparent. Her violet eyes, swollen and red, stared blankly at the steps ahead. There was a weight on her shoulders that was not just grief, but the accumulation of years of fear finally released, leaving a suffocating emptiness.

The air down here was different. Cold, still, and heavy. This was air never touched by the sun, air that had been breathed by the dead for centuries. The smell of incense from above faded, replaced by the scent of damp earth, cold stone, and bone dust.

They reached the bottom. The crypt of the Great Sept stretched before them, a hall of shadows with a low ceiling supported by thick stone pillars. Here, within the niches of the walls, rested the ashes and bones of previous Targaryen kings who chose to be buried in the manner of the Faith.

The Kingsguard carrying the urn had arrived first. They placed the golden urn with solemn gentleness into a newly prepared niche in the stone wall. A marble slab, already carved with Aerys's name and titles, waited to close it forever.

After their duty was done, Ser Gerold Hightower gave a silent signal.

The White Knights retreated. Ser Arthur Dayne, standing closest to Rhaegar, glanced at his friend for a moment. In that gaze, Rhaegar saw deep sympathy, an unspoken promise of protection, before Arthur turned and joined his brothers in the shadows near the stairs, granting privacy to the royal family.

Only the two of them remained. Rhaegar and his Mother. The living and the dead.

Rhaegar released his mother's arm slowly and stepped forward. He approached the niche.

The light of torches mounted on the walls reflected on the surface of the golden urn. It was beautiful, Rhaegar thought bitterly. Aerys had always liked gold, liked luxury, liked things that glittered. Now, he was encased in gold forever.

Rhaegar's hand reached out. His long and pale fingers, the fingers of a musician, touched the marble edge of the tomb niche.

Cold.

He brushed the carving of his father's name. Aerys II Targaryen.

Rhaegar observed the details of the stone, the rough texture not perfectly sanded at the corners. This was his father's final resting place. Just like their predecessors.

Once they lived. They had warm bodies, flowing blood, voices that could command thousands, rage that could burn cities, and laughter that could fill halls. Aerys had once been a real man, a father who held him, a king who sat on the Iron Throne.

And now? Just a handful of ash inside a metal urn.

All the anger, all the disappointment and disbelief, all of it had become silent dust.

A strange feeling crept into Rhaegar's heart. Not explosive sadness, but a calm and deep melancholia about mortality.

I will end up here too, he thought.

If everything went according to plan, if he didn't drown at sea or some such, Rhaegar would also be carried down these stairs one day. He would become part of this row of urns and statues. His body would be burned, his ashes collected, and his name carved on this cold stone.

Perhaps, decades from now, if he had children, they would stand where he stood now. Perhaps they would come to visit, bringing their own children, lighting candles, and whispering, "Here lies Grandfather Rhaegar."

He would be a ghost. He would be a memory. He would be history, just like Aegon the Conqueror or Jaehaerys the Conciliator.

Would he be remembered as a good king? Or, would he fail, then wait for the time to destroy everything?

Rhaegar did not know. He could only hope. He could only strive to be better. To be the King this realm needed.

A movement beside him broke his reverie.

His mother stepped forward. Her steps were soundless on the stone floor. Rhaella stood beside the niche, staring at her husband's urn.

Rhaegar watched his mother. He waited for tears, waited for hysterical sobbing, or perhaps curses. But there were none.

Rhaella did not cry. Her eyes were dry, staring at the glittering gold with a gaze difficult to interpret, a mixture of grief, exhaustion, and... peace. Perhaps she had cried all her tears. Perhaps she had cried in her room, when alone. Or perhaps, in the face of the death of the person who hurt her, tears felt unnecessary.

Rhaella's hand moved, not towards the urn, but towards Rhaegar.

Her cold fingers sought her son's arm, clutching the fabric of his black cloak tightly, as if ensuring that Rhaegar was still real, still warm, still alive.

Rhaegar said nothing. He covered his mother's hand with his own, offering warmth.

They just stood there, side by side in the belly of the earth.

No dramatic farewell words. No speeches. Just two survivors of a long storm, standing amidst the debris of memories, observing absolute silence.

In that silence, Rhaegar felt the weight of the crown descend upon his head, invisible yet very heavy. The past had been buried within these stone walls.

Now, it was the future's turn to begin.

 

[NegaBotMD]

Thank you. I don't know why it's broken here. AO3 and Spacebattles works fine.

Click to shrink...

QQ has a thing about images, easiest fix to around 90% of problems is to instead of linking from the bar, to right click on the image and pick Copy Image Link and use that. Dunno why, but it works.
If it's still buggered then probably just better the add a hyperlink for the people to open the image themselves.

 

[Daario]

ROBERT​

---

The giant doors of the Great Sept of Baelor opened, spewing thousands of mourners back into the real world. The funeral had ended with a deafening silence, a void of sound that felt heavier than the cheers of any war. Inside, under the gaze of the Seven Gods, no one dared to speak, no one dared to whisper. They all held their breath, trying to honor the King, or at least, trying hard not to look disrespectful before the stone-faced New King.

As they stepped out, the midday sun slammed into their faces. The sky above King's Landing was blindly bright, a flawless blue, as if mocking the grief that had just been staged beneath it. A slight heat stung the skin, worsened by the layers of black wool and thick velvet they wore.

Robert squinted, shielding his eyes from the glare. He took a long breath, filling his lungs with air that did not smell of incense and death. It felt relieving. Like stepping out of a cramped tomb.

People moved around him like a colony of ants exiting a disturbed nest, neat, orderly, yet with a hidden urgency to get away immediately.

Beside him, Stannis stood still. His younger brother did not even squint against the sun. He just stood tall, his jaw hardened, his hands folded stiffly behind his back.

Robert looked at him for a moment. Stannis was always so serious, as if he carried the weight of the entire storm on his young shoulders. Robert felt a sudden urge, an elder brother's instinct, to crack his brother's hard shell.

He patted Stannis's shoulder, perhaps a little too hard.

Stannis jerked slightly, his shoulders tensing under Robert's hand, then he turned. There was a slight smile there, very faint, barely visible, like a crack in ice.

"You hungry?" asked Robert, his voice a little too loud amidst the murmurs of other mourners.

Stannis nodded lightly, a breath that sounded weary escaping his nose. "Standing there took a lot of energy. Silence is exhausting."

"Aye," Robert agreed, squeezing his brother's shoulder before letting go. "My knees feel stiff. I hope we won't have to attend events like this too often. Funerals are boring, Stannis. Too many sad people, too little food."

Stannis did not answer immediately. His dark blue eyes, which were more like the deep sea compared to Robert's bright ones, glanced toward their parents walking a few steps ahead. Lord Steffon appeared to be speaking quietly to Lady Cassana, his face still grim.

"Hopefully," said Stannis.

…

Night had fallen over the Red Keep, bringing with it a cool breeze that swept away the heat of the day. On one of the stone terraces facing the city, Robert Baratheon stood with his back to the railing, one elbow resting casually on the cold stone.

Torches and candles had been lit everywhere, creating islands of light amidst the darkness of the fortress. The sound of night insects chirped from the gardens below, a constant, soothing rhythm. The wind rustled through the tree leaves, adding a coolness Robert sorely needed after a day confined in formal wear.

He held a goblet of wine in his right hand, of course.

"So what do you do at Storm's End, Stan?" asked Robert casually, breaking the silence between them. He genuinely wanted to know. Since he was sent to The Eyrie to be fostered by Jon Arryn, he rarely heard detailed news about his brother's daily life.

Stannis stood beside him, but did not turn his back to the railing. He faced outward, both arms propping up his body as he leaned forward, staring at the dark sky scattered with stars and the expanse of King's Landing's city lights in the distance.

"Studying," answered Stannis briefly. "With Maester Cressen. I memorize every Sigil and words of the noble houses, the history of the conquest, tax laws, family genealogies, border politics."

Robert grimaced softly into his goblet. That sounded boring as hell. "And you, how is it?" Stannis asked back.

"Me?" Robert grinned, sipping his wine. "I like traveling with Lord Arryn. We ride across the mountains of the Vale. The scenery is magnificent, Stan. You must see it one day. And sometimes... sometimes we even beat back the wild clans when we get bored."

"Wildlings?"

"Aye, the mountain clans. They come down to steal sheep or women. We drive them off." Robert chuckled. In truth, it wasn't out of boredom, but Lord Arryn's duty to protect his people, but Robert preferred to tell it as an adventure.

"Sometimes I go with Father too," Stannis added, his voice rising slightly, as if not wanting to lose in terms of experience, even if his experience was of a different kind. "Not fighting wild men of course. But negotiating. With vassal Lords disputing land, or merchants trying to cheat taxes. I... I just watch from a distance, observing how Father speaks."

Robert laughed crisply, shaking his head. "Ah, you really fit that sort of thing. You, and your musty-smelling books. You have the patience to listen to old men argue about fence borders."

Stannis frowned, his shoulders tensing. Robert immediately realized that his words might have sounded like a mockery, though he hadn't meant them that way. Stannis was always sensitive about things like this.

Robert straightened his body, placing his goblet on the stone railing. He hurriedly added.

"You've been very smart since long ago, you know? When we studied with Maester Cressen... you remember? You were the one who could memorize everything first. You could name the Targaryen Kings in order without error, while I forgot who Aegon V's father was."

Robert looked at his brother with an appraising gaze. "You answer with logic and facts. I'm not bad, I admit that, I'm not stupid. But I have patience as thin as Lannister paper. I can't stand sitting still and reading dusty parchments. So I always felt unfit to be there, in that study room."

Stannis looked down at his hands gripping the stone railing. Praise from Robert was a rare thing, and he seemed not to know how to receive it.

"You just have to try harder, Robert," said Stannis finally, his voice awkward yet firm. He turned, looking at his older brother. "In the future, you will inherit the land. Storm's End will be yours. You will lead many people, from lords to farmers."

Stannis straightened up, his 'little teacher' mode coming out. "Everyone will make you a role model. They will look to you for justice, not just for protection. So every lesson is important for a Lord. Not just swords and warhammers. You must know the law. You must know how to count grain."

Robert sighed heavily, looking up at the stars. That burden again. Expectations.

"I know," muttered Robert. "Sometimes... sometimes I also imagine what I will be like in the future, if my interest lies only in things like fighting and hunting. Will I be a bad Lord? Will Storm's End crumble in my hands?"

"I will not comfort you with nonsense," said Stannis with his characteristic brutal honesty. "If you are lazy, you will fail."

Robert snorted. "Thank you for the support, Brother."

"But," continued Stannis, "to make you feel better... a Lord who is great at fighting is also very necessary. Westeros respects strength, Robert. People respect your warhammer. That ability of yours will save you when words fail. At least, to remain respected and feared by enemies."

Stannis paused for a moment, then added in a flat tone, "Though perhaps some Lords will curse your incompetence for letting the bookkeeping get messy."

Robert laughed out loud, his voice breaking the silence of the night. He patted Stannis's shoulder again.

"You're right, you're right. I'll need a very smart treasurer later," said Robert while wiping the corner of his eye. He looked at Stannis, suddenly a thought crossing his mind. A thought that often appeared when he felt burdened by the pile of duties waiting in the future.

"You know, Stan," said Robert lightly, "Maybe you should be the Lord of Storm's End in the future, replacing Father. You fit all those parchments and rules better than I do."

It was a joke. A light complaint about responsibility.

But its effect on Stannis was immediate and frightening.

"Don't say that."

Stannis's voice was hard, sharp, and cold as a whip.

Robert was slightly startled, his smile fading. He saw his brother turn fully to face him. Stannis's face under the torchlight looked tense, his jaw hardening until the veins in his neck bulged. His blue eyes stared at Robert with a burning intensity, a mixture of deep sadness and fear.

"Never..." hissed Stannis, his voice trembling with held-back emotion. "Never say that."

Robert's breath hitched.

…

That expression was still embedded in Robert's mind, carved as clearly as a statue on the walls of Storm's End.

Hours had passed since that conversation on the stone terrace. The two of them had parted ways after a few awkward exchanges about the weather, yet the image of his brother's burning blue eyes still haunted him as he walked down the silent corridors of the Red Keep.

Robert kicked the empty air in frustration. He didn't understand. Truly, by the Seven Hells, he didn't understand why Stannis had reacted so harshly.

"I was just joking," he muttered to his own shadow lengthening on the stone floor. "Just a stupid joke."

But the joke seemed to touch a raw nerve inside the boy. Something hidden deep beneath Stannis's hard shell. Robert sighed heavily, rubbing his face roughly. Damn, he really didn't understand feelings much. Ned had once said politely that Robert 'sometimes often missed emotional details', which in common speak meant he sucked at reading other people's moods. And tonight, that was proven decisively.

The night grew later. The torches on the walls began to dim, leaving glowing red embers.

Robert returned to the guest chambers provided for the Baratheon family. The room was quiet. No one was there; his family had likely gone to their respective rooms.

Robert threw himself onto the sofa in the common room. He was bored. Wine was no longer appealing tonight; it tasted sour on his tongue after the incident with Stannis. He needed a distraction. Something to silence the voices in his head telling him he was a bad brother.

His eyes swept the room, and fell upon a wooden bookshelf in the corner. The shelf was full of scrolls of parchment and thick leather-bound books that looked boring. Usually, Robert would rather be beaten than read voluntarily. But tonight... his head was spinning, and he needed an escape.

With a little force on his lazy legs, he got up and approached the shelf. His fingers traced the dusty spines of the books. History of Westeros. The Tribes of the North. Lineage of House Tyrell.

"Rubbish," he muttered.

Then his finger stopped on a small book tucked between two giants. The book was thin, its cover simple brown leather without gold ornamentation. The title was faded but still legible: "Journey to the East".

Robert wanted to snort in disdain, but he held back. Adventure. That sounded better than House Tyrell.

He took the book, returned to the sofa, and plopped down. The candle light on the side table flickered as he opened the first page.

The preface was written by a Maester named Killian, dated to the year 121 AC, a time when dragons still danced in the skies of Westeros. The Maester wrote that this story was based on the oral tales of a hedge knight named William. No House name was mentioned, or at least the author intentionally hid it. William was only said to be from the Reach, a second or third son who had no land to inherit.

Robert began to read. Initially with skepticism, but slowly, his furrowed brow began to relax.

William was a curious child from a young age. He was described as a restless youth, whose hands always itched to hold a sword or axe, trying to chop wood, hunt, do anything other than sit still.

Robert smiled faintly. I know that feeling.

But all of that was so monotonous in William's life. He seemed to have no future other than just training, entering tournaments, winning ribbons from maidens, and getting drunk. Especially when the people around him, the Reach nobles, only feasted continuously, talking about complicated court politics and who married whom. William felt so alienated in the crowd. He felt like a wolf forced to sit at a dinner table with politely bleating sheep.

So, rather than socialize and force a fake smile, William chose to disappear. He read map books when his mood was grim. From there, he could see much of the world through mere writings. He didn't know if it was true, and if what was in his imagination was the same as how the author described it. But he kept reading because in his mind, the world out there was so alive, so wild, and so free.

Then, the first chapter began. William started collecting gold piece by gold piece. He won tournament prizes, he saved, he sold his spare horse. And when enough was gathered, only then did his journey begin.

From the Reach he continued east, riding alone through various regions. He slept under the stars, ate what he hunted. He met various walks of life, from arrogant Lords at the borders to common folk who gave him a ride in hay carts. He arrived at the port of Storm's End, Robert's ancestral land, and from there he stared at the sea. His destination this time was Braavos…

"What are you reading?"

The deep voice broke Robert's concentration instantly.

Robert jumped in surprise. His heart leapt in his chest. He closed the book reflexively with a slam, as if he had just been caught peeking up a woman's skirt instead of reading literature.

He turned and saw his father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, standing in the doorway connecting the common room to the master bedroom. His father was still wearing his mourning clothes, though his outer cloak had been removed. He stared at Robert while raising one thick eyebrow, an expression of amusement clearly printed on his tired face.

"You… you, you startled me, Father!" exclaimed Robert, his chest still pounding hard. He hid the book behind his back, then realized how ridiculous that was and placed it back on his lap. "By the Seven Hells, don't sneak up like a cat!"

His father fell silent for a moment, and instead of apologizing, a low and warm laugh escaped his throat.

"You, you, Robert," repeated Steffon shaking his head, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Reading a book? At night? Without being forced by Maester Cressen? Do you have a fever? Or has the ghost of the Red Keep library possessed you?"

Steffon stepped forward, placing the back of his hand on Robert's forehead in a joking fatherly gesture.

Robert immediately swatted the hand away, his face reddening with embarrassment. "Don't do that. I'm not sick."

"Alright, alright," Steffon chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. He then dropped himself onto the sofa beside Robert, sighing heavily as his back touched the soft backrest.

Steffon's eyes glanced at the thin book on Robert's lap. "So? What is the title? Strategies of War? History of Man?"

Robert hesitated for a moment, then turned the book so his father could see the title. "Journey to the East. An adventure story."

Steffon read the title, and the smile on his face changed. Becoming softer, more nostalgic. "Ah. The tale of Ser William the Wanderer."

"You know this book?" asked Robert, surprised.

"Of course," answered Steffon. "I read it when I was your age. Maybe a little younger."

"You were interested in adventure?" he continued.

With the book on his lap, Robert felt the need to be honest. The night atmosphere and fatigue made his defenses drop. "I... I have indeed always been interested in adventuring, Father. It feels boring to constantly be in the castle, listening to rules, learning etiquette. William... he was free. But I'm reading this only because I'm bored tonight, really. I just grabbed the thinnest book on the shelf."

Chuckling softly, Steffon's tone turned low and serious. He stared at the flickering candle flame.

"I was also always interested in adventuring, Robert. Before, when I was young, before I became Lord, before the burden of Storm's End fell onto my shoulders."

Steffon leaned back, his eyes distant. "Back then, I, Aerys, and Tywin... we often talked about it. Well, more like Aerys and I. We thought about running away for a while. Going on a grand journey to the Free Cities. Maybe becoming sellswords for a year, touring Braavos, drinking wine in Lys. Just the three of us, our swords, and the world."

Robert gaped. Imagining his father, the King, and the cold Tywin Lannister wandering around as young adventurers felt very unreal.

"But you didn't do it," said Robert quietly.

"No," Steffon shook his head, the shadow fading from his eyes. "Because I realized that I couldn't run from my responsibilities. Your grandfather wouldn't live forever, Storm's End needed its heir. Tywin... well, Tywin was always too serious to truly leave his duties as a Lannister. And Aerys was the Prince."

Steffon looked Robert right in the eye. "Many people needed me here, Son. My people, my bannermen. If I left chasing the sunrise, Storm's End would be in chaos. That is the point. Freedom is tempting, but duty... duty is what defines us. And honestly, I wasn't too confident in passing my responsibility to someone else. No one can guard your home as well as yourself."

His father then reached out, holding Robert's shoulder with a strong and warm squeeze.

"And now, the reasons why I stayed have increased," said Steffon softly. "I have your mother. I have you, Stannis, and Renly."

Steffon's smile widened, sincere and full of affection rarely shown by a Lord in public. "If I had chased my daydreams back then, becoming a hedge knight who died in a ditch, you might not exist. And who would finish all the food supplies if not you?" he joked at the end of his sentence.

Robert laughed small, but his throat felt choked. He felt a strange warmth in his chest, something he rarely felt amidst the harsh upbringing of an heir.

"You don't regret it?" asked Robert suddenly, his question more serious than he intended. "Giving up that freedom?"

Steffon raised his eyebrows, as if the question was strange.

"Regret?" repeated Steffon quietly. He shook his head firmly.

"No, Robert. Not for a second. Having you all... watching you grow, even though you often give me a headache and make me want to pull my own hair out... is the greatest adventure I have ever had. It is one of the best things for me. You know that, right?"

Robert fell silent. He didn't know how to answer. He only nodded stiffly, trying to hold back emotions that suddenly urged to rise.

Outside the window, the night wind blew, bringing promises of an uncertain tomorrow. But inside that room, under the warm candlelight, Robert closed his eyes for a moment, trying to digest those words.

---

 

[Daario]

QQ has a thing about images, easiest fix to around 90% of problems is to instead of linking from the bar, to right click on the image and pick Copy Image Link and use that. Dunno why, but it works.
If it's still buggered then probably just better the add a hyperlink for the people to open the image themselves.

Click to shrink...

Thanks! gonna try it.

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

That morn in King's Landing, the sun rose with a splendour that seemed intent on erasing the grey memories of the weeks prior. Golden light spilled from the eastern sky, gilding the rooftops of the city, turning Blackwater Bay into a sheet of glimmering hammered gold, and warming the stones of the castle walls that were wont to be cold.

Rhaegar Targaryen sat upon a carved wooden bench on the private balcony of his mother's chambers. Resting upon his lap was a silver harp, reflecting the blinding sunlight. His long, slender fingers danced slowly over the strings, plucking notes that were soft and melancholic, yet possessed an undercurrent of hopeful rhythm.

On the round table nearby, a sumptuous morning meal lay untouched. Fresh fruits, warm bread, honey, and soft cheese. Yet, Rhaegar's appetite had not fully returned. His only sustenance in this moment was the vista before him.

Queen Rhaella, or now the Queen Mother, sat in a comfortable chair, her back to the view of the city. In her arms, Prince Viserys squirmed with delight. The babe was in high spirits, gurgling quietly as his mother tickled his plump belly.

Rhaegar watched them with an intensity that bordered on painful.

He watched as Rhaella extended her slender forefinger, allowing Viserys's tiny hand to fumble and grasp it with a surprising strength for a babe. Then, Rhaella laughed. It was not the polite court laughter Rhaegar so often heard, but a laugh that was crisp, sincere, and free. The woman leaned down, rubbing her nose softly against Viserys's small button nose, causing the babe to squeal in joy.

A smile widened on Rhaella's face, erasing years of suffering from her lines. Her violet eyes shone, no longer shadowed by the fear of heavy footsteps in the corridor or angry shouts in the night.

It was a sight Rhaegar had not beheld in a long age. There was a tranquility there that he had yearned for, a domestic peace that felt alien to House Targaryen. His mother looked ten years younger. She looked... alive.

Yet, beneath the beauty of the moment, Rhaegar felt a cold prick in his heart. Guilt.

This was one of those moments they could never have possessed had his father still lived. If Aerys were here, this balcony would be thick with tension. Rhaella would be wary, her eyes wild, searching for signs of her husband's wrath. Viserys might be weeping, sensing his mother's fear.

His father's death was the price paid for his mother's laughter this morning.

Rhaegar felt wretched for relishing this joy. He felt unclean for enjoying the warmth of the sun and a quiet mind, whilst his father's ashes were scarce cold in the urn within the crypts below. Was he a cruel son for feeling relieved? Was he a monster for being grateful for the death of the man who gave him life?

His fingers moved of their own accord, following a train of thought trying to seek light amidst the darkness. The melody he played shifted, becoming something he had learned from Jaime Lannister in one of their secret musical sessions. A strange song, a song of hope after a long winter.

"Here comes the sun," Rhaegar crooned the notes with his voice soft, nigh on a whisper. "Doo-doo-doo..."

Rhaella turned her head slightly, her ears catching the new tune, yet she did not cease rocking Viserys.

"Here comes the sun," Rhaegar repeated, plucking the strings with more resolve, trying to convince himself. "And I say... It's all right."

Is it truly? whispered a doubt in his mind. Is it truly all right?

His eyes shifted from the view of the city to the face of his brother. Viserys. His heir for the nonce.

"Little darlin'," Rhaegar sang to his brother, his tone softening with affection. Viserys turned towards the sound of his brother's voice, his large purple eyes blinking in curiosity.

Rhaella gazed at her eldest son. The smile on her face changed into something sorrowful, yet full of love. She understood the song, though she may not have fully grasped the tongue. She understood the feeling.

"It's been a long, cold, lonely winter," Rhaegar continued.

Aye, a winter long and harsh indeed. The reign of Aerys in his latter years was a blizzard that froze all around him in fear.

"Little darlin', it feels like years since it's been here..."

"Here comes the sun, doo-doo-doo..."

"Here comes the sun..."

"And I say... It's all right."

Rhaegar stopped.

His hand ceased its plucking, hanging in the air as if he had just touched hot iron. The echo of the final note faded, swallowed by the sound of the wind and the gulls.

Silence descended once more, but this time it was heavier.

Will all truly be well?

The question haunted him. He was King now. The crown was not yet physically upon his brow, yet its weight already crushed his neck. Many lives now depended upon him. Millions of souls in Westeros, looking towards him, waiting. He was their leader, their protector.

He had many plans. In sleepless nights, he had written sheet after sheet of parchment. Tax reforms, the mending of roads, to build something new. He dreamed of what the realm would be in the future, a new golden age.

He hoped they would all come to pass. Yet he was practical enough to know that the world is not built upon hopes. If but half could be realized, it would be accounted a mercy.

His thoughts, as ever, were dragged back to the darkness. Back to Duskendale.

The town had yielded. Lord Darklyn was dead. But Rhaegar knew the ghosts of Duskendale would not be silent. There were many left there, smallfolk whose homes were burnt, servants who lost their masters, distant kin who lost their names. They had surely lost their purpose to live, or worse, they harboured a new purpose: hatred.

Hatred for the Dragons. Hatred for Rhaegar who had taken those they held dear, even if it was the punishment for treason.

And that decision... the decision regarding the children.

Rhaegar had commanded that the children of House Darklyn and their allies be spared the headsman's sword. He could not bear the blood of babes on his hands at the dawn of his reign. He sent them to the Wall or to the Silent Sisters, letting them live in exile.

But the Lords... Tywin Lannister, and many others... they were not satisfied. Rhaegar saw it in Tywin's cold eyes. They desired nothingness. They desired total annihilation. They believed that to let a traitor's seed live is to plant a storm for the future.

Am I weak? Rhaegar asked himself. Is my mercy a mistake that shall doom my descendants?

The wind rustled, blowing his silver hair, making it dance about his sombre face.

He knew not the fate of those people now. He only hoped, perhaps, with that mercy, the cycle of violence could be broken. That they might have a better future, however limited, that perhaps they would find peace.

His eyes returned to Viserys. The babe was now chewing on his own fist, spittle dripping down his chin. So innocent. So fragile.

If Rhaegar did something foolish like Darklyn... His brother might suffer the same fate as the children of the Darklyn kin. Or worse.

The vision of Viserys being dragged from his bed in the dead of night, or forced to live in eternal winter, made Rhaegar's stomach churn. He must be strong. He must be wise. He must not become like that.

"Rhaegar?"

His mother's soft voice scattered the dark mist in his mind.

Rhaegar started slightly, then turned. Rhaella was gazing at him. The smile on his mother's face had changed. No longer merely a merry laugh for a babe, but a smile full of understanding, the smile of a woman who had walked through the seven hells and emerged on the other side.

Rhaella reached out, touching Rhaegar's cheek gently.

"Do not shoulder the burden of on the morrow before the sun sets on this day, my Son," she whispered.

Her eyes looked upon Rhaegar with a conviction that Rhaegar himself did not possess.

"All shall be well," said Rhaella. "We are safe. We are here. And you... you are my son. You are better than him. You shall be a great King."

Rhaegar looked at his mother, searching for a lie, but found only hope. He let out a long breath, letting a little of the tension in his shoulders melt away.

He took his mother's hand, kissing it softly.

...

Rhaegar placed his silver harp back into its velvet case with the care of a father putting a child to sleep. He closed the lid slowly; the music had ceased. Now, duty called.

He left the balcony bathed in sunlight, stepping into a room more gloom and cold, the King's Solar.

The chamber was vast, dominated by heavy wooden furniture and tapestries. Yet, what was most striking was not the luxury of the room, but the mountains of parchment piling upon the giant worktable in the centre.

Rhaegar sat in the chair his father once occupied. The chair felt a shade too large, or perhaps he felt too small to fill it. He looked upon the stack of papers with a sudden dizziness. Tax reports, petitions from minor lords, complaints regarding the price of goods, inventories of the armouries, reports of damages... all demanded his attention.

He pulled a sheet of parchment at random, dipped a quill into the ink, and began his toil.

Whilst his hand moved to sign the routine documents, his mind drifted to matters far more pressing than the price of wool.

The Kingsguard.

They had lost two members in Duskendale. Ser Gwayne Gaunt, who fell by the hand of rebels during the initial riots, and Ser Barristan Selmy, who perished in the failed rescue attempt.

Two white cloaks empty. Two positions that must be filled.

Rhaegar knew he could not appoint men lightly. The Kingsguard were not merely physical protectors; they were symbols of the strength and legitimacy of the throne. He needed men who were not only skilled with the sword, but who possessed unwavering integrity, something increasingly rare in King's Landing.

And not only the Kingsguard. A greater rot festered at the heart of his reign: The Small Council.

Rhaegar paused his writing, staring at the wet ink. He thought of the faces that sat at the council table. Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships who cared more for sycophancy than tending to the fleet. The sluggish Master of Coin, and the Master of Laws likewise.

His father had gathered these men not for their competence, but for their willingness to nod at his every whim. Aerys needed mirrors that reflected his greatness, not counsellors who challenged his wisdom. They were a gathering of men who fed the King's vanity whilst enriching themselves in the shadows.

Rhaegar shook his head in frustration. He could not rule with such blunt tools.

He needed sharp steel. He needed someone competent. Someone who dared say, "No, Your Grace, that is a folly," if Rhaegar began to stray. He needed advisors who could present options, not merely blind agreement. Someone who saw the realm as something complex, not a cash cow to be milked.

Yet, how was he to seek them?

All this time, Rhaegar had lived in the isolation forced by his father. He had friends, like Arthur and Jon Connington, but his circle was limited. He did not know many Lords out there personally. He knew not who was truly lack-witted and who was merely glib of tongue.

It seems this time I must rely on reputation and instinct, he thought.

The moment was ripe. His father's death, tragic as it was, had brought all the nobility of Westeros to King's Landing. They were here, under his roof, or encamped outside the walls. He could use the time before and after the coronation to speak with them. Not formal discourses in the throne room, but casual conversations, testing their wits subtly, seeing who possessed a vision aligned with his own.

Knock. Knock.

A firm knock on the wooden door broke his reverie. The rhythm was regular, confident, and demanding. There was but one man who knocked on the King's door in such a manner.

"Enter," Rhaegar commanded.

The door opened, and Tywin Lannister strode in.

The Hand of the King wore a tunic of black velvet. His face, as ever, was a mask of impenetrable calm.

"Your Grace," Tywin greeted, bowing his body slightly.

"Lord Hand," Rhaegar replied, setting down his quill. He gestured to the chair across his desk. "Sit."

"My thanks."

Tywin took the seat, his back rigid, his eyes immediately sweeping the stack of documents on Rhaegar's desk as if calculating how much work remained unfinished.

"I wish to report on the progress of the coronation preparations," Tywin began without preamble. "The High Septon has agreed to the simplified matters as per your request, though he complains of the lack of pomp. The feast for the Lords has been arranged; certain Lords with a history of disharmony shall sit opposite one another to avoid old conflicts. And the repair of the city gates proceeds according to schedule."

Rhaegar nodded, listening to the report. Tywin Lannister was a brilliant administrator, none could deny it. The realm ran like the quill in his hand.

They spoke for some time. Tywin reported that customs revenues at the harbour had risen. Rhaegar gave his assent to most matters, posing sharp questions on others that made Tywin raise an eyebrow slightly in a mark of appreciation.

Then, there was a pause. Tywin did not rise immediately to depart.

The Hand's hands were clasped in his lap. His pale green eyes stared at Rhaegar with a new intensity.

"Have you considered my counsel, Your Grace?" asked Tywin suddenly, his voice flat yet heavy.

Rhaegar fell silent for a moment. He remembered the conversation two days past, amidst the chaos following the funeral.

Tywin had come to him with a list. It was not a vast list. Merely the changing of a few 'minor' offices. The Gaoler of the Red Keep. The Captain of the City Gates. Several positions at the harbour. Tywin suggested that the old men, whom he deemed corrupt or inefficient, be replaced with new men who were 'more capable'.

Men who, after Rhaegar investigated slightly, all hailed from the Westerlands or possessed ties of marriage to Lannister bannermen.

It was Tywin's classic move. The quiet accumulation of power. Filling positions with his own men.

"I have considered it, Lord Tywin," Rhaegar answered, his voice calm yet firm. He met the Lion's gaze without blinking.

"And?"

"And the answer is no."

Tywin's brows furrowed slightly, a rare sign of displeasure. The furrow was very faint, but on Tywin's face, it was akin to another man screaming in rage.

"May I know the reason?" asked Tywin, his tone cooling. "The men I proposed are proven veterans. Ser Erik Broom for the City Watch would bring much-needed discipline to the city."

"I do not doubt Ser Erik's competence," said Rhaegar. "However, I do not wish to conduct a shuffling of personnel in this sensitive time of transition. Replacing key officials in the capital with men from a single specific region... that would send the wrong message to the Lords of the Reach, Dorne, and the North. They would think that King's Landing has become an extension of Casterly Rock."

Rhaegar leaned his body forward slightly.

"I wish for my reign to be seen as an inclusive one, Lord Hand. Unity. Not the domination of one House above the others. I shall seek candidates for those offices, certainly. But I shall seek them from all across the realm."

Tywin fell silent. His jaw hardened. He understood the unspoken message: 'I know what you are trying to do, and I shall not allow it.'

Rhaegar did not reject competence; he rejected a Lannister monopoly.

"A realm requires stability, Your Grace," said Tywin finally, his voice as sharp as a dagger. "Experiments with 'balance' often end in inefficiency."

"And domination often ends in chaos," replied Rhaegar softly.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, a war of wills in the silence of the solar. Rhaegar felt the pressure of Tywin's aura, a force that had subdued many a king and lord. But Rhaegar did not waver. He was the King now.

Finally, it was Tywin who broke the eye contact. He stood, a movement stiff and formal.

"As you command, Your Grace," said Tywin. There was no note of submission in his voice, only strategic acceptance. He knew when to retreat to strike another day.

"Thank you, Lord Tywin. That will be all for today," said Rhaegar, taking up his quill once more, signalling a clear dismissal.

Tywin bowed once more, then turned and walked out, his footsteps sounding heavy on the stone floor.

The door closed.

Rhaegar let out a long breath, leaning his back against the chair. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the rush of blood. Refusing Tywin Lannister was no small matter.

 

[Daario]

ROBERT​

---

Robert Baratheon strode down the cobblestone streets of the merchant district, far from the suffocating shadows of the Red Keep. This time, he had his own intentions. Not to seek out brothels or cheap wine sinks that were usually his main destinations when visiting the big city, he was looking for other things. Things that were 'interesting'. Places where you could laugh without burden, see life pulsating, and forget that a dead king had just been buried.

Beside him, Eddard Stark walked with a quieter, more measured pace. Ned wore a simple grey tunic without decoration.

"You walk too fast, Robert," Ned commented quietly, avoiding a fishmonger carrying a smelly basket.

"You are the one walking too slow, Ned. Your Northern legs aren't used to the capital's stones, eh?" Robert laughed, his voice cutting through the market's hustle and bustle.

They passed through crowds of people still jostling about. Even in the somewhat secluded alleys, activity did not cease. News of the king's coronation which would be held soon had drawn people from all corners of Westeros like flies to food. And the funeral... it was still warm like an apple pie fresh out of the oven, becoming the topic of conversation on every street corner.

The sky above them was clear, a deep blue rarely seen in this city. Clumps of white clouds drifted lazily, adding their own charm. Seagulls flew low, flapping their wings here and there looking for scraps of food, their cries answering the shouts of the merchants.

On the roof of a leaning building, a fat black cat walked casually along the edge, tail held high, as if this whole place belonged to him alone and the humans below were merely his servants.

Robert smiled seeing it. "Look at that, Ned. That cat has a walk more confident than half the Lords in the court."

Ned snorted with amusement. "And probably smarter too."

Robert glanced at shop signs while scanning the surroundings. His eyes caught something in a small square between two tall buildings.

There was a simple wooden stage set up there. A group of people dressed in colorful, though somewhat shabby, clothes were practicing. A stage play. Robert could see some of them holding white sheets in their hands. Paper.

They performed dramatic movements, a man in a fake cloak kneeling while spreading his arms to the sky, while others practiced their voices.

"Oh, poor Prince! Your destiny awaits there!" cried one of the actors with a voice made to tremble artificially.

Robert stopped for a moment, grinning broadly. He nudged Ned's arm.

"You want to try doing that, Ned?" asked Robert, pointing towards the stage. "I can imagine you up there. 'Winter is Coming!' with that famous flat face of yours. The audience would love it."

Ned smiled thinly, shaking his head. "Me? Impossible for me to do that, Robert. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do it well. My tongue is stiff for poetry and drama. For one of us, you are the one who should be up there. You have a voice that can reach the back row without shouting."

"True," Robert laughed, puffing out his broad chest. "You don't have much emotion for stage performances, Ned. No offense, but you are like a walking ice statue."

"And you are suited to play a skilled fighter," Ned chuckled, this time his laughter more loose. "A tragic hero who swings a hammer and wins the princess's heart, then dies from drinking too much wine. You would be more immersive in that regard."

"Damn you," Robert grinned. "I would ask for a real warhammer if they made me the lead. I don't want those wooden toys. I want to feel a real impact when smashing the villain."

"Sheesh," Ned pretended to grimace in horror. "In that case, make sure you prepare gold dragons to pay the Maester fees for your co-stars. No actor wants their head cracked for a few coppers."

"No. I would have surely spent it buying food before the show started," Robert joked, patting his flat yet solid stomach.

They laughed together, a rare light moment amidst the tension of the last weeks. They continued walking again, leaving the actors with their drama.

Footsteps took them to a more organized part of the market. The stalls here were more permanent, built from polished wood, not cloth tents.

Robert stopped in front of a stall that caught his attention. The stall displayed many fine handcrafted goods. There were detailed wooden ship carvings, brightly painted masks, soft wool scarves, tunics, and also several pairs of leather gloves. And of course, in one corner, there was a stack of books.

This stall looked neat, no glass windows like many fancy buildings on the main street, but because the front door was wide open, sunlight entered well, illuminating the merchandise warmly.

"Let's have a look," Robert invited.

Entering inside, Robert was greeted by the scent of wood and new leather. He greeted a middle-aged man standing behind the table with his signature wide grin, a smile that could radiate light and make strangers feel like old friends.

Robert picked up a carving shaped like a sailing ship. The ship looked small, the size of his palm, but the details were extraordinary. The sails were made of thin linen, and the hull was carved with precision. On other shelves were carvings of horses, lions, stags, and dogs.

"You made this yourself, Old Man?" asked Robert, holding the ship carving high to see the bottom.

The shopkeeper, who had a friendly face with laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, laughed softly and approached him.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Looks like the real thing. No, My Lord, I do not have hands that steady. This is made by my neighbor, a young man of only twenty namedays! He consigned it here to be sold. Very talented, his hands blessed by the Smith."

"Yes, my brother might like it," muttered Robert, his smile softening. The image of little Renly left behind at Storm's End flashed in his mind. The baby always cried, but maybe a toy would keep him quiet. "He is still a baby, so I'm not really sure he understands what this is. But babies like everything they can hold, right?"

"If it is for a baby..." The man said hesitantly, his tone full of ethical consideration rarely possessed by King's Landing merchants. "I think most of these carvings would be dangerous, My Lord. There are some small parts that could be swallowed, or corners that would hit his skin. Indeed not too sharp, but still..."

Robert stared at the toy boat. He twirled it in his large fingers.

"No matter," said Robert firmly. "I will keep it. I will give it when he knows enough to play and not try to eat the sails. As a big brother, I want to give his first gift now, even before he can speak. So that in the future, when he sees this ship in his room, he will know that I loved him since he was still snot-nosed."

"Very kind," The man smiled sincerely. "What is your name, young man? Rarely do I see young nobles thinking of their siblings like that."

"Robert," he answered briefly. He reached into the leather pouch at his waist. "How much for this thing?"

The man patted Robert's shoulder familiarly, forgetting caste etiquette for a moment because he was impressed. "Three. Three silver stags. I give you a discount for touching this old heart of mine. Isn't that good?"

Robert snorted, but kept smiling. He knew that was probably the normal price or even slightly inflated, but he didn't care. "I am currently rich, and my mood is currently good. So I will still buy it. Here you go, Old Man."

He placed three silver coins on the table.

"Thank you, Young Lord!" The man stared at the silver with sparkling eyes. "You are like a prince sent by the Seven, who will bless this shop to soon be crowded by other visitors."

The man deftly wrapped the ship in cloth. Then, his eyes glinted with merchant instinct. He took a book from a nearby shelf. The book wasn't thick, the cover simple.

"And because of that... would you like to buy this Seven-Pointed Star?" offered the man. "This is new, printed directly by that famous Lannister family in Lannisport. Look, it is made of paper, very smooth, the ink clear. The price is far cheaper than handwritten parchment, and perhaps... perhaps it will bring you more luck and blessings."

Robert wanted to roll his eyes. Another book. He had just escaped the library yesterday.

He looked towards Ned, who was busy staring at a display of gloves in another corner, pretending not to hear.

"You have a silver tongue, Old Man," said Robert, taking the book. It felt light. The paper was indeed smooth, far thinner and neater than the old books at Storm's End. "Honestly, I am not that interested in books. Reading them makes my head hurt."

But then Robert remembered. Lannister. Jaime Lannister. The boy he met in the stables. The boy who started all this. And the conversation with Jon and Ned about how this paper was changing the world.

Maybe he should see what everyone was making a fuss about.

"But yes, I'll take this," said Robert suddenly, surprising himself. "I am already too bored being in this city without entertainment. Maybe I will pray to the Seven to give me something interesting through this book." Or at least I can use it to swat flies. He didn't say the last sentence.

Robert paid the extra silver. The object was now officially his.

They exited the shop, returning to the busy streets.

"I cannot believe you actually bought a book, Robert," Ned Stark raised his eyebrows high, staring at the book in Robert's hand as if it were a dragon's head. "Do you have a fever? Or has the air of King's Landing finally softened your brain?"

Robert snorted, tucking the book behind his belt. "Don't start, Ned. I met Jaime Lannister weeks ago. He is a strange boy, but he seemed decent enough. So I decided to support his family business with a few silvers. Consider it me giving him pocket money."

Ned laughed softly. "Lannisters don't need your pocket money, Robert."

"Also," added Robert, his voice a little more serious, "You and Jon talked about the Citadel and the Faith, about paper and that school as if it were a profound problem. You two sounded very smart and worried. I want to try to understand a little of what's inside here. Who knows if there is something interesting in it."

"Well," said Ned, patting his best friend's shoulder. "Hopefully you don't fall asleep after the first few paragraphs."

"Hopefully," Robert nodded, staring at the road ahead. "Or at least, hopefully the paper is soft enough to be made into a pillow."

...

They arrived at the front courtyard of the Red Keep when the sun began to dip to the west, turning the sky's color from bright blue to a slight gold. Robert's legs felt a little sore after walking far from the city, but his heart was light. He had managed to avoid trouble, mostly at least, got a 'souvenir' for his brother, and even bought a book without being forced. A productive day, he thought.

As they approached the entrance to the guest wing, one of Jon Arryn's household guards, a man named Adam, approached them with steady steps.

"Is there a problem?" asked Ned first.

Adam bowed slightly. "No problem, My Lord. Just news. Your family from the North... Lord Stark's party has been sighted passing through the main gate a few moments ago. They should be arriving here shortly."

"Oh," Ned smiled, a rare and soft smile that softened his long face. "Good. Very good. I will welcome them out front."

Robert's heart also suddenly bloomed, beating with a rhythm faster than usual.

The Stark family was arriving. That meant Lord Rickard, Brandon, Benjen... and her.

Lyanna Stark. His betrothed.

Robert had never met her. Their betrothal was arranged through letters between Lord Rickard and Lord Steffon, strengthened by Robert's friendship with Ned. But Robert had imagined her face a thousand times. Ned rarely spoke of his sister, but when he did speak, he painted a picture of a girl who was wild and full of spirit. And if she was as beautiful as her mother, as people said, then Robert was a lucky man.

This was Robert's lucky day! This strange book seemed not bad; it had brought good news only minutes after Robert bought it. Robert decided he would kiss the book later in his room, of course when no one was looking, so he wouldn't be thought mad.

But before that, there were more important things.

"Adam!" Robert handed over the cloth-wrapped toy ship and the Seven-Pointed Star book a bit hurriedly. "Hold this for a moment!"

He brushed the street dust from his clothes, tidying his thick black hair with his fingers. He wanted to look clean, or at least neat, when they first met. He wanted Lyanna to see Robert Baratheon her handsome betrothed, not Robert the Vagrant.

They walked towards the gate. This time, Ned walked faster than him. His steps were long and eager, an enthusiasm he rarely showed. Robert had to lengthen his stride to match his best friend.

When they reached the middle of the courtyard, the sound of galloping horses and carriage wheels was heard. The party from the North entered the gate.

They were not as luxurious as the Lannister or Tyrell entourages. No glittering gold or colorful silks. The Northerners wore grey and white wool, thick furs, and sturdy leather. The Direwolf banner fluttered gallantly above their heads.

Ned immediately stepped forward, welcoming his father, Lord Rickard Stark, who dismounted from his warhorse with dignity. They embraced briefly, a Northern men's hug that was stiff yet full of respect. Then Brandon, who laughed loudly and patted Ned's back. Then little Benjen.

But Robert, standing a few steps behind, did not look at them.

His eyes were fixed only on one person.

A girl had just stepped down from the carriage, refusing a servant's helping hand. She wore a simple pale blue dress.

She turned.

And Robert's world stopped turning.

She was beautiful. No, that word was too weak. She was... alive.

Her hair was dark brown, long and slightly messy from the travel wind, framing a heart-shaped face. Her skin was pale typical of a Northerner, but her cheeks flushed red slightly. And her eyes...

Those eyes were grey, like Ned's eyes, but in there was a fire Ned did not possess. Those eyes were full of life, full of challenge, and a little wild. Her expression was a bit cold, assessing her new surroundings with a sharp intelligent gaze, unlike Southern girls who usually looked down shyly.

She laughed at something Brandon said, and that laugh sounded to Robert's ears like music.

Lyanna Stark.

Robert knew it without needing to be told.

...

The atmosphere inside the guest solar felt stiff, as if the air had been replaced with politeness.

"The Kingsroad must be repaired, Lord Arryn," Lord Rickard Stark's voice was heavy and serious, like grinding stones. He raised his goblet of wine, yet his eyes saw no enjoyment in it. "We kept passing roads covered in mud or rockslides. That is all what made the travel time two weeks longer than it should have been."

"Indeed," Jon Arryn replied with a polite sympathetic nod. "The Kingsroad is the most decent road we have right now, the kingdom's main road, and that alone is that bad. Doing maintenance is indeed difficult, it seems, especially in these chaotic times."

They continued talking about road taxes, stone quality, and bandits, topics that were boring to death. Robert didn't care what that was. His ears rang hearing the word 'infrastructure'.

His gaze, however, had a focus that was far more interesting. His eyes always returned to Lyanna Stark.

They had been introduced politely before, a stiff exchange of names and titles under supervision. But Robert hadn't had the chance to speak further. He wanted to hear her voice again, the laughter he heard in the yard earlier. But the conversation between the two old men currently happening was like a fortress wall blocking him. Annoying. He was bored listening to their chatter continuously. He wanted to act.

Suddenly, Lyanna stood up. Her movement was graceful yet firm, like a wolf rising from a sitting position.

"Father, Lord Arryn," she said, her voice clear cutting through the discussion about mud. "I think I want to go out and see the scenery outside..."

Good! Robert's mind cheered. Hah! The girl had courage! She didn't wait for permission, she informed. Robert liked that.

Without waiting for a long answer from the two parents who were chatting, Lyanna turned and went out.

Robert cleared his throat loudly, drawing the attention of Lord Stark, Jon, Brandon, Ned, and Benjen who stared at him.

"I want to get some fresh air," said Robert while standing, trying to sound casual even though his legs were already itching to run. "This wine is making my head dizzy."

A stupid excuse, considering he could drink a barrel without getting dizzy, but who cared? Robert left the room with wide strides.

He went out into the corridor just in time to see the hem of Lyanna's dress disappearing around the corner towards the garden. Robert grinned and quickened his pace.

"My Lady!" shouted Robert, his voice echoing in the stone hallway.

Lyanna stopped. She turned slowly. Under the corridor torchlight, her face looked calm, almost expressionless. She glanced at Robert, her gaze softly soothing.

"Yes, My Lord?" she asked politely.

Robert caught up to her, his breath slightly hurried not from fatigue, but from enthusiasm.

"You want to see the scenery?" asked Robert confidently. "Don't just look at these boring castle walls. Come, I'll show you the great ones. I have been here a long time, well, a few weeks, I know interesting places! Places unknown to the boring old people in there."

Robert smiled broadly, showing off his rows of white teeth. He knew this smile. This was the smile that made serving girls in the Eyrie giggle shyly.

Looking hesitant, Lyanna fell silent for a moment. Her grey eyes scanned Robert's face, as if searching for something. "Would that not trouble you, My Lord? I am sure you have important business."

"Why would it be a trouble?" Robert laughed lightly, waving his hand. "I will be accompanying a beautiful woman, who happens to be my betrothed. There is no business more important than that."

He saw Lyanna's cheeks redden slightly. Of course she blushed, thought Robert with satisfaction. Robert Baratheon's charm never missed.

"Come," invited Robert, offering his arm.

Lyanna hesitated for a moment, then accepted the offer with a light touch.

Thus began Robert Baratheon's grand tour.

He took her to the outer defensive wall overlooking the city.

"Look at that," said Robert, pointing to the expanse of shabby roofs of Flea Bottom visible in the distance. "That is the lower city. The place smells, but down there are taverns selling the best brown soup. One day, I will take you there, if you dare."

Lyanna nodded, her eyes staring into the distance. She didn't ask what brown soup was.

Robert took her near the Kingsguard training ground, hoping to see sword practice. Empty. But he told stories anyway.

"Here usually Ser Arthur Dayne trains. I fought him once. He is great, but I managed to hit him," bragged Robert, exaggerating a little. "You like strong men, right? Northerners like strength."

Lyanna only nodded again. "Certainly, My Lord."

Robert continued walking, feeling more and more confident. He took her to the gardens, pointing out flowers whose names he didn't know, making up funny names for them. He took her looking around the fortress.

All the while, Robert talked. He told jokes about Eddard Stark snoring. He told how he won a drinking contest against a merchant. He told how great Storm's End was compared to this place.

Lyanna listened. She nodded at the right moments. She smiled thinly when Robert laughed. She didn't speak much. Always like that.

She was charmed, thought Robert. She was a quiet woman. A good listener type. Perfect. His charm must be working. This wild girl from the North was being tamed by his charisma.

Finally, they stopped at a quiet terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay. The sun began to set, coloring the sea with blood red and gold. The view was beautiful.

Robert leaned on the stone railing, feeling very satisfied with himself. He stared at Lyanna who was gazing at the sea. The sea breeze blew her brown hair. She looked beautiful. And she would be his.

"You know, My Lady," Robert chuckled, his voice low and intimate. "You can talk much in front of me, you know? No need to be shy or reluctant. I am not the stiff Ned. Just let out all your thoughts. I want to know my future wife."

Lyanna turned to him. The thin smile was still fixed on her lips, but her grey eyes looked different. Sharper. Colder.

"I worry if I let out all my thoughts, you would be surprised, My Lord," she said softly.

"Surprised?" Robert raised an eyebrow, laughing dismissively. "I am Robert Baratheon. I have seen many things. Storms, battles, madmen. Nothing can surprise me, let alone the thoughts of a sweet girl."

Robert leaned in a little, encouraging her. "Come on. Tell me. What do you think about our little tour? About me? Don't be afraid."

Lyanna stared at him. That polite smile slowly faded from her face, like a melting wax mask. Her expression changed, from soft to flat. Flat and hard like ice at the Wall.

"You want to know my thoughts while you were babbling?" asked Lyanna. Her voice was no longer soft. It was sharp.

Robert blinked, his smile wavering slightly. "Yes?"

"It was boring," said Lyanna.

The word hung in the air.

"And too noisy," she continued mercilessly. "Honestly, I don't even care about most of what you showed. Dirty roofs? Empty training grounds? Stories about you getting drunk? It was all ugly. Nothing interesting."

Robert's mouth opened slightly. He had never, in his life, heard a woman speak like that to him.

Lyanna stepped forward one step, looking up to meet Robert's eyes.

"And you, My Lord," she said, her index finger pointing at Robert's chest without touching it. "You try too hard. You try to look gallant, look funny, look charming. It looks... pathetic."

Robert froze. Pathetic?

"I am tired of wearing this dress!" Lyanna suddenly yanked her blue silk skirt roughly, frustration exploding. "It's tight! It's heavy! It restricts movement! I cannot step wide, I cannot breathe freely. And I was forced to use it by Father just because you would definitely be here!"

Her eyes lit up with a fire that made Robert take a step back instinctively.

"It is annoying, you know?!" cried Lyanna. "Walking around in a suffocating dress, listening to the bragging of a man who thinks he is the Gods' greatest gift to women, while pretending to smile? It is torture!"

Lyanna looked away towards the sea, her breath heaving with the anger finally released.

Robert Baratheon, Heir to Storm's End, stood transfixed on that terrace. His mouth was still slightly open. His brain, usually quick to respond with laughter or anger, was now totally jammed.

He had been insulted. He had been rejected. He had been called pathetic and boring.

And strangely, as he stared at the angry girl's face, with cheeks flushed from genuine emotion and eyes flashing sharply, the only thing Robert could think was how extraordinary this girl was.

She was not a sheep. She was not a wolf.

She was a storm.

 

[Daario]

RHAEGAR​

---

The Great Hall of the Red Keep, which had been gloomy and cold for these past few months, had transformed. Thousands of candles burned in every sconce, in every niche, and atop the long tables, creating a sea of warm golden light. The light reflected off silver goblets, polished armor, and the jewelry of noblewomen, making the entire room sparkle as if sprinkled with stars.

Music floated softly from the musicians' gallery above, a melody of harp and flute that was polite, loud enough to fill the silence yet quiet enough to allow conversation.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood near the main dais, holding a goblet of wine that was barely touched. He wore a tunic of black velvet, simple yet regal. His purple eyes swept around the room, observing the collection of humans who called themselves the rulers of Westeros.

Tonight was an important night. This was a welcoming night, an informal evening before the official oaths of fealty that would be conducted in a week. Here, amidst wine and smiles, alliances were formed and whispered.

In the right corner, he saw Tywin Lannister. The Hand of the King stood tall like a statue, speaking with Hoster Tully of Riverrun. Tywin dominated the conversation without saying much, while Hoster nodded with cautious enthusiasm. The West and River alliance, thought Rhaegar. Something he had to watch.

At another table, Princess Martell sat with her son, Prince Doran. They looked calm, observing the room with dark eyes, speaking in laughs and whispers only they understood.

Rhaegar shifted his gaze when he realized there was movement towards him.

A middle-aged husband and wife were parting the crowd. The man was slightly stout and had a friendly face, Luthor Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden. Beside him walked a woman who was much smaller yet radiated an aura of authority far greater, Olenna Tyrell.

They stopped before him and bowed respectfully.

"Your Grace," greeted Olenna, her smile sharp yet sweet like a rose with thorns. "You look radiant tonight. Even in a time of mourning, seeing a strong King is a good thing for the realm and the smallfolk. It gives them hope that the sun will still rise."

Luthor added with a quick nod, "Quite right. You will be a strong king, Your Grace. The Seven bless you."

Rhaegar returned their smiles with a light, practiced smile. He knew they said it only for mere pleasantries, sweet diplomacy. Yet it could not be denied that the praise soothed a few nerves that throbbed lightly in his head due to the party's noise.

"Thank you, Lord Luthor, Lady Olenna," said Rhaegar politely. "It is time we sweep away the grief and face the future, is it not? The Kingdom cannot stop just because one man is gone. You both also look lovely tonight. A couple truly suited for one another, like the fertile soil of the Reach and the sun that shines upon it."

Olenna laughed softly, a sound that sounded like dry paper being crumpled.

"You are too kind, Your Grace. And too skilled at flattery for a man known to be quiet," said Olenna wittily. "We are both old, Your Grace. Look, wrinkles here and there. A few grey hairs appear occasionally, and if before they could be plucked or disguised with dye, now we can hide them no longer. We are flowers beginning to wilt."

"That makes you look wiser, My Lady," Rhaegar chuckled softly. "Wisdom is a crown more precious than gold."

"Ah, if only all young men thought like that," Olenna snorted with amusement. "Most only look at tight skin and heaving bosoms."

The conversation continued lightly for a few moments. They talked about the Reach harvest which was bountiful this year, about the quality of the Arbor wine being served, and about their long yet comfortable journey.

However, Rhaegar knew, like other nobles, the Tyrells would not waste time just to talk about wine. She was heading towards something.

Then, the awaited moment arrived.

Olenna smiled, her eyes glinting full of calculation.

"Speaking of beauty and the future, Your Grace," Olenna began, her tone changing slightly lower, more conspiratorial. "Have you thought about a prospective Queen to accompany you? The Iron Throne is a cold place without a woman to keep you company."

Rhaegar held his breath so as not to sigh visibly.

"We have a daughter named Janna," continued Olenna, not giving Rhaegar a chance to interrupt. "She is a sweet girl, far more beautiful than her mother in her youth. And she is good at singing, Your Grace. I hear you like music. Her voice is very melodious, able to calm a restless heart. She is also good at reading and managing a household. Perfect for the Red Keep."

Rhaegar's mood, which had started to improve earlier, instantly fell. This was the umpteenth time he had heard a variation of this sentence tonight. Prince Doran had subtly alluded to Elia. And then many other Lords.

Everyone wanted to sell their daughters for the crown of a Queen.

Rhaegar swirled his wine glass slowly. He had not revealed to anyone, except his mother, that he would be betrothed to Cersei Lannister. It felt not right yet to announce a betrothal when his father's ashes were just cold inside the urn. He also did not want to speak before everything was formalized in a legal contract and announced.

Honestly, Rhaegar was also not too excited about all this. Marriage, to him, should be about love, or at least about a soul connection like in the songs. But he was King. And as a king, he had to find a position that was stable and unshakable. Allies had to be made. Foundations had to be strengthened.

Tywin Lannister brought gold, armies, and administrative competence that was unrivaled. And Rhaegar had also promised to marry Cersei before, a verbal promise he gave to Tywin in dire times. Although their initial agreement that could bind him had failed, Rhaegar felt bound by honor to fulfill it now.

So logically, Rhaegar could still look for another wife. He could choose Janna Tyrell and get the granary of the Reach. He could choose Elia Martell and get Dorne. But he was not stupid enough to let go of the power and influence Tywin brought at this critical time of power transition. He needed Tywin.

"I have heard much about Lady Janna, My Lady," replied Rhaegar, his voice polite but closed, like a locked gate. "That she is the fairest rose in Highgarden. And your offer is very interesting, an honor for House Targaryen."

Olenna leaned in slightly, hopeful.

"However," continued Rhaegar, his eyes looking at Olenna with gentle firmness, "I have more important matters to attend to than marriage for now. The Kingdom has just lost a King. The people are still mourning. Stabilizing the land and ensuring the transition runs peacefully is my top priority. Do you not agree, Lady Olenna?"

It was a rejection. Subtle, polite, yet undeniable. He used grief as a shield.

Olenna froze for a moment. Her smile did not waver, but her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing the young King before her. Luthor glanced at his wife in silence, looking confused about what to say.

But Olenna, who had been through more than thousands of social battles, recovered quickly.

"You are right, Your Grace," she replied, bowing her head slightly deeper than before. "Forgive this old woman. I was so carried away by a mother's feeling wanting to see her child happy, that I became presumptuous. Of course, the realm comes first. That shows your wisdom."

"There is nothing to forgive," said Rhaegar. "A mother's love is a noble thing."

The conversation continued briefly to safer topics about the palace gardens, before finally Olenna and Luthor excused themselves.

Rhaegar watched them go, merging back with the crowd. He raised his goblet to his lips, drinking the red wine that tasted tart. One attack successfully deflected. There were still hundreds more waiting.

The dark red liquid inside Rhaegar's goblet was finished, leaving a dark pool at the bottom. He looked at his distorted reflection on the silver metal surface, the face of a young king tired yet full of determination, before placing it back on the table with a soft sound almost inaudible amidst the party's hustle.

Heavy yet steady footsteps were heard approaching, separating from the crowd. Rhaegar turned slowly, his cloak rustling.

Before him stood Lord Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. The man was an impressive figure, with broad shoulders and a laugh that seemed always ready to explode on his lips. He brought with him an aura of natural warmth, as if he brought a hearth with him into this cold hall.

Beside him stood a boy who looked like a miniature yet harder version of his father. Stannis Baratheon. His age was perhaps only ten and three namedays, yet he stood with the stiffness of a war veteran. His body was a little thin, his shoulders tense, and on his lips was plastered a polite smile that looked clearly forced. However, Rhaegar gave him a little appreciation internally. The boy was trying to honor his king, even though clearly he would prefer to be elsewhere.

"I hope you are not drinking too much, Your Grace," greeted Steffon with a familiar joking tone, his bright blue eyes twinkling. "Because that means you will sleep too soon until you forget to welcome everyone who has come from far away to kiss your ring."

Steffon smiled brightly. Somehow, this man always brought a soothing air, contrasting with the air of King's Landing. He was a fresh breeze from the southern sea.

Rhaegar returned the smile, though his was more restrained. "I only drink enough, Lord Baratheon. Just to wet the throat so my mouth and tongue do not have a bitter taste after a day of talking. Getting drunk does not sound wise to me on the first night appearing in public."

"Yes... you are right," Steffon nodded, taking a goblet from a passing servant's tray. "Sometimes drinking is a medicine for most people to calm their hearts, to forget burdens for a moment. Is it not? I am glad you are not a person like that. We have seen enough of what wine does to good people."

Rhaegar nodded politely. He was not too close to the man in front of him personally. In the past, his late father often spoke of their childhood friendship of the three, Aerys, Tywin, and Steffon. But due to each Lord's affairs, they rarely met in recent years.

His father always spoke with a nostalgic tone that if Tywin was cold and calculating ice, then Steffon was the opposite: warm and burning fire. He was spirited, impulsive in a good way, and was the only person who ever made Tywin Lannister laugh more often.

"The last thing anyone wants is a drunkard king whose job is only drinking wine and forgetting his kingdom," Rhaegar chuckled softly, a comment that felt ironic considering the history of several Targaryen kings. "How are things at Storm's End, Lord Baratheon? Do storms still batter your walls?"

"Always, Your Grace. Storms outside, and storms inside," answered Steffon while heaving an exaggerated sigh. "Nothing interesting, other than people who like to get angry. My bannermen... they often quarrel over land borders, over rights to this and that, over who marries whom. Your Grace. Managing adults who act like children is a full-time job."

Steffon looked at Rhaegar with a gaze that suddenly became more serious and sympathetic. "And I think, you will experience things heavier than me. Westeros is a much bigger Storm's End, with storms far more deadly."

Those words echoed in Rhaegar's mind. Of course he had known that for a long time. He had seen how that burden destroyed his father. But he was now more confident. He was not Aerys. He had learned. He could overcome the problems that would come, he just had to have a clear head and mind. If not, he failed. And failure was not an option.

Clear mind, patience, and action. That was his new mantra.

"I do not doubt it, My Lord," said Rhaegar, his voice calm and full of conviction. "Managing a kingdom this big will require time, much thought, and perhaps a little luck. But it is an honor I accept with open arms. And I will not tarnish what my father and ancestors left behind. I will fix it."

"You have the spirit your father had back then," said Steffon suddenly, his eyes gazing for a moment into the past. He laughed a little, a sound that sounded warm yet sad. "Very exactly like that. Back then, King Aerys also had his own doubts before he was crowned, you know? Young Aerys... he didn't talk too much about his fears, but as his close friend I could see it in his eyes."

Steffon shook his head, smiling at the memory. "Luckily he also had Tywin Lannister by his side so he could get through it in every early year of his reign. They worked together, complementing each other, and the result was good. The Kingdom prospered."

Not too good in the end, was it? Rhaegar held himself back from saying it. You don't know what happened these few years, Steffon. You didn't see how that 'friendship' turned into poison.

Steffon Baratheon, who spent most of his time at Storm's End, probably didn't realize how deep the cracks were between the King and his Hand. He didn't know that Aerys's jealousy of Tywin's abilities had slowly rotted everything from the inside. The Lord of Storm's End was too busy with his own affairs, or perhaps he chose to remember the good times only. That was natural.

"And you, Your Grace, also have him," continued Steffon, pointing vaguely towards Tywin who was standing in the distance, looking dominant amidst the crowd. "Do not hesitate to discuss with him on many matters. He may be famous for his sour and gloomy face, he can never tell a joke correctly, but he is undeniably the most capable lord in the Seven Kingdoms. Use him, like your father used him. That is advice from an old friend."

Rhaegar nodded politely. "Your advice I accept, Lord Baratheon. Lord Tywin is a valuable asset."

An asset that must be controlled, not one that controls, he added in his heart.

They chatted for a moment longer about lighter things, about hunting in the woods, about the quality of new ships built at Storm's End, and about the improving weather. Steffon's laughter several times broke the formality around them, drawing the attention of some people who smiled seeing the familiarity of the new King with the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

Then, Rhaegar turned his attention to the quiet figure beside Steffon.

"And how are you, Stannis?" asked Rhaegar gently.

Stannis looked a little surprised to be spoken to directly. He straightened his already upright body, as if being inspected in a line of soldiers. Rhaegar was not close to this child. They had only met face to face three times in their lives, and every time, Stannis always looked like he was swallowing a lemon.

"I am well, Your Grace," answered Stannis stiffly. His voice was flat, without intonation of pleasantries. "Thank you for asking."

"You are ten and three namedays now?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"A good age. An age to start shouldering responsibility," said Rhaegar, trying to find an opening. "Are you enjoying the capital?"

Stannis hesitated for a moment, as if weighing between honesty and politeness. "This city... is crowded, Your Grace. And the smell is strong."

Rhaegar laughed a little, a sincere laugh this time. Brutal honesty. "Yes, King's Landing does indeed have a distinctive aroma. You must get used to it, or you must learn to hold your breath."

Stannis only nodded, not joining in the laughter. He gave a thin smile again.

"Well, we will not disturb your time any longer, Your Grace," said Steffon, sensing the awkwardness. He patted his son's shoulder. "There are still many other Lords who want to curry favor in front of you. We will take our leave."

"Thank you, Lord Steffon. Stannis."

They bowed. Steffon with casual grace, Stannis with undoubted precision.

Rhaegar watched them go, merging back into the sea of smiling and whispering faces. He saw Steffon embrace Stannis's shoulder, whispering something that made the boy relax a little.

There was a feeling of envy that suddenly pierced Rhaegar's heart. A normal father and son relationship. Something he never had, and would never have.

He sighed a long sigh, driving away the existing thoughts.

 

[Daario]

TYWIN​

---

"Catelyn and Jaime are very suitable, My Lord. Truly, I cannot think of a more matching pair in all the Seven Kingdoms."

Hoster Tully's voice sounded warm and friendly, a little too loud in Tywin's ears, full of the enthusiasm of a father who had just secured the best deal of his life, or perhaps a merchant who had just sold his wares at a high price. The man smiled broadly beneath his thick reddish-brown mustache, his eyes twinkling, reflecting the light of thousands of candles illuminating the Great Hall of the Red Keep tonight.

Tywin Lannister stood before him, his posture perfectly erect. He held a goblet of water with a steady yet relaxed grip.

"That is good," Tywin answered flatly, his voice calm, lacking the emotional intonation Hoster might have expected. "As future husband and wife, it is only proper for them to understand each other early on. Marriage is an alliance, Lord Tully, not just the union of two bodies. Their compatibility can help and complement each other in managing Casterly Rock in the future."

Hoster nodded in agreement quickly, as if afraid of losing momentum. "Exactly, Lord Tywin. Catelyn... she is a bright girl. She was educated to be a Lady since she could walk. She knows her duty. She knows how to manage a household, how to support her husband. And Jaime... ah, your son is an extraordinary young man."

Tywin listened, or at least appeared to listen, giving small nods at the right moments, but most of his mental capacity was elsewhere.

His mind was currently slightly filled with disorder, a rare and unpleasant sensation he hated. Tywin Lannister liked order. He liked control. And right now, he felt his grip on the reins of the kingdom slightly... loosening.

The cause was Rhaegar Targaryen.

His memory drifted to the recent event, inside the King's gloomy and dust-smelling solar. Rhaegar had just rejected his suggestion to replace the Commander of the City Watch and several other key officials with Lannister men.

The rejection itself was not surprising; a young King often wanted to show his authority, scratching his territorial post like a young cat. What surprised Tywin was the way Rhaegar did it.

He did not get angry or accuse like Aerys in his final days. He did not give stupid emotional reasons or hide behind poetic vagueness. Rhaegar rejected him calmly, logically, and firmly. That purple gaze did not waver.

The New King did not want the Lannisters to hold too much control in King's Landing as it would trigger rifts and jealousy among the other Lords. It was a smart argument.

But, Tywin did not expect Rhaegar to say it so blatantly. Usually, the boy, as he knew him before, a gentle figure, would only reject Tywin's advice subtly, perhaps by citing ancient history or saying that 'the time was not yet right'.

But yesterday's development was something else. There was steel behind that silk. There was something sharp behind that handsome face.

Interesting, thought Tywin, sipping his water a little to wet his lips. He is not just a puppet king who will obey everyone's wishes, it seems.

That could be an asset. A strong King could stabilize a kingdom fractured post-Duskendale, which in turn would benefit business, trade, and wealth. Stability was good for gold. But, it could also be a disaster if that 'strength' turned into stubbornness. If Rhaegar was just going to be another Aerys, who viewed wise counsel as a threat to his ego and sincere help as an attempt to seize power, then Tywin had to prepare for a long, exhausting, and dangerous game.

He could not let history repeat itself. He would not let House Lannister be sidelined again after everything he had built.

He had to quickly find a new way to control, or at least direct, the boy. If Rhaegar closed the front door to Tywin's political influence, then Tywin had to enter through the window.

Tywin's eyes shifted momentarily from Hoster's still-smiling face, searching for his son's figure in the glittering crowd. Jaime.

The boy stood near a pillar, talking with Arthur Dayne. Jaime looked relaxed, confident. He had access to Rhaegar's closed heart. Rhaegar trusted him. Rhaegar considered him a friend.

I will let him stay here, decided Tywin internally, a new strategy forming in his mind.

The initial plan was to bring Jaime home to Casterly Rock after the coronation to prepare him as heir fully and begin his marriage with Catelyn. He wanted Jaime to finish training with his uncle there, then learn to manage the mines and the port. But the situation had changed. King's Landing was the main stage now. If Tywin could not whisper reason into Rhaegar's ear directly due to political suspicion, then Jaime could do it as a 'best friend'. Jaime could be the anchor that kept Rhaegar grounded, and kept him close to Lannister interests. Jaime could be Tywin's eyes and ears in the King's inner circle, a place where even the Hand of the King was forbidden to enter.

Tywin shifted his gaze back to the party room, to the sea of fake smiling faces.

King's Landing was heating up, far different from the surface that looked full of laughter, music, and wine. Everyone here, Tyrell, Martell, Stark, Arryn, was racking their respective brains.

They were like sharks smelling blood in the water. Aerys's death and the rise of a young King who was not yet officially married had triggered their greedy lusts. They were looking for advantages they could gain in the future. Positions in the Small Council that might be vacant, port tax cuts, trading rights, and of course, the biggest prize of all: the Queen's crown.

It was sickening. They did not know their place. They thought they were equal to the Lion just because they were invited to the party. They thought they could fill the void left by Aerys. Tywin had to be able to show where they belonged. That the throne might belong to Dragons, but its foundation was built by Lannisters.

"...and Catelyn loves Riverrun very much, but I am sure she will fall in love with Lannisport," Hoster was still talking, unaware that Tywin's mind had wandered all over the political map of Westeros. "She loves the sound of water."

"That is good," replied Tywin, returning to the conversation. "As future husband and wife, it is only proper for them to understand each other. I will ensure Jaime treats her with the respect worthy of a daughter of House Tully. We Lannisters always pay our debts, and that includes our obligations to family."

"Ah, those words," Hoster chuckled. "Always soothing to hear."

Tywin swirled his cup gently, the ripples of water inside reflecting the candlelight. In the corner of his sharp eye, he detected movement near the main dais.

Rhaegar, who stood alone with a distinctive aura, as if he were the only person grieving, was just approached.

Lord Luthor Tyrell and his wife, Lady Olenna.

Tywin did not need to hear a single word to understand what was happening. Olenna's body language told everything, leaning forward aggressively yet gracefully, a smile too sweet like poisonous honey, a hand pointing vaguely towards a group of young girls in the distance.

In short, the Tyrells were selling. And their merchandise was an unmarried daughter. Janna Tyrell.

Tywin snorted softly inside, barely visible. He had once considered the girl for Jaime a few years ago, before he chose Catelyn. Janna was beautiful, had good hips for childbearing, and Highgarden was wealthy. It would have been a strong alliance.

However, at that time he thought of Aerys. Aerys would have viewed the union of Lannister and Tyrell, the two greatest wealths in the kingdom, as an existential threat to his throne. It was too risky.

Because of that consideration, the Tyrell option did not materialize. Instead, the Heir of Casterly Rock was now betrothed to the daughter of the man currently before him, Hoster Tully.

And now, Olenna was trying to sell her 'unsold' merchandise to the King. Trying to place a Tyrell rose in a dragon's bed.

Good luck, thought Tywin cynically. You will only tire your mouth.

"Yes, time will bring them closer," Hoster spoke again, breaking Tywin's analysis once more. The Lord Tully truly could not read the atmosphere or realize that his interlocutor's attention was divided. However, the next sentence caught Tywin's attention completely.

"By the way, Lord Tywin," said Hoster, his tone turning more business-like. "I have sent orders to my vassals."

Tywin turned, giving a full stare this time. His green eyes narrowed slightly. "Oh? What orders?"

"To plant hemp in large quantities," continued Hoster proudly, puffing out his chest a little. "We have all seen the benefits of your papers. The Maester at Riverrun does not stop praising it. And that seems to make the lords think about it quickly. I want the Riverlands to be the main supplier of the raw material. Our lands are fertile and wet, suitable for that fiber plant."

Tywin's lips thinned into a straight line which, to those who knew him very well, was a rare sign of approval. Almost resembling a smile.

Good, he thought. Very good.

With the Riverlands dedicating part of their farmland to supply raw materials en masse, the main obstacle to paper production in Lannisport, which was consistent raw material supply, would not slow down for now. Jaime needed raw materials in giant quantities if he wanted to meet the demand of all Westeros, and Tywin needed a stable supply chain that did not depend on imports of used rags from Essos or middlemen who took profits.

"You did well, Lord Tully," praised Tywin, and this time, the praise was sincere, though his voice remained flat. "That initiative will be very profitable for both of us. I am glad to hear it. Ensure the quality is maintained."

"Of course, of course," Hoster nodded quickly, his face beaming from being praised. "I will oversee the harvest myself."

In the distance, over Hoster's shoulder, Tywin saw Lady Olenna laughing, a laugh that looked polite but her eyes did not join in the smile. She bowed excusing herself from Rhaegar, followed by her husband who looked confused as usual. The Queen of Thorns' face looked calm, but Tywin could see a slight stiffness in her jaw. A tension in her shoulders.

Rejected.

Rhaegar did not accept her offer.

One competitor down, noted Tywin with cold satisfaction.

Rhaegar returned to being alone for a moment, drinking his wine with a distant gaze.

Then, another figure approached. A larger, warmer figure.

Steffon Baratheon.

Tywin observed his childhood friend greeting Rhaegar with a familiarity that made several other Lords hold their breath. Steffon laughed, a sound that could be heard even from this distance, and Rhaegar, for the first time tonight, looked a little relaxed. A sincere smile appeared on the King's face.

Tywin's eyes narrowed. He sipped his water again, letting the cold liquid soothe his racing mind.

He had to ensure Jaime did his job well. Rhaegar's friendship must not be obstructed by anyone.

"It seems tonight will be long," muttered Tywin, more to himself than to Hoster.

"A lively party, indeed," commented Hoster, misinterpreting Tywin's tone.

"Very," replied Tywin hollowly.

...

The 'feast' was still ongoing in the Great Hall, a noisy show of ambition where wine flowed as heavily as false praise. But for Tywin Lannister, the spectacle had lost its utility for tonight. He had seen what he needed to see, heard what he needed to hear, and made his presence felt long enough.

He excused himself without fanfare, leaving the sickening hustle of music and laughter behind.

Jaime was at his side, leaving the celebration without the slightest hesitation. His son followed with steady and silent steps, his footsteps on the stone floor sounding rhythmic, synchronized with Tywin's steps.

They passed through the long and drafty corridors of the Red Keep. Cold stone walls were illuminated by rows of candles in iron sconces embedded in the walls. The candle flames flickered slightly from the night wind sneaking in through window cracks, creating dancing shadows on their faces.

The silence in the corridor felt heavy, but it was the kind of silence Tywin liked. Silence that gave room to think, to plan, to dissect the chaos they had just left.

"You saw it, didn't you?" Tywin said in a low tone, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind, so only the two of them could hear in the empty hallway.

Jaime turned, his face calm under the dim light.

"In circumstances like this, it is inevitable, Father," answered Jaime, without a tone of surprise. "Everyone wants to see how much luck they have. The King's death is unfortunate, but it also makes people flock to reach for something."

"And that cannot be allowed," said Tywin firmly.

They arrived in front of a thick wooden door, where Tywin worked. The Lannister guards at the door straightened up and opened the door quickly upon seeing their lord.

Tywin stepped inside, followed by Jaime.

The room was familiar. Tywin walked towards the hearth where the embers were still glowing dimly. He turned, staring at his son who now stood in the middle of the room.

"The current King might look solid," continued Tywin, connecting his thoughts. "Rhaegar has good posture and a face that makes the smallfolk cry with emotion. But if he is constantly battered relentlessly by offers, flattery, and pressure from all directions, wavering will be inevitable. His foundation is not yet established. You, Jaime, must ensure he stays on the right path."

Jaime closed the door behind him, locking out the outside world. He walked closer, his face showing a hint of boredom.

"What else am I doing right now?" asked Jaime. "Rhaegar won't trust people that quickly. He is an emotional man, yes, he feels too deeply, but he is also not stupid."

Tywin stared at him for a moment, assessing. Then sat on the high-backed chair behind his desk, the position that always made him feel most in control. Jaime followed, taking the chair opposite him.

"We must accelerate our plans," said Tywin, his fingers interlocked on the table. "I will make Rhaegar announce the betrothal to Cersei as soon as possible. This can no longer be delayed. The longer he remains single, the bolder other Lords will be in offering their daughters. We must close that door permanently."

Jaime nodded, not arguing. He knew the urgency.

And after that, thought Tywin, after the blood tie was secured through marriage, he would have the freedom to focus on other things.

Tywin's eyes returned to stare at Jaime. He did not see a boy of ten and one namedays. He saw an asset. An asset that perhaps he had underutilized fully until now.

The boy and Maester Creylen who helped him, always had good ideas. Ideas that initially sounded ridiculous or trivial, but ultimately proved to yield gold and undeniable strategic advantages.

Tywin realized, with a hint of discomfort he rarely admitted, that he had never truly asked what was inside his son's mind in depth.

First because of ego. He was Tywin Lannister. He had ruled the Seven Kingdoms while Aerys played with his fantasies. He did not want to be seen as a stupid or weak person for having to ask a small child's opinion. A father dictates, not asks. A Hand gives orders, not seeks advice from a teenager.

But facts were facts. Paper. The printing press. The compass. Schools.

All of that had been proven. Paper had revolutionized administration and given Casterly Rock a new power whose value could rival their gold mines in the long run. The compass gave a naval advantage no one else possessed yet.

Perhaps, thought Tywin while staring into his son's green eyes, it was time to erode that ego slowly. Results were more important than personal pride.

The second reason was time. Serving Aerys was a full-time job that drained the soul. Guarding his own kingdom required Tywin's every attention. And Jaime was at Casterly Rock, far in the West.

But now... now the situation was different.

Aerys was dead. That burden had been lifted. Rhaegar, although needing guidance, was at least still safe.

And Jaime was here. In King's Landing. Sitting right before him.

Tywin made a decision in silence. He would let the boy stay in the capital. He would not send him home to manage Casterly Rock just yet. Kevan could manage the Rock.

Jaime was more useful here. Not just as a King tamer, but as a thinker of the future.

Tywin would start making time. He would start digging into the boy's head, mining his strange ideas like mining a new vein of gold at Casterly Rock. He wanted to know what else Jaime could create. Farming tools? New economic systems? Construction?

Or, a weapon?