JON
It was coarse and thick. Jon stared at the newly lifted sheet with nearly unbearable frustration. It was an unappealing pale gray, its texture more like worn-out sackcloth than something you could write on, and there were little clumps of fiber that stuck out from its surface like warts. After days of pounding the damned cloths until his arms felt like they would fall off, after carefully pouring the watery pulp into the mould, and after painstakingly pressing it under that strange press, the result was still a failure. Again.
He glanced at the pile of other sheets that were already drying on a nearby wooden rack. They were all the same. Each one was a testament to his wasted effort.
Jon let out a long sigh, a puff of white vapor escaping his mouth in the chilly workshop air. He could feel eyes on his back. He turned to the side. There, under the only window that let in the dim light, stood Lord Jaime and his friend, Addam Marbrand. They were also examining one of the failed sheets.
Lord Jaime held the rough paper in his hands, tilting it towards the light, feeling its texture with his thumb. Jon expected to see disappointment or even anger on the boy's face. Instead, he just nodded slowly, his expression filled with the concentration of someone examining something interesting.
"Well, the first attempt always begins with failure," Jaime said, more to himself than to anyone else. "But at least we're learning." He glanced at the pile of drying sheets. "We must be lacking in the pounding and the pressing."
Jon wanted to snort at that last sentence. We? Since the pounding process had begun, Young Lord Jaime had done nothing but watch, giving instructions from a safe distance while Jon sweated over the stone mortar, the heavy pestle feeling like a cow in his hands. It was he who had spent hours turning scraps of cloth into a disgusting, fibrous pulp. It was his muscles that were still screaming in protest.
"You could still write on this," Addam said, taking the sheet from Jaime's hand and examining it skeptically. "Well, if you tried really hard. And if you didn't mind your quill breaking."
Jaime smiled wryly, "We're making paper to make things easier, Addam, not harder."
"Why bother anyway?" Addam frowned, voicing the question that had been in Jon's mind for weeks. "We've always used parchment. You can get it anywhere."
"Now, that's where you're wrong," Jaime countered, his enthusiasm returning. He seemed most alive when he could correct someone. "Parchment is expensive. Very expensive. You have to raise a sheep or a calf, slaughter it, skin it, clean it, stretch it, scrape it… it's a long and difficult process. That's why only lords and maesters have it. Only people with money can afford it."
Jon had to agree with that. In his village, no one owned any. He had never cared much about parchment, but he knew it wasn't something you could buy at the market.
"Then you can afford it, Lannister," Addam said, nudging his friend's shoulder. "You have a mountain of gold. You could buy all the parchment in Westeros if you wanted to."
Jaime laughed, a genuine, carefree laugh. "You think I'm going to all this trouble just to use it myself?"
Addam looked confused. "So why are you making it? To sell it? You already have plenty of money."
"Of course to sell it," Jaime nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And then, something new entered his voice, something that sounded like a merchant.
"Besides, what man doesn't want to be richer?" he said. "Parchment is expensive and hard to come by. With paper, we might be able to minimize the cost. Used linen cloth is much cheaper than sheepskin. The process, once we perfect it, can be done by common laborers. With that, we can sell it for less. Much less. And a lower price means more people will use it. The merchants in Lannisport. The scribes. The septons. Maybe even the household stewards to make their shopping lists. And if more people use it…" He paused, a sly smile on his lips. "…the money will keep flowing."
Money.
The word buzzed in Jon's head like a bee. Suddenly, the ache in his back lessened slightly. His frustration with the rough paper eased a bit. He looked at the drying pile of failures, and for the first time, he didn't see a pile of trash. He saw a pile of unminted coins.
If Young Lord Jaime succeeded… if they could really make cheap paper… and if they sold it… and if the money really did "keep flowing"…
Suddenly, Jon felt a strong urge to try making this damned thing again. He didn't care if he had to pound cloth all night. Maybe, just maybe, some of that "money" would splash on him. A handful of Gold Dragons could change the entire year for his family back in Clearwater.
"You really do sound like a merchant from Lannisport," Addam said, shaking his head in amusement.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Jaime replied without hesitation. "But it's more than just money, Addam. Think about it. What makes a kingdom strong?"
"Swords," Addam answered instantly.
"Swords are important," Jaime agreed. "But a sword needs a hand to hold it, and that hand needs a brain to guide it. Information, Addam. Knowledge. That's what makes a kingdom truly strong. Right now, that knowledge is locked away on expensive parchments in the cabinets of lords and maesters. It's a slow-flowing river that only a few can drink from."
He picked up one of the failed paper sheets. "Paper… paper is a way to widen that river. To make it flow faster, to more places. If a merchant can easily write down his inventory, he can trade more efficiently. If a builder can easily draw his plans, he can build stronger walls. If a commander can easily send orders to his subordinates, his army will move faster. When information is available to more people, more people can make money. More people can innovate. And that will make all of us, the entire Westerlands, more prosperous. And a more prosperous kingdom is a stronger kingdom."
Jon listened, his mouth slightly open. He didn't fully understand everything Jaime was saying, but he understood the basic idea. His young lord wasn't just trying to make paper. He was trying to change the world. Or at least, their part of it.
"You think too much, Jaime," Addam said with a laugh, but this time his laugh was softer. "My head hurts listening to all that. Leave this pile of wet trash. The sun is still shining, and I hear the fish in the river near the woods are hungry. Let's go fishing. At least we might catch our dinner."
Jaime's serious face instantly transformed, replaced by the enthusiastic gleam of a young boy. "That's the best idea I've heard all day!" he exclaimed. He carefully placed the paper sheet back. "Much better than staring at cloth pulp."
He turned to Jon, his grin returning. "Jon, did you hear that? Leave this rubbish. Get us some fishing rods and bait from the storeroom. We're going to show Addam how a Lannister catches fish."
Jon could only nod, an overwhelming sense of relief washing over him. Fishing. He could do that. Fishing was quiet. Fishing was peaceful.
As Jaime and Addam walked out of the workshop, already arguing cheerfully about who would catch the biggest fish, Jon stayed behind for a moment. He walked over to the drying rack and touched one of the rough paper sheets. It felt like nothing. Just crushed and dried cloth.
Shaking his head, Jon followed them out of the workshop.
…
The sun felt warm on Jon's back, a pleasant warmth that soaked into his tired muscles. The air was filled with peaceful sounds: the soft rush of the river flowing over stones, the whisper of the wind in the leaves of the nearby forest, and occasionally, the muffled laughter of two boys sitting on the riverbank.
He stood leaning against an old tree, his arms crossed over his chest, his watchful eyes scanning his surroundings. Although the chances of danger here, so close to Casterly Rock, were minuscule, the habits of a sworn sword were hard to break. But most of his attention was on the two boys. Lord Jaime and Addam Marbrand sat side-by-side on the grassy bank, each holding a simple wooden fishing rod, their lines disappearing into the clear water. They didn't talk much, just enjoying the comfortable silence and the quiet competition of who would get the first bite.
"Jon?"
Jaime's voice broke the silence. The boy didn't turn, his eyes still fixed on the tip of his fishing rod.
"Yes, Lord Jaime?" Jon raised an eyebrow, straightening his posture.
"You've never been outside the Westerlands, have you?" he asked in a light tone, as if commenting on the weather.
Jon smiled faintly. "You know me well, Lord Jaime," Jon replied. "What's this about?"
"My father sent a raven," Jaime said. He was still staring at the water, but there was a shift in his tone. A little more serious, a little more tired. "He wants me to come to King's Landing. He said, 'it is time you saw how the kingdom is truly run, not just from books.' He said it could open up more knowledge and connections for me." Jaime snorted softly. "Though he didn't say it quite like that, I knew what he meant."
Jon felt a small jolt of interest. King's Landing. The capital. The seat of the Iron Throne. The place where history was made.
"Oh, you're going to King's Landing?" Addam's voice came, full of surprise and a little jealousy. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Jaime finally turned, and he smiled at his friend. It was a strange smile, Jon thought. A patient and slightly condescending smile, like an old man talking to a child. Since Jon had known him, that look would sometimes appear, as if the boy were seeing them from a great distance. And yet Jaime himself was only nine namedays old. "I just got the letter this morning," Jaime said calmly. "And the day was busy enough to start with news of a rather long journey. Do you want to come?"
Addam's eyes lit up immediately. "Come? To King's Landing? Of course," he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I've never been to King's Landing."
"Good," Jaime said, a sly grin returning to his face. "That means we'll be leaving Lefford behind."
Addam snorted lightly, his excitement subsiding into a familiar annoyance. "That boy has a dozen others to bother."
"You have a good point," Jaime grinned. Then he turned, his green eyes looking straight at Jon, and Jon felt the full force of his young master's attention return to him. "And that means, Jon, you'll have to pack. Though we probably won't leave for another month. Father isn't always in a hurry for things like this."
King's Landing. The thought swirled in Jon's mind. He would see the Red Keep. He would see the same streets that Aegon the Conqueror had once walked. He would see the greatest city in all of Westeros. It was a staggering prospect for a farmer's son from Clearwater.
"That's good, Lord Jaime," Jon replied, trying to keep his voice steady, though a little excitement was creeping in. "A change of scenery will be welcome."
"Now, don't get too excited," Jaime countered, his smile growing wider. "I hear the place smells like a pile of human filth."
The three of them laughed, their free and genuine laughter echoing over the quiet river, scaring a bluebird that was perched on a nearby branch.
Suddenly, Jaime's fishing line twitched violently, the tip of his rod dipping sharply towards the water.
"A bite!" Addam exclaimed.
Jaime reacted quickly, pulling his rod back with a practiced motion. The line went taut, and for a moment he could feel the resistance on the other end, the strong pull of something alive beneath the surface. Then, with a sudden snap, the line went slack. He reeled it in, and the hook came out of the water, empty and glistening in the sun. The fish had gotten away.
Addam groaned in disappointment. Jaime just stared at his empty hook for a few moments. Then, he shrugged and cast his line back into the water.
He turned to Jon, a small, enigmatic smile on his face.
"Fishing requires patience, doesn't it?"
Jon just nodded, saying nothing.
Indeed, Jon thought to himself, his mind suddenly flashing back to the dusty workshop and the pile of failed cloth. Everything requires patience.
GERION
The caress was so subtle, almost imperceptible against his sleep-warmed skin. Gerion felt the woman's arm draped across his chest, its softness a contrast to his hard muscles. The faint scent of perfume lingered in the air, a remnant of the previous night's pleasures. He didn't remember her name. Lyla, perhaps? Or Serra? It didn't matter. What mattered was the warmth of her body pressed against his back and the first light of dawn seeping through the cracks in the wooden shutters, signaling the end of their night.
Gerion smiled, stretching like a contented cat on the tangled linen sheets. "Hey," his voice was hoarse with sleep and the dregs of ale. "I have to get up."
"Can't you lie a while longer, My Lord?" The woman's voice was like honey, sweet and sticky, a plea designed to ensnare.
Gerion chuckled softly, a rumble in his chest. "And abandon my duties as a Lord?" Of course, he had no duties beyond entertaining himself, but she didn't need to know that. He turned over to face her. Her face was pretty in the soft morning light, her dark hair splayed across the pillow like a spill of ink. "My brothers would kill me."
"Oh... what loving siblings," she whispered, not believing him in the slightest, but playing along nonetheless. She leaned in and kissed Gerion's cheek, surrendering to the inevitable morning.
Gerion rose from the bed, ignoring the faint throb in his head. He quickly donned his breeches and tunic, which lay discarded on the floor, his movements efficient from long practice. He tossed a purse of silver coins onto the bedside table, more than enough, and without a backward glance, stepped out of the place where pleasure existed only in the night and vanished with the rising sun.
The Lannisport air felt fresh and clean this early in the morning, before the heat and smells of the day's activities tainted it. The cobblestone streets were still damp with dew, and the city was mostly quiet, save for the cries of a few gulls over the harbor and the faint creak of a distant cart. Most of the city was still asleep, recovering from yesterday's work and preparing for today's.
He found his horse in the stable where he'd left it, giving it a few pats on the neck before mounting. With ease, he guided the horse through the empty streets, the sound of its hooves echoing strangely between the silent buildings. The ride up the wide, grand road to Casterly Rock always provided perspective. The bustling city below slowly shrank, becoming an intricate model of rooftops and streets, while the mighty stone fortress loomed above, an eternal reminder of his place in the world.
Upon arriving at the castle, he handed his horse to a still-drowsy stablehand and walked with a brisk pace toward the private dining hall. He knew he was late, but he didn't particularly care. He could hear the murmur of conversation from within as he approached, a good sign that they weren't finished yet.
He pushed the door open with a flourish and strode inside. There, around the long wooden table, most of his family was already gathered. His brother, Kevan, sat at one end, his back straight and his expression as placid as ever. Beside him sat his wife, Dorna Swyft, a kind but timid woman. His sister, Genna, was there with her husband Emmon Frey, who was currently stuffing a large piece of bacon into his mouth. And of course, the children. His niece, Cersei, sat with regal grace, looking like a perfect porcelain doll. His other nephew, Jaime, sat beside her. And Genna's son, Cleos, sat awkwardly. Gerion couldn't find Tygett. His moody brother was probably in the training yard, taking out his anger on a straw dummy, or perhaps just sulking somewhere dark.
"How good of you all not to start breakfast before I arrived!" Gerion called out cheerfully, his voice breaking the polite silence. He walked to his empty chair beside Jaime and dropped into it, deliberately ruffling his nephew's neatly combed hair as he passed.
Jaime grinned up at him, not the least bit annoyed. "It certainly crossed our minds, Uncle Gery," he said, his green eyes sparkling with amusement. "But we feared you would whine for days."
Gerion feigned a wounded expression. "You exaggerate. I would not have whined for days. A few hours at most."
"Wow, what a vast difference," Cersei commented from across the table, her voice dry and humorless.
"Are you finished with all your activities of the night?" Kevan's voice came, calm and emotionless, but Gerion knew exactly what he meant. It was a reprimand wrapped in a polite question. It was Kevan's way of saying, Why do you always sleep with whores in the port? Gerion hated it, that silent, judging disapproval.
"I am here, am I not?" Gerion grunted, taking a roll from the basket. "Of course I am."
Kevan said nothing more, but his gaze was enough. He led a brief prayer to the Seven, a formality he always performed with sincere piety. Gerion bowed his head, mumbling along with the others, his mind already on the bacon and eggs.
They ate in a studied silence after that, the only sounds the clinking of silver on plates and the occasional polite comment from Dorna to Genna about a new embroidery pattern. Gerion ate quickly, his healthy appetite a good antidote to the lingering ale from the night before.
"Cleos, you have no plans today?" Jaime's voice broke the silence, his tone friendly.
His young cousin looked up from his plate, seeming a little surprised to be addressed. "No," Cleos replied quietly. "Just riding here and there."
"Then you can come with me," Jaime said with a smile. "I'm going to practice archery in the woods. It's better than riding aimlessly."
"Be sure to take more guards for that," Genna interjected, her tone that of a wary mother. "The wild boars can be quite troublesome sometimes."
Jaime laughed, a light sound. "I know, Aunt. Luckily I have Jon."
Gerion swallowed a piece of sausage and looked at his nephew. "Are you done with what you were doing, Jaime?" he asked, his curiosity piqued again. "With the linen cloths?"
"Soon, Uncle," Jaime confirmed, not a hint of shame in his voice. "It's going well."
"How well?" Gerion leaned in.
Jaime's face soured slightly. "Well enough that you can stack it and throw it like a rock."
Gerion didn't understand and just nodded.
"You enjoy doing those things, Jaime?" Kevan's voice came again, this time with a tone of genuine confusion. Not judgment, just pure incomprehension. "Spending your time in a dirty workshop. Aren't your lessons with Maester Creylen enough?"
Jaime set down his fork and looked at his uncle, Gerion's brother, directly. "I have an idea," he said simply. "And if I can make it and do nothing, that doesn't feel right."
"An idea for what? How to make more dust?" Cersei sneered.
"An idea for making something new," Jaime retorted, ignoring the venom in his sister's voice. "Something that might be useful."
"If so, you should come up with another idea." Cersei's voice came, sharp as ice. She glared at her twin from across the table. "You are just wasting time. A Lannister would not do that. Dirtying your hands with the work of craftsmen. It's shameful. Father would be sick if he saw you."
A cold silence fell over the table. Gerion could feel the sudden tension. Even Emmon Frey paused his chewing for a moment.
Jaime didn't seem fazed. He just looked at his sister with a calm expression. "A Lannister does what they want to do," he replied quietly, his voice not raised, but every word carried weight. "They do not care about the opinions of others."
Those words hit Gerion like a tidal wave.
They do not care about the opinions of others.
It was something he had lived by his entire life. It was the reason he could spend his nights in Lannisport and walk to the breakfast table without any real shame. He was Gerion Lannister. He did what he wanted. Kevan's judgmental opinions, the scorn of other lords, he didn't care.
But to hear those words spoken by Jaime, in such a simple, confident way… it felt different. For Gerion, it had always been a justification. A justification for running away from any troubling thoughts, for seeking pleasure, for being the laughing lion that no one took seriously.
For Jaime, it was not a justification. It was a declaration of purpose. He wasn't using the words to justify idleness or pleasure. He was using them to justify… work. Innovation. The pursuit of an idea, no matter how strange or "shameful" it seemed to others.
Suddenly, Gerion felt a little dizzy. He looked at his nine-year-old nephew, and he didn't see a boy. Gerion saw the embodiment of a philosophy he had claimed as his own, but used in a completely different and far more structured way. Jaime wasn't running away from anything. He was creating something.
Gerion looked at his sister, Genna. There was a glint of understanding in her eyes. She saw it. She saw the strength behind Jaime's words.
And he looked at Cersei. Her beautiful face was a mask of cold anger and contempt. She saw Jaime's actions as a stain on their perfect image.
The echo of Jaime's words continued to reverberate in his mind. They do not care about the opinions of others.
…
"You're getting heavy!" Gerion exclaimed with a booming laugh as he lifted and lowered Tyrion. "I was only gone for a few hours and you already weigh as much as a bear!"
"I ate lots of cake!" Tyrion laughed gleefully, his high-pitched voice filling the room. For a two-year-old, he spoke with remarkable clarity, his words having developed faster than Gerion's beard.
Gerion put on a mock-shocked expression, his eyes wide. He looked down at his small nephew. "Did you steal from the kitchens?"
"No!" Tyrion said earnestly, shaking his slightly oversized head vigorously. "Jaime stole it!"
On the sofa near the window, Jaime, who was sipping water and eating a pastry, choked and coughed.
Gerion looked at Jaime, raising his eyebrows in a challenging manner, seeking an answer to this serious accusation.
"I didn't steal it," Jaime countered after he managed to swallow. "I asked for permission to take them, but no one heard me amidst all the noise."
"See, Tyrion?" Gerion said, rubbing his nose against his tiny nephew's. "Your brother is very good at making excuses, isn't he?" Tyrion, of course, didn't understand the subtleties of self-justification, but he giggled at his uncle's tone.
"It's called providing an accurate explanation," Jaime added, neatly brushing cake crumbs from his hands.
Gerion set Tyrion's plump legs on the floor. "Maybe you should learn that too, my little nephew." He let go of Tyrion, who immediately toddled happily towards a pile of carved wooden blocks scattered on the carpet.
Gerion then sat on the soft sofa beside Jaime, sighing contentedly. This room felt peaceful. "He's growing up pretty fast, isn't he?" he said, watching Tyrion now trying to stack two blocks with intense concentration.
"I remember it felt like just yesterday he called my name for the first time," Jaime said, a nostalgic note in his voice that sounded incredibly strange coming from a nine-year-old.
Gerion laughed and ruffled his nephew's golden hair, just as he had at the breakfast table. "You're still a child yourself, you know."
"I'm aware," Jaime said, not trying to push his uncle's hand away. "But having a younger brother has taught me to grow up faster."
"You love him very much, don't you?" Gerion asked, his tone softer now. He watched Tyrion, who had successfully stacked his blocks and was now clapping his hands for his own achievement. It was hard not to smile at him.
Jaime shrugged, but there was a small smile on his lips. "It's hard not to when he's clever with his words and uses those eyes to plead for something."
"Those eyes do have a magic to them." Gerion agreed, "Maybe you should learn some self-defense."
"I'm already in too deep, it seems," Jaime grunted, but his eyes never left his playing brother.
A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment. Gerion leaned back, feeling relaxed for the first time all day. "Anything interesting about your day?" he asked, just to fill the silence.
"Besides making paper that's more like stone?" Jaime looked at him, grinning. "No, nothing. Every day is just spent with sword practice, going for a ride. Or walking around Lannisport, and occasionally visiting the sept."
"Do I hear a note of boredom in there?" Gerion grinned, trying to bait him.
"No, I'm not bored," Jaime defended himself quickly. "I actually like it. It's peaceful. I get to see a lot of people and make more connections. More importantly, I can think more to correct the mistakes I've made. This paper will be finished soon."
"You have spirit," Gerion said, and this time he was serious. "That's good. Passion is needed in life. Otherwise, we're just walking dolls, doing what we're told." He thought of Kevan, and then he thought of himself.
"Speaking of passion," Jaime said suddenly, his tone changing. "Oberyn has just poured his passion into something unforgettable."
The name immediately caught Gerion's attention. Oberyn Martell. The wild Prince of Dorne. Gerion knew that Jaime and the prince had been exchanging letters for the past two years, ever since the Martells' visit. A strange pen friendship between a boy from the West and a man known for his sword and his swagger.
"What is it?" Gerion raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly. This sounded interesting.
"He's just been accused of 'murdering' Edgar Yronwood, apparently," Jaime said calmly, as if commenting on the weather.
Gerion flinched. Edgar Yronwood. The Lord of Yronwood, one of the most powerful Houses in Dorne after the Martells. "As in… actually murdered?"
Jaime shook his head. "They dueled. Lord Yronwood accused him of seeing him and his lover in an inappropriate relationship. They fought, and they accused Oberyn's spear being coated in poison."
"Of course," Gerion muttered.
"Both were injured," Jaime continued, quoting from the letter he had clearly just received. "But Lord Yronwood was more severely wounded. Afterwards, the treatment apparently failed, so his life could not be saved."
"By the seven," Gerion whispered. This was serious. "What happened to Oberyn?" Killing the head of a major House, even in a duel, would have severe consequences.
"He is heading to Oldtown for exile," Jaime said. "To 'pacify' House Yronwood. He's being sent away for a while until things cool down."
Gerion processed the information. Exile. "Under a pile of books?" Gerion asked, imagining the vibrant Oberyn cooped up in the dusty Citadel.
"Under a pile of books," Jaime confirmed with a thin smile. "He's not very happy about it. He said he'd rather face the entire Yronwood army than one week with the boring maesters."
Gerion burst out laughing, picturing the Dornish Prince's face. "I can imagine." He shook his head in amusement. "There's always an adventure around you, isn't there, nephew? Even in your lettes."
"The world is an interesting place, Uncle," Jaime sighed, his eyes returning to Tyrion, who was now trying to fit a square wooden block into a round hole. "If you know where to look."