Chapter 839 - f

"Take it. Mine is ten," Alan confirmed, taking his modest share. "The rest belongs to Colin and Davos." He looked at his ten sheets of clean white paper. Ten sheets of possibility. Ten sheets of knowledge he could hold. "I also need to note down which medicinal plants are good for healing internal wounds. I'm terrible at remembering those names. They all sound the same after a while. At least with this, I can look at it anytime, even when I want to go to sleep."

Alan was the youngest son of a Landed Knight in the Reach. A title that sounded good, but didn't mean much when you were the third son and their small plot of land and castle were barely enough to support his eldest brother and his family. He had no inheritance, no brilliant marriage prospects. Here, at least he had a chance. A chance to gain knowledge, to prove himself through intelligence, not bloodline. If he managed to get enough links on his chain, he could become a Maester. And then, perhaps, he could serve a higher Lord. He imagined himself in a magnificent castle, advising a wise Lord, having access to a private library, respected for his knowledge. Maybe he could even serve House Lannister in the Westerlands, the House that had created this paper.

He badly wanted to meet its creator. They said he was still a child, the heir of Casterly Rock himself. Jaime Lannister. How could a boy, who should be busy playing with wooden swords, have an idea like this? An idea that in an instant had changed the small world of the acolytes at the Citadel? This paper wasn't just a convenience; it was a small revolution. It made knowledge slightly more accessible, slightly easier to record and store. It was a powerful tool.

Alan wanted to see with his own eyes and head how that boy thought. How could he see a need and find such an elegant solution? This was interesting. This was amusing. And it was very impressive.

Because of that, ever since hearing news of the Lannister paper a few months ago, Alan had become more motivated to learn. He no longer just studied to escape his fate as a useless youngest son. He studied because he had seen what knowledge, what an idea, could do, right before his eyes. He felt as if he were witnessing history being made, history that one day might be written on the very papers he currently held.

"So, Alan," said Colin, interrupting his daydream as he carefully stacked his share of paper. "Decided which love potion you're going to write down first to impress that milkmaid at the inn?"

Alan laughed with his friends, the warmth of their camaraderie chasing away the last of the chill from the morning queue. "I'm more interested in a potion to cure your stupidity, Colin," he retorted.

He opened the thick herbal book he had borrowed from the library, its leather cover cracked with age. He took a sheet of his new paper, a quill, and a small ink bottle. He dipped the quill, and carefully, he began to note down the complicated names, the descriptions of leaves and roots, and their uses for healing.

…

Harys opened his thick leather-bound book, its thin pages rustling softly in the silence of his small study. This was the fifth day of the week, which meant tomorrow was his day off from teaching the children. He was a septon, newly ordained five years ago, thirty name days old. A simple man from a farming family in Greengrass, a small, forgotten village in the green expanses of the Westerlands.

When the Leader Septon of Lannisport first appointed him as one of the teachers for this new Lannister-funded 'school' a few months ago, Harys's first thought was that he would be very busy. Teaching dozens of restless merchant and artisan children how to read and count was no easy task. However, he accepted the duty without hesitation. Teaching, spreading the light of knowledge and, of course, the wisdom of the Seven, would surely be favored by the Gods themselves. It was a noble job.

Now, he was preparing the lesson for later: basic mathematics. Addition, subtraction, maybe a little simple multiplication if the children seemed ready. This was the foundation for those future little merchants, skills they would need to count their fathers' goods, to weigh copper coins and silver stags.

He took a sheet of paper, the new object that still felt slightly magical in his hands, and a quill. Carefully, he dipped the tip of the quill into the bottle of thick black ink and began to write practice problems on the paper with neatness and precision. His strokes were clear and legible, a skill he had painstakingly trained for years, spending so much ink and borrowed parchment when he was still a student.

Once, he was just a weak farmer's boy. Harys was born smaller than his brothers, his lungs were weak, and he never had the physical strength to work in the fields all day under the hot sun. While other children his age helped their fathers plow or sow seeds, Harys was more often found sitting under a tree, daydreaming or trying to draw the shapes of clouds on the ground with a stick. Most farmer parents might have grumbled, seeing him as a useless burden. But his father did not. His father was a quiet, kind man, who would just give him a tired smile and say, "Everyone has their own path, son." He let him be, loved him unconditionally, and Harys was grateful for that simple kindness every day.

Because of that weakness, he was first drawn to Septon Glenn. The wandering Septon had come to their village one summer, an old man with a long white beard and eyes that had seen many things. While the other children were busy playing, Harys often snuck into Septon Glenn's small tent, captivated by the leather-bound books he owned and the stories he could tell about the world beyond Greengrass. Seeing the curiosity in the pale boy's eyes, Septon Glenn began to teach him. First letters, then words, then sentences. For Harys, it was like a floodgate opening. He absorbed the knowledge like dry earth finding water after a long drought. He was so fascinated by the power of words, by the ability to capture thoughts and stories on a page, by the history of kings and the wisdom of the Seven stored within those books.

Now, years later, he was doing the same thing Septon Glenn had done for him. The old Septon was long gone, continuing his journey to who knows where, but his legacy lived on in Harys. And Harys was determined to do it earnestly, to ignite that same spark of curiosity in these Lannisport children, hoping to change someone's life for the better, just as his life had been changed. Maybe, after all this, this was his destiny. Not to swing a sword or rule lands, but to teach.

After carefully writing several pages of practice problems, double-checking every number and word several times to ensure there were no mistakes, Harys smiled with satisfaction. He cleaned the tip of his quill, closed his ink bottle, and tidied the stack of paper on his desk. He stood up, stretched his slightly stiff back, and returned the basic mathematics book to the small shelf on the wall, careful not to let it fall. His study was small, just a simple nook within the Sept, but it was his place, a place where he could prepare himself for his duty. Then, he left the room, ready to start his day.

The Sept of Lannisport was magnificent. Far more magnificent than the simple wooden sept in his village. This one was made of gleaming white marble, with high stained-glass windows that cast colorful patterns on the polished floor when the sun shone. Its large dome seemed to touch the sky, and its bells rang with a deep, melodious sound. Of course, that was to be expected. This building was right in the heart of the richest city in the Westerlands, under the shadow of House Lannister itself. A noble family whose wealth was so great it had become legend. The gold mines under Casterly Rock, people said, might never run out, and would always be the family's main weapon.

Fortunately, Harys thought as he walked down the quiet corridor, the Lannisters were now using some of their wealth for good things. Like building the school here in the Sept. All the capital came from the Lannisters. The new wooden desks for the children, the large custom-made blackboards, the white chalk, even the small additional buildings that had just been completed in the backyard to house more classes. Lord Tywin Lannister might be a hard man, but at least he understood the value of knowledge.

"You look bright as usual, Harys."

A friendly voice greeted him in the corridor. Harys turned and smiled. It was Ormund, one of the senior Septons. He wore the usual long grey robes, his face neatly shaven, although the top of his head was already beginning to show obvious baldness. His blue eyes were kind and full of quiet wisdom.

"I am grateful to the Seven for that," Harys replied. "They have given me peace during my sleep last night. I had no dreams, just slept in pleasant silence." He paused for a moment, walking side by side with Ormund. "When I woke up, my energy was restored and I didn't have a single ache in my bones. It is a small blessing to be thankful for."

Ormund chuckled softly, a warm sound. "Ah, as you get older, sleep indeed becomes the most beautiful blessing. I sometimes dream of the past," he continued, his gaze becoming slightly distant. "A past where my parents were still alive, in our lands in the Stormlands. But sometimes those dreams quickly turn into nightmares. Things we didn't want to happen, shadows from the war... it always flashes in my head when I wake up." He sighed. "So yes, indeed. I think dreamless sleep is the greatest blessing."

Ormund was ten years older than Harys, around forty. What Harys knew from their previous conversations was that he came from the Stormlands, the son of a minor noble whose name he never mentioned. His parents were killed by a group of bandits when he was young. Ormund himself had participated in the War of the Ninepenny Kings as a young soldier before he took his vows as a Septon, so it was certain that behind his peaceful robes, he was a man who had known violence and battle. That experience gave him a depth and perspective that Harys, the weak farmer's son, did not possess.

"May the Seven bless us all." Harys felt the depth behind the man's words. There was a sadness that had settled into wisdom. "I am sure you will get through it as soon as possible, Ormund."

Ormund laughed again, this time a more relaxed laugh, as if the dark cloud had passed. "Hahaha, the Seven have already given me their blessing, Harys. Now, those dreams are just like shadows in the water that I don't care about." He reassured, his blue eyes clear again. "What will you be teaching the children this time?"

"Arithmetic," Harys showed the sheets of paper with the practice problems he had prepared. "Basic addition, subtraction. Some of them really like this, maybe because they see their own fathers counting coins every night."

Ormund chuckled, stroking his smooth chin. "Who doesn't like money? When I was little, I was once given a dragon coin by my uncle. One whole dragon! It felt like I was the king of the world." He smiled at the memory. "And I spent it all within two weeks. Buying sweets, wooden toys, even tried to buy a small dagger, which of course was immediately confiscated by my father. But it was so satisfying, when every day you felt you could buy anything you wanted."

"True," Harys agreed, smiling at the thought of an enthusiastic young Ormund. "Money isn't everything, the Seven teach us that. Virtue, faith, family, those are far more valuable. However," he added with a practical tone he had learned from teaching the merchant children, "everything in this world requires money. Bread on the table, a roof over your head, even candles for prayer. That is why one must not be lazy and must keep working hard. Not just expect something to fall from the sky like rain."

"Wise words from a young teacher," said Ormund with an agreeable tone. "You know, Harys, the work you do in that school is important. More important than you might realize."

"I am only teaching them to read and count," Harys replied humbly.

"You are giving them tools," Ormund corrected. "Tools to understand the world around them. Tools to improve their lives. Maybe one of those children won't end up just as a fishmonger like his father. Maybe he will read about laws and become a scribe. Maybe he will read about the stars and become a maester." Ormund paused for a moment, his gaze becoming more intense. "Or maybe he will just become a better fishmonger, one who is more successful and not easily cheated."

"Sometimes I wonder," Harys said softly, "if we are doing the right thing. Giving them this knowledge. Will it make them dissatisfied with their lives? Wanting more than what they were fated for?" It was a doubt that sometimes surfaced in his mind at night.

Ormund placed a calming hand on Harys's shoulder. "Fate is not a narrow footpath, Harys," he said gently. "It is a vast landscape with many roads. The Seven give us choices. Knowledge is the light that helps us see those roads more clearly. It is not our job to decide which path they must take, but it is our job to give them as much light as possible." He smiled. "And if that knowledge makes them a little more pious in the process, that is an added bonus."

Harys felt the burden of his doubt lift slightly. Ormund had a way of making complicated things seem simple and right. "Thank you, Ormund. You always know what to say."

"I only say what I believe," the older Septon replied. "Now, go. The children are waiting for you. And I must prepare for morning prayers."

Harys then said goodbye to Ormund, feeling his spirits restored. He walked out of the Sept's cool corridor and onto the streets of Lannisport, which were starting to get busy. The sun was higher now, and the aroma of fresh baked bread from a nearby bakery filled the air. His stomach began to growl.

He headed to a small, simple eatery near the harbor, his favorite place for breakfast. The place was always crowded with morning workers, but the food was good and the price was affordable. He ordered a bowl of warm oat porridge with a little honey and a thick slice of bread. While eating, he observed the people around him, the fishermen just returning from the sea, their faces tired but satisfied; the small merchants discussing the price of fish; the dockworkers taking a short break before starting their heavy labor.

This was the world of his students. A world of calculations, hard work, and simple hopes. And he, Harys, a weak farmer's son, had somehow been given the chance to give them the tools to navigate this world a little better.

As he finished his porridge and felt the warmth spread in his stomach, he felt grateful. Grateful for Septon Glenn, for his father's kindness, for the opportunity given by the Lannisters, and for Ormund's wisdom.

This was a good day. And he was ready to teach.

…

"You received another letter, Cat?"

A smile touched Brynden Tully's lips as he saw his niece, Catelyn, coming out of her room. The little girl, well, not so little anymore, she was already eleven name days old, held a carefully sealed sheet of paper. Her bright auburn hair, a Tully trademark, looked like liquid fire under the flickering candlelight along the somewhat damp corridors of Riverrun.

Catelyn blushed immediately, a pink hue creeping up her cheeks, signaling that Brynden's guess was correct. The letter must be from her distant betrothed, the heir of Casterly Rock. "Jaime said that his day today was the same as a month ago," Catelyn said, her voice a little shy. "It was spent helping his uncle, Ser Tygett, wiping swords, polishing armor, and even taking care of the horses."

Brynden's smile widened. He leaned against the cold stone wall, his arms crossed. He knew his niece. Catelyn was a serious and responsible child, grown up too fast like most firstborns. She wouldn't blush just from hearing about the boring duties of a squire. "But?" Brynden prompted, it couldn't be just that in the letter.

Catelyn's face turned redder. She hugged the paper a little tighter. "He... he gave me a poem," she whispered. "It was very touching."

"A poem?" Now Brynden was truly interested. A young lion writing poetry? That was an unusual combination. He leaned in a little. "Can you tell me? I always appreciate good words."

Catelyn shook her head quickly, her blue eyes looking at him with an apologetic gaze. "No, Uncle. This is for me. He made it himself, he said as a gift."

"Ah, how romantic," Brynden chuckled, taking a step back. He respected his niece's privacy, even though his curiosity was piqued. "I am very curious, but if you refuse, who am I to force?" He shrugged with a look of mock resignation. He observed Catelyn for a moment, the way the girl held the letter as if it were a treasure. "You like the boy?"

The question was simple, but the answer was complicated. Jaime Lannister and Catelyn Tully had been betrothed for over six months. A match arranged with lightning speed between his brother, Hoster, and the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister. Brynden still remembered how bright Hoster's face was when that raven from King's Landing arrived. A request from Tywin Lannister himself, offering his son and heir for Hoster's eldest daughter. It was an offer impossible for Hoster to refuse, whose ambition to elevate House Tully was always as great as the Trident river itself. He accepted without a second thought, without much consultation, only seeing the strategic advantage and glory of such an alliance.

But Catelyn and Jaime themselves had never met. Not even once. Jaime was busy with his affairs, first as a page and now as a squire to his own uncle, Tygett Lannister, a rather strange arrangement, Brynden thought, but who could understand the workings of Tywin Lannister's mind? Besides, there were rumors of other projects taking up the boy's time. 'Paper'. That new thing had already become a sensation throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Merchants in Riverrun talked about it, maesters at court ordered it. It was cheaper than parchment, more practical, and came from the richest House in Westeros. And apparently, something even bigger was waiting. Hoster, after his visit to King's Landing to formalize the engagement, returned with other stories, something called a "Printing Press", which he said would allow books to be copied in large numbers.

The point was, this heir of Casterly Rock was no ordinary noble son. He was a very valuable asset. Handsome, as rumored, a Lannister trademark. Smart, the invention of paper and the printing press was proof. And, according to whispers, he was also very skilled with a sword, even at his young age. Everything Hoster wanted in a husband for his beloved daughter.

But all of that was just reputation, reports, and rumors. What about the boy himself? Was he kind? Would he make Cat happy? That's what Brynden worried about.

"Jaime is very nice," Catelyn finally answered, her voice quiet and considered. She looked at the letter in her hand. "He always starts his letters by asking how I am first, about Lysa and Edmure, about my lessons. Then he'll make a joke about something, about Ser Tygett being too serious, or about how bad the food he made was, to make me laugh." Her eyes shone as she spoke. "He also tells me all sorts of things. Sometimes about a book he just read, sometimes about strange people he saw. Whether it's a real story or one made up by his own mind, it's all so impressive. He has a way of storytelling that makes me feel as if I were there."

"That's good," Brynden said gently. "But the question is, do you like him?" He stressed the last word.

Catelyn seemed to think for a moment, biting her lower lip. She gazed down the corridor, as if trying to visualize the boy she only knew through written words. "He's like a man from a song," she said softly. "The golden knight from the West. Handsome, smart, brave, even writes poetry. He sounds so perfect... but seems distant at the same time, because we haven't met at all." She paused, then turned back to Brynden, and a small, sincere smile appeared on her face. "But yes. I think I like him, Uncle."

Brynden felt a wave of relief. It wasn't burning love, of course not. How could it be, when they had never even laid eyes on each other? But it was a good start. An affection, a hope. It was more than many couples had in political matches.

He nodded, placing his large, rough hand on his niece's shoulder. "That's good," he said. "He sounds like a good lad. At least, from what you've told me, he doesn't sound like the type of man who would hurt you."

"Keep your poem safe then," he said with a smile, removing his hand from her shoulder. "And maybe next time, you can read just one verse for your old, curious uncle?"

Catelyn laughed, a melodious laugh. "Maybe, Uncle. Maybe."

He watched his niece walk away down the corridor, the paper still held tightly in her hand, her step a little lighter than before. Brynden leaned back against the wall, his smile fading into a more contemplative expression.

…

Waldon was a patient man. At least, that's what he always told himself. In his fifty years of life in this world, he had learned that patience was the most valuable currency, especially for someone like him. He had experienced many ups and downs, more downs than ups, to be honest. There were faint, happy memories, his wedding day with Ellyn, the birth of his first son Mathis, then Lyra, but more often, his mind was filled with memories of struggle: harsh winters when food supplies dwindled, mounting debts to a cunning wool merchant, his father's failed harvest that almost made them lose their small plot of land. Yes, he had known hardship like he knew the palm of his own hand.

However, these past ten years had been different. These ten years were a good turmoil, a rising tide that finally lifted his rickety boat. The peak of his career in trading had risen rapidly, far beyond his wildest dreams. At first, he was just Waldon the butcher, standing on a corner of Oldtown's busy market, selling cuts of cured meat and sausages he made himself. It was honest work, but the returns were mediocre.

Then, an opportunity came in the form of an old scribe complaining about the sky-high price of parchment. That scribe, the grumpy but sharp-witted Maester Gerold, had given him an idea. Parchment. Sheepskin and calfskin painstakingly processed into a valuable writing medium. The production was complicated, requiring time and skill, but the demand was always there, especially in a city like Oldtown, home to the great Citadel.

Waldon, with his typical patience, learned the craft. He spent his savings to buy some quality skins, learned from an old craftsman who was about to retire, made costly mistakes, but kept learning. He worked tirelessly, his hands becoming calloused and smelling strange, but slowly but surely, he mastered it. His parchment was smooth, strong, and consistent in color. The scribes and acolytes of the Citadel began to recognize it. Orders started coming in.

For ten years, Waldon's parchment business flourished. He moved from a market corner to a proper little workshop. He hired two assistants. He even started getting orders from outside Oldtown, from minor Lords in the Reach who needed parchment to record genealogies or send important letters. He could finally provide a comfortable life for Ellyn and his children. Mathis was now apprenticed to a blacksmith, and Lyra helped her mother at home. They were not wealthy, but they were secure. Their bellies were full, and they had a sturdy roof over their heads. Waldon felt proud. He had built something from scratch, with his own hands and patience.

Sipping his cheap drink that tasted bitter on his tongue tonight, Waldon listened to the chatter around him in "The Melting Candle" tavern. The sound of rough laughter, clinking cups, and drunken arguments was usually a soothing backdrop for him after a hard day's work. But tonight, there was one topic that kept buzzing in his ears, annoying him like a blowfly: paper.

This paper, that paper. The new thing from the Lannisters. People talked about it as if it were the most historic invention in mankind! As if the Seven Gods themselves descended from the sky and gave it to them.

"Cheaper, you know?" said a cloth merchant at the next table. "Half the price of the best parchment, maybe less!"

"And light," chimed in a young, drunk-looking scribe. "I can carry a hundred sheets without feeling like I'm carrying a dead calf!"

"It's whiter, too," added another. "My writing looks clearer on it."

Waldon clenched his fists under the table. Disgusted. He felt disgusted. Who needed this thin, flimsy paper when you had parchment? Parchment was time-tested. Parchment was more durable, classier. It was the medium of kings and great maesters, used for thousands of years! This paper... this was just a fleeting fad, a cheap thing for people who didn't appreciate quality.

Damn it!

With a sudden movement that made a few people turn, Waldon rose from his seat. He slammed a few copper pieces onto the sticky table, enough to pay for his drink and a little more, then walked out of that gathering place of people with no future, leaving the buzz of conversation about 'paper' behind him.

The cool night air of Oldtown felt slightly calming on his face, which was hot with anger and ale. But inside, a storm still raged. This was infuriating. It was so infuriating when the business you had built with hardship over years, drop by drop of sweat, was destroyed overnight by a fancy new invention.

A few months prior, driven by his growing success, Waldon had taken a bold step. He borrowed a large sum of gold, more than he had ever held in his life, from several other wealthier merchants. He used it to expand his workshop, buy more high-quality skins, and even hire two more workers. He dreamed of becoming the main parchment supplier in the entire Reach, perhaps even competing with the producers in King's Landing.

But then, the paper came. Like an invisible plague, it spread quickly. His parchment orders began to decline. Slowly at first, just a few cancellations here and there. But then the decline became drastic. The Citadel acolytes, who used to be his regular customers, now preferred the cheaper paper for their notes. The small merchants, who counted every copper coin, switched to paper for their bookkeeping. Even some scribes, tempted by its practicality and price, began to use it for drafts and less important letters.

Now, his parchment sales had plummeted. His newly expanded workshop felt empty and quiet. His workers sat idle more often than they worked. And his debts... those debts loomed over him like a dark storm cloud. The merchants who had lent him money were starting to ask questions and look at him with cold, assessing gazes. How was he going to handle this?

The thought made him want to hit something, to punch the nearest stone wall until his knuckles bled. He had a wife and children to feed. He had promised Ellyn a better life. He had promised himself that his children would never know hunger as he once had. And now? Would they be destitute instead? Would his good name be tarnished because of his debts? Would they lose their home?

Waldon couldn't bear the thought. A cold despair began to creep into his heart.

Lannister. The name was so bitter on his tongue and in his ears right now. They had been fabulously wealthy for thousands of years, sitting on their mountain of gold. Why? Why did they have to meddle in his small business? Why did they have to create something that destroyed the livelihoods of ordinary people like him? Was their gold not enough? Were they so bored with their wealth that they had to ruin other people's lives just for entertainment?

Waldon gritted his teeth, a burning hatred searing his chest. He walked aimlessly through the dimly lit streets of Oldtown, his mind racing. He turned to his other thoughts, trying to find a way out, a glimmer of hope. He still had a little left from that loan, maybe a thousand golden dragon coins remaining. An amount that sounded large, but with workers still needing to be paid their weekly wages, raw skins still needing to be bought, though he doubted he would need them anymore, and the loan interest continuing to accrue, this money would vanish like morning dew in just a few months.

He knew he was not alone. His fellow parchment merchants in Oldtown were also feeling the impact. Old Man Harlon, whose workshop had been passed down from his grandfather. Matthew Flowers, the bastard who worked hard to prove himself. They all had the same problem. Sales down, the future grim.

They had gathered a few times, speaking in low voices in tavern corners, sharing their grievances and fears. But no solution emerged. How could you compete with a product that was cheaper, more practical, and backed by the richest House in the Seven Kingdoms?

If only... The dark thought emerged unbidden, a wicked whisper in his mind. If only those papers were ashes... If only their mill in Lannisport was put to the torch... If only their supply was choked off.....

Maybe things would go back to how they were. Maybe parchment would be valuable again. Maybe he could save his business, his family, his pride.

If only they could...

Waldon stopped in the middle of the empty street, the darkness of the night seeming to creep into his soul. The thought was terrifying, but also... tempting. He shook his head hard, trying to banish the dangerous whisper. He was Waldon, the patient man. He was an honest craftsman. He was not a criminal.

But as he continued his step towards home, towards Ellyn and his children, the whisper remained, hiding in the dark corner of his mind, waiting. Waiting for the moment when his patience finally ran out.

CATELYN​

RIVERRUN, 277 AC​

Dancing, dancing was the lesson Catelyn loved most. Among all the duties of a Lady, embroidery made her fingers stiff, sums made her head dizzy and sleepy, only dancing felt like freedom.

She had been doing this for as long as she could remember, in this same room, under her mother's gaze and now, her teacher's, Sherra. She was good at it. Unlike Lysa, whose movements were too emotional and sometimes unpredictable, or Edmure, who at seven years old was still as clumsy as a newborn foal, Catelyn had precision. To her, dancing was arithmetic in motion. Every step had its place. Every turn had a purpose. It was easy, it was simple, and most importantly, it allowed her to forget unpleasant things.

Right now, no music was playing. There was only the sound of her soft footsteps on the polished stone floor and the rustle of her practice gown.

She moved to the rhythm of the music in her head, music played by an unseen instrument. The steps had to be steady, unwavering. Perfect. That was what she wanted. Family, Duty, Honor. The words of House Tully. In dancing, her words were: Form, Tempo, Grace.

She closed her eyes. When she spun, her simple blue gown followed her movements, blooming around her as if caught by a wind on a green meadow. In her mind, the heavy stone walls of Riverrun and the tapestries depicting the Trident disappeared. She imagined a vast meadow stretching under a cloudless blue Riverlands sky, just like the one she saw when riding with her father. Wildflowers. blue, pink, and bright yellow blossoms, bloomed around her.

The scent was so fragrant, the smell of freshly cut grass and damp earth after a rain. Calming. In this meadow, she wasn't Catelyn Tully, Lord Hoster's eldest daughter, destined for great duties. She wasn't the betrothed of Jaime Lannister. She was just Cat. Free.

She leaped lightly, landing without a sound, then bowed deeply to an unseen sun. Something rose in her chest, a warm, overflowing feeling, so strong she almost laughed. Catelyn knew what it was. It was a feeling, a joyous feeling. A feeling of pure freedom.

The movement ended with her kneeling, one hand outstretched, as if to touch a flower.

Silence.

Then, the movement ended. Catelyn opened her eyes. The green meadow vanished in an instant. She was back in the cold Great Hall, replaced by the large room filled with dusty tapestries and a high, stone ceiling.

The sound of polite applause made her turn her head to the side. There, sitting on a bench near the wall, was her audience. Her middle-aged teacher, Lady Sherra, clapped with a proud smile. Beside her, her sister Lysa, who was nine name days old, two years younger than her, clapped with exaggerated enthusiasm, her braided red hair looking so bright in the afternoon light. And beside Lysa, of course, was Petyr Baelish, her father's ward here. He was clapping too, but not like the others. He wasn't just clapping; he was staring at her.

"Good movements, Lady Catelyn. You did everything well," praised Sherra, her voice hoarse yet friendly echoing in the hall. She smiled as she stepped forward, her posture still as straight as a dancer in her youth. "Even without music, you moved in time. It was as if you were playing the music in your own head."

Lysa followed, like Catelyn's shadow. "I'm sure when the same music for that movement is played again, it will be even more natural! It was so beautiful, Cat!"

"You move like a feather. So light." Petyr's voice sounded, quieter than the others, but more intense. His gaze was so sparkling, so adoring, that it made Catelyn feel uncomfortable.

She averted her gaze from Petyr and smiled at her teacher. "The music was indeed playing in my mind, Sherra," Catelyn explained. "When I close my eyes and concentrate, it all truly feels real."

"You are a true dancer," Sherra praised again, which made Catelyn smile genuinely. She had worked hard at this, practicing for hours every week until her feet were sore. At least it paid off, and she was becoming more and more proficient.

"Now, then." Lady Sherra clapped her hands once to get their attention. "Dancing alone is one thing, it shows discipline and beauty. But for a Lady, dancing with a partner is something you must be able to do. You will do that when attending grand feasts, and special events." Sherra glanced at Catelyn meaningfully. "And you, Lady Catelyn, will be attending many feasts soon."

Catelyn felt a slight blush on her cheeks. She knew what she meant. Feasts to celebrate her betrothal. Feasts to welcome her future husband, whenever he would come.

"Therefore," Sherra continued, "we will now begin to learn again. A partner dance from the Reach. Lord Baelish, could you be Lady Catelyn's partner for a while?"

Catelyn's heart sank at that. Not because she didn't want to learn, but because of the partner. She glanced at Petyr. The nine-year-old boy's grey-green eyes held a slight glint of triumph.

Catelyn knew that Petyr liked her. It wasn't a huge secret in Riverrun. The way he always stared at her during dinner, the way he always found an excuse to sit next to her in the Sept, the way he always offered to carry her books. And it had all become a hundred times worse in the last year, ever since the raven arrived from King's Landing with the betrothal offer from Lord Tywin Lannister.

Since that day, Petyr had become quieter around her father and Brynden, but around Catelyn, his gaze became more intense, more possessive. She was betrothed to Jaime Lannister. The good Jaime. The Golden Knight of the West. The young man who sent her funny letters and beautiful poems on smooth Lannister paper, the man she imagined as tall and strong and brave, like a hero from the songs.

She appreciated Petyr's interest, truly. She should feel flattered. But she didn't. More and more, Petyr would always be following her, or would suddenly be in front of her in the corridor, as if he had been waiting for her. It was truly annoying, unsettling, and made Catelyn very uncomfortable.

Besides, before all this happened, before she became a 'prize' to be married off, she had always thought of Petyr as a brother. He was small for his age, even smaller than Lysa. He was Edmure's playmate, and Catelyn saw him as just that, another little brother who was smart but harmless. Now, his gaze didn't feel like a brother's.

"It would be an honor, Lady Sherra." Petyr bowed slightly as he said it, his voice sounding too mature for his small body. He walked before Catelyn, stood in the middle of the dance floor, and held out his thin arm.

Catelyn hesitated slightly, though she didn't show it. A Lady must be able to hide her feelings and expressions. That was another lesson she had applied long ago. With a stiff, polite smile plastered on her face, she stepped forward.

Taking the hand, she felt how small and slightly damp Petyr's hand was. She suppressed the urge to pull her hand away and wipe it on her gown. They took their positions. Their arms each held the other's, then Catelyn moved forward while Petyr moved back, following an imaginary one-two-three rhythm. Slowly at first, as Lady Sherra called out the steps, then faster as they found the rhythm.

They made a slight bowing motion, spun slowly, then stepped to the side. The tempo was good, smooth, and regular. Catelyn had to admit, Petyr was a good dancer. Much better than Edmure, who would have certainly stepped on her feet by now. Petyr moved with the same precision as her, anticipating her movements, his eyes never leaving Catelyn's face.

Catelyn, on the other hand, focused her gaze slightly over Petyr's shoulder, staring at the tapestry on the wall behind him. She didn't want to see that adoring gaze. She concentrated on the steps, on her duty, turning the dance into just another exercise. She imagined dancing with her father, or Uncle Brynden. Anyone but Petyr. She imagined, for a moment, dancing with a tall, golden knight with brilliant green eyes, but that fantasy was too precious to be wasted on Petyr Baelish.

Then it was over. The music in her head stopped, and they ended the dance with a polite bow.

Catelyn immediately released his hand and took a step back.

"Wonderful, children!" praised Lady Sherra. "Lord Baelish, your footwork is very good! Lady Catelyn, your posture is perfect. You two make a harmonious pair."

Petyr smiled at the praise. Catelyn just nodded politely, feeling relieved that the small torment was over.

"I was just following Cat's movements," Petyr laughed lightly, stepping back as Catelyn released his hand. "She is a natural dancer."

Lady Sherra shook her head, her patient smile still playing on her lips. "You underestimate yourself, Lord Baelish. When two people dance, it requires good cooperation. If one makes a small mistake, or hesitates, then the other will be thrown off. Your movements were both in perfect harmony."

"Sherra is right," Lysa agreed enthusiastically. "You are so clever, Petyr! You must practice with me later!"

Catelyn saw Petyr glance at her briefly, a quick look she couldn't read, before looking back at Lysa with a polite smile. "Of course, Lady Lysa. I could do that all day."

"Amazing!" Lysa beamed, clearly happy with the prospect.

And so the lesson continued for a while longer. Sherra had them repeat some of the more complicated steps, correcting Lysa's posture—"Lift your chin, child, you're not looking for coins on the floor!"—and praising Petyr again for his ability to adapt quickly. Catelyn, as usual, performed her part with near-perfect precision, her mind already beginning to drift far from the dusty hall.

When the lesson finally ended, Catelyn quickly grabbed her shawl and bid a polite farewell to Lady Sherra. She ignored Petyr's gaze following her as she walked away, giving only a brief nod to her sister.

She walked alone through the corridors of Riverrun. The castle felt cool and quiet in the late afternoon. She felt a breeze through the open arched windows, carrying the damp scent of the river below. The sound calmed her.

She then arrived at her room. It was her sanctuary. Her room was neat and well-organized, like everything in her life. There was a Tully tapestry hanging on the wall, a well-carved four-poster bed, and a vanity with a silver comb and a few simple perfume bottles. Everything was beautiful and familiar. Her curtains were open, letting the golden afternoon light flood the room.

Catelyn threw herself onto the mattress, her practice gown rustling around her. She stared at the ceiling of her room, at the sturdy wooden beams, noticing small, unimportant details, a small cobweb in the corner, a fine crack in the wood. Her thoughts returned to Petyr.

What should Catelyn say to the boy? How could she politely tell him to back off without hurting his feelings? Catelyn did not love him, not in the romantic way Petyr clearly felt. She valued his friendship when they were children, but now his adoring gaze felt like a burden.

And most importantly, Catelyn was betrothed. Her engagement to Jaime Lannister was an unshakeable fact, a pillar that would support her future. It was wrong for Petyr to keep staring at her like that. It was disrespectful to her, and disrespectful to her betrothal. Someday, Petyr would have his own betrothed, wouldn't he? His father would surely arrange it. It was impossible that he would just keep thinking about Catelyn forever.

Catelyn then turned on her side, staring at her own palm in silence. The hand Petyr had just held. She rubbed it on the bedsheet.

Jaime. She thought of the name. If Jaime came to Riverrun, and he saw the way Petyr looked at her, what would he say? Would he be upset? Would he challenge Petyr, even though Petyr was just a small boy? Or would he laugh at him, treating it as a joke?

It was possible, but the chances were slim. After all, they had not met. Their entire relationship was built on words written on paper. But the letters she received every three weeks... that was a bond, wasn't it? It felt real.

Catelyn fell silent for a moment, spurred by the thought. She got up from the bed, her posture once again straight and purposeful. She walked to her small writing desk and opened the top drawer. There, stored neatly and tied with a blue silk ribbon, was a pile of "papers." Jaime's papers. They were all his letters since their engagement was announced.

She took the pile, feeling the smooth yet strong texture of the paper in her hands, so different from the rough parchment the Maester usually used. She untied the ribbon and took the top letter, the one she had received last week. She opened it slowly and began to read Jaime's clear and confident handwriting.

Catelyn skipped the first paragraph, where Jaime, as usual, asked how she was, how Lysa, Edmure, and even her Uncle Brynden were. He was always polite, always attentive. She reached the middle part, the part where Jaime always told a story.

"Something interesting happened yesterday, at least to me. Tyrion is only four years old, Cat. But he can already read those thick books. He said he was tired of waiting for me to tell him a new story every night, because I rarely see him myself now (Ser Tygett is a demanding master, but I am learning a lot). So, he snuck into Father's library, an impressive feat, considering how high the shelves are, took one thick book about the history of Valyria, and read it himself."

Catelyn smiled. She had heard the rumors about Jaime's younger brother, that he was a dwarf, a disappointment to Lord Tywin. But every time Jaime mentioned him in his letters, and he mentioned him often, it was always in a positive tone, full of genuine affection and pride.

"Then when I entered his room at night," the letter continued, "ready to tell a story about another Knight, he was not ready to listen to my story. Instead, he ordered me to lie down. Of course I obeyed, he is very persuasive."

"He started playing with my hair, he said my hair is very golden, he likes that, and told me the story he had just read. The story of the Valyrian dragons and the Doom that destroyed them. I had read that book many times, of course. But when I looked into his eyes, which held so much excitement and spirit as he told of fire and blood... I didn't have the heart to tell him. So I just lay there, listening to his slightly jumbled version, until he grew tired from too much excitement and fell asleep himself right in the middle of a story about a dragon named Balerion."

The letter continued a little more, with a few jokes, and ended with, "Take care of yourself, Cat. I look forward to your next letter. -Jaime."

Catelyn stared at the letter, the silence in her room feeling peaceful. She held the paper gently and hugged it to her chest.

Jaime and she might have never met. She might just be in love with the image of a man from a song, as she had told Uncle Brynden. But these letters... they were more than just an image. They were a window. A window that showed a young man who was kind to his younger brother, who had a sense of humor, who wrote poetry, and who, despite all his rumored intelligence and talent, was still willing to listen to a bedtime story from a four-year-old.

Jaime might feel distant, but through these words, Catelyn felt she had at least gotten to know a little of him.

And everything she knew so far... was good.

TYWIN​

Tywin Lannister sat with Aerys Targaryen beside him, in a relaxed room shrouded in the afternoon silence. Golden light penetrated the windows, dancing on the light dishes of cheese, fruits, and a jug of dark Dornish red wine served on the low table between them. The silence was so thick, so intimate, as if only the two of them existed in the world.

Aerys's purple eyes glinted in the dim light, radiating an almost mad intensity that seemed so bright in the silence that enveloped them. For a brief, strange moment, Tywin felt thrown back to his childhood. Back to the long summer days, to a time when both their dreams were still aligned. A time when the man before him was not the King, but Aerys, his friend. A charming, spirited young man who often threw out ridiculous jests just to break Tywin's eternal seriousness.

The memory was so real, so vivid in his mind, as if it had just happened yesterday.

Yesterday. Yesterday was still fine. Before the crown poisoned Aerys's mind, before jealousy gnawed at their friendship until only a fragile husk remained.

"You're not drinking anymore, Tywin?" Aerys's voice broke Tywin's reverie. The King poured more wine into his own cup, his thin hand seeming to tremble for a moment. He raised the jug towards Tywin. "Come on, don't be shy. We all need something to clear our minds, don't we?"

Tywin's expression did not change. His stone mask was firmly in place. "It is still too early for me to drink, Your Grace."

"My friend, you are too strict," Aerys chuckled, a thin, hoarse sound, unlike the cheerful laugh Tywin once remembered. "What's wrong with drinking in the afternoon? To celebrate... well, the afternoon itself."

Tywin remained silent. He knew where this conversation was headed. This was not a friend's visit. This was a summons, a power play wrapped in false pleasantries. The pleasure of a conversation with the man before him had vanished long ago, buried under a pile of suspicions, small humiliations in front of the Council, and unspoken jealousy over Tywin's efficiency in ruling the kingdom. He had also buried the hope that their former intimacy would ever return.

Aerys sipped his wine, his restless eyes watching Tywin from over the rim of the cup. "I am still considering your daughter for Rhaegar, Ty," Aerys spoke slowly, his tone crafted to sound like a conspirator, a friend sharing a valuable secret.

"I know, Your Grace." Tywin replied, his voice as cold and flat as the highlands of the West.

"She is beautiful." Aerys smiled, a thin smile that did not reach his eyes. "Just like Joanna."

Hearing that made Tywin's mind freeze instantly. The bait had been cast. Of course Aerys would mention Joanna's name. The entire court knew that the young Aerys had wanted Joanna. It was an unhealthy obsession before he finally married his own sister, and even after. Saying Cersei was as beautiful as Joanna was, on one hand, the highest compliment. On the other, it was Aerys's cruel reminder of what he had desired from House Lannister in the past, and what he was considering taking, now. It was the King's way of saying, 'I wanted her mother, and now I hold her daughter's fate in my hands.' It was a small, disgusting power play.

"Yes," Tywin said, forcing himself to remain calm, ignoring the thorn in the compliment. "That is why she is suitable for Rhaegar, Your Grace." He decided to reply, not with emotion, but with facts. "Cersei also has a sharp mind. And, as you may have heard, they have a shared interest. Songs."

Tywin thought of the reports he had received, and the conversations with Cersei herself. His daughter, at Jaime's encouragement and now driven by her own ambition, had begun to change since the day she arrived in King's Landing. She started to pay more attention, to listen, and to learn. She spent time learning the romantic songs that Rhaegar liked, she even visited the Sept regularly to show her piousness. She was trying to become the perfect Queen.

"But that alone cannot sustain a kingdom, Ty." Aerys looked at him, the false warmth gone, replaced by his usual vacant stare. "Songs. A sharp mind. That's good for a Lady. But for a Queen? For dragon's blood? We need something else."

"For example?" Tywin felt a searing anger within him. Cold, not hot. A typical Lannister anger. 'Something else? What is better than my House? The cunning House Martell from Dorne? The overly ambitious House Tyrell? The poor and backward House Stark from the North? Who can offer more than Lannister gold, power, and intelligence?'

Aerys did not answer the question. He smiled again instead, a condescending smile that made Tywin's blood feel like it was freezing.

"You are my friend, Tywin. My good friend," Aerys nodded, as if convincing himself of his own lie. "We do not need a marriage alliance to remain close and on good terms. To keep this kingdom intact. Right?"

And there it was. The rejection wrapped in false nostalgia. Aerys was not just evading; he had thrown the offer away. He had rejected Cersei. He had rejected House Lannister.

Tywin did not let a single muscle in his face move. He refused to give Aerys the satisfaction of seeing his reaction. He had anticipated this as a possibility, of course. Aerys was increasingly erratic. But to hear the rejection spoken so lightly, framed as a continuation of their long-dead friendship, was an insult that went beyond political calculation.

"When our two Houses are united, Your Grace," Tywin replied, his voice remaining low and emotionless, ignoring the King's previous statement as if it were a trivial breeze. "It will be stronger. This alliance will ensure the kingdom remains intact even after we are gone." He let the words hang. We. Placing them on equal footing, as planners of a legacy.

Aerys laughed. Not the cheerful laugh of their youth, but a dry, thin laugh, like dead leaves being dragged by the wind over a tombstone.

"Ah, when we are gone..." Aerys swirled his cup, his eyes staring into the dark red liquid as if searching for answers in its depths. "Our story will still be told, Ty. Of course it will. And it will probably be much easier to spread than before." His purple eyes shifted to Tywin, glinting with a mix of scorn and... something darker. "It's all thanks to that 'clever' son of yours."

He said the word 'clever' as if it were a disease, a kind of disgusting poison. "Have you forgotten his new toy? The printing press?" Aerys snorted. "I hear he has copied The Seven-Pointed Star thousands of times." He waved his thin hand in a dismissive gesture. "That means he can also copy the story of our friendship. How wonderful. The tale of the Dragon and the Lion, bound forever in ink and paper, for everyone to read."

The comment, like a dagger wrapped in silk, landed squarely on target. Of course Aerys would belittle the achievement, twisting it into a mockery of their fractured legacy. Yes, his son Jaime had done that, with his permission, of course.

Tywin suppressed a wave of cold satisfaction. Let Aerys mock. The printing press was a revolution, and Tywin had monopolized it from the beginning. Cooperating with the High Septon, after a 'donation' that was enormous for the Great Sept of Baelor, had provided an invaluable blessing. The printed Seven-Pointed Star, identical and affordable, was now spreading throughout Westeros, carried by merchants and pilgrims.

It was a brilliant political coup. House Lannister was now seen as a pious protector of the faith, a spreader of the holy word. Septons across the kingdom, from the North and South, all praised him. Merchants in Lannisport and Oldtown queued to buy copies, each stamped with an inconspicuous little lion on the last page. It was an unprecedented return. Sure, the cost was enormous. Gold had flowed out of Casterly Rock like a river in spring to fund the press and 'encourage' the Faith's cooperation.

But it was worth it. Every coin was an investment in legitimacy, influence, and soft power. And as he always said, Lannister gold would never run out.

And not just that. Schools. Aerys didn't even know the half of it. While the first 'school' attached to the Sept in Lannisport, funded by the Lannisters, was quickly swarmed by the sons of wealthy merchants and master craftsmen wanting their children to learn to read, a larger blueprint was being laid.

A real school, a secular institution dedicated to teaching numbers, letters, and history, the Lannister version of history, was being built as well. Funded entirely by Casterly Rock. It would produce loyal scribes, and competent officers to manage the mines and ports. Knowledge was power, but controlled knowledge was domination.

"Ah, yes, our friendship," Aerys sighed, feigning sorrow, his thin lips still curved upwards in a false smile that didn't reach his eyes. He put down his cup with a small clink. "A rare gem, isn't it? As rare as... unwavering loyalty." He let the silence hang between them, heavy and accusatory.

The King's eyes narrowed, his focus sharpening on Tywin with an uncomfortable intensity. "You know, Tywin, sometimes I wonder." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I wonder, is loyalty like your gold?" He gestured to the cup in front of Tywin, the untouched cup. "The more you have, the more you want to protect." He paused, leaning a little closer, the sour smell of wine wafting from him. "And... the more you want to take."

The threat behind the words was clear: You are too greedy, Tywin. You are taking too much. Aerys saw his Hand's every move not as service to the realm, but as a personal hoarding of power. And perhaps, Tywin thought, he was not entirely wrong.

Tywin met the King's gaze without blinking. "Loyalty, Your Grace," Tywin replied, his voice as cold as ice, as sharp as a sword's edge. "Is the foundation of a kingdom. Without it, nothing can be built." He paused for a moment, choosing his words. "And gold is its mortar. Without the latter, even the strongest foundation will be useless, crumbling under its own weight, and finally turning to dust."

He didn't need to remind Aerys who had been providing that mortar for the past several years. Who had paid the crown's debts, funded tournaments, and rebuilt the fleet.

"True." Aerys agreed, too quickly. He picked up the jug again, his hand trembling more visibly now. Dark red wine spilled a little onto the polished wooden table, spreading like a bloodstain. "Very true." He chuckled, an unpleasant sound. "And that's why you made that 'paper' and 'printing press', isn't it? To make more of your reputation and gold at the same time?"

He pointed at Tywin with a wine-stained, thin finger. "Clever move, my Hand! Always clever!" The praise sounded like a curse, like the hiss of a snake. "But, Tywin..." Aerys leaned forward, his eyes wide in a parody of sincere concern, madness swirling in their depths. "I am warning you. As your friend." He spat the word 'friend' as if it were poison. "You had better be careful."

He took a deep swig of his wine, then slammed the cup on the table. "Your moves might be making some of the great Houses worried." He stared hard at Tywin. "It's too fast. Too... ambitious."

'One of them being yourself, isn't it?' Tywin thought coldly. 'You are the most worried of all. Worried that the Lion is no longer content to just be your shield, but is becoming brighter than you. You cannot match my competence, so you call it ambition.'

"I am only trying to make knowledge more affordable for the people, Your Grace." His voice was flat, a statement of fact, not a defense. "The strength of a kingdom lies in its enlightened people. A craftsman who can read is a good thing. A soldier who can read a map is harder to get lost." He paused, then added deliberately, "If some Lords prefer their people to remain ignorant and illiterate, that is a reflection of their own fear."

He let the implication hang: that a strong Lord is not afraid of an intelligent populace.

There. A twitch.

In Aerys's purple eyes, Tywin could see it, a quick, hot flash of anger, like lightning behind a storm cloud. The King did not like being told that his Lords, and by implication, himself, were backward or afraid. But it vanished as quickly as it came, swallowed by the ever-thickening wine.

"Well," Aerys chuckled, the sound now strained and fragile. "I am just reminding you." He leaned back, raising his cup. "To our friendship, Ty."

'And I am also reminding you,' Tywin thought, his gaze as hard as Valyrian steel, 'not to do anything foolish, Aerys. Do not force me to choose between my loyalty to you or my family's legacy.'

As always, Thanks for reading! You can read chapters early on Patreon! Award ReplyReport501Daario3/11/2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Tywin VII View contentDaario5/11/2025NewAdd bookmark#691TYWIN​

Night came with a sudden and almost brutal speed, as if a heavy shroud of black velvet had been forcefully drawn across the skies of King's Landing. Within the countless corridors of the Red Keep, servants hurried. Candles were lit one by one, their trembling flames fighting a losing battle, small flickering points of light trying to pierce the thick darkness that now swallowed all form and sound around them. The air felt bitingly cold against the skin, carrying a sticky dampness, and the unmistakable aroma of the capital: a mixture of the spirit of thousands of people still active, sooty smoke from billowing chimneys, the faint smell of horse manure, and the salty, eternal scent of the sea.

Deep in the belly of the keep, in the vast, hot kitchens of the Red Keep, Tywin Lannister sipped his wine. He ignored the clamor of the cooks and kitchen hands in the distance, their hustle and bustle merely an irrelevant background hum. The dark red liquid swirled slowly in his cup, catching the light of the hearth fire. His eyes were fixed on a stone wall before him. He was not truly seeing it, yet his mind traced it with an unnatural intensity. He noted every fine crack that split the mortar, every faint stain from spilled wine or gravy that soiled its surface, and even every tiny speck of soot that seemed to tell silent stories of endless activity.

However, his mind was not in the kitchen. His mind was filled with Aerys. A king now beyond repair, rotten to the core. Every day spent in that man's presence was an extraordinary test of his patience. He had to stand there, listening to endless ramblings about all sorts of ridiculous things. Meanwhile, he himself could only remain silent, as stiff as a stone statue that could not move.

He hated that feeling. He hated it with every fiber of his being. A suffocating feeling of helplessness, as if his fate, his legacy, and his family's future were entirely in the grasp of the foolish man sitting on that monstrous iron throne. He would shed these shackles. He was a Lannister. And a Lannister would never allow such a situation to drag on, allowing his honor and power to be eroded bit by bit by a jealous king.

His thoughts shifted, his focus now turning to other possibilities, to the branches of destiny he would have to force to grow. He had to do something if, or rather, when, the bond between Rhaegar and Cersei could not be realized. Another betrothal had to be considered, an alliance that would benefit House Lannister, a move that would strengthen his position. However, he would not be hasty. Haste was weakness.

Besides, there were still many opportunities.

Time, for him, was a deep, dark river, flowing unpredictably. And at every moment, in every ripple on the surface, new opportunities would always appear for those wise enough to look for them. He just had to be patient a little longer, observe carefully, and then seize it when the opportunity came. Exactly like a master fisherman who patiently prepares the best hook and bait, who studies the currents and the weather, then sits and waits for as long as he can, for hours, for days, until a large, valuable fish takes his bait.

Yes, no matter what one did in life, whether it was forging a sharp sword, fighting on a bloody and muddy battlefield, or ruling a vast kingdom, the core of it all remained the same: patience, strategy, and the ability to see and exploit opportunities.

Feeling enlightened, and a little calmer from his thoughts, Tywin then thought of his son, Jaime. The reports kept coming. His son was performing the tasks ordered by Tygett well, with dedication and skill. This was from Jaime's own reports, written neatly on paper, as well as from Tygett's reports. Jaime was doing the right thing.

And all this time, Jaime had never met his betrothed, Catelyn Tully, in person. Tywin was of the opinion that his son's current duties were far more important. Especially since the engagement itself was already tightly locked, sealed by promises between two Great Houses, and could not be contested.

However, he now felt that this was the right time. Time to let them meet. A connection, a personal bond, was much needed even in a political engagement. It smoothed the alliance. Especially if Jaime, with his charm and intelligence, could make the girl truly fall in love with him. A wife who adored her husband would be far easier to control in the future. Catelyn would become a more obedient tool in the hands of House Lannister.

With that thought, Tywin planned to send a raven to Tygett soon. His orders would be clear: he must go with Jaime to Riverrun. An official visit. The same letter, more polite, would also reach Hoster Tully, Catelyn's father, announcing their arrival.

Tywin sipped his wine again tonight, but did not finish it. He set the cup down with a soft clink on the rough wooden table. He would not allow himself to get drunk, not even slightly. His mind had refocused on the next steps.

Standing slowly, Tywin then walked towards the kitchen exit. His sharp, pale green eyes stared flatly at the people who glanced his way, a dishwasher with red hands, a sweating cook. These lowly people, who immediately turned their gazes back to their work, filled his mind with a single word: weak. That was what was on Tywin's mind. People like them would only ever be in a place like this, mired in nothingness, never able to ascend to the highest peaks of power and influence.

They could not even meet his eyes.

As he walked down the corridor filled with the dim light from the many candles hanging on the walls, Tywin went out a side door, feeling the cool, gentle night breeze hit his face. The air outside felt fresh after the heat of the kitchen. He saw the expanse of countless stars twinkling in the pitch black sky, and thought that they must have been up there for a long time, eternal, never disappearing. And House Lannister, would always be like that.

They would be the brightest star in the sky.

"It is bright and cloudless today, the stars look so beautiful, which makes one want to watch them for a long time, is that not true, Lord Hand?"

That calm voice broke his reverie. Tywin turned, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. It was Rhaegar Targaryen, beside him stood the red-haired Jon Connington, loyal as a guard dog. Tywin bowed his head slightly, a stiff and measured gesture of respect.

"Their beauty is indeed worthy of admiration, Prince." Tywin agreed, his voice flat. "But as a man with much work, it is a pity I do not have much time to simply gaze at the sky."

"I would have expected as much, being Hand is difficult." Rhaegar smiled faintly, a smile full of understanding. At least this boy appreciated his efforts more than his father did.

Tywin nodded lightly. "When one wants this kingdom to run as it should, they must bear all of it." He then changed the subject, his eyes glancing briefly at the small harp Rhaegar was carrying. "What do you intend to do on a night like this, Prince?"

Tywin already knew what the prince wanted to do, of course. The prince and his obsession with music.

"I spent today practicing with my sword constantly on the training ground," Rhaegar explained. "So my whole body is sore. I thought of singing, it calms my mind. I have a great many songs, and your son, Lord Hand, has given me some of them."

"Jaime does enjoy singing songs," Tywin confirmed, his voice remaining flat. It was a small lie, or rather, an assumption stated as fact. He had personally never heard the boy sing; he had no time for such frivolities. "He also likes to practice with Cersei." This fact he knew.

"Ah, Lady Cersei." Rhaegar's smile widened slightly, his indigo eyes softening for a moment in memory. "Yes, she has a fine voice. I have played the harp for her."

Tywin knew that. Cersei's effort to learn with Jaime, apparently, was not in vain. There was a small, cold satisfaction within him. At least the girl was beginning to think that different skills were needed to bind different people. She was starting to understand that beauty alone was not enough, especially in this court, which was filled with dozens of beautiful women from every corner of the kingdom. Rhaegar Targaryen, the prince, must have been bored of it. He craved something more, and Cersei, it seemed, was beginning to learn how to provide it.

Behind Rhaegar, Tywin noticed Jon Connington make an almost invisible bored face. His brow furrowed slightly and his lips thinned. His devotion to the prince was already common knowledge.

"What song do you wish to play today, Prince?" Tywin said, bringing the conversation back on track. He had other things to do, not stand in the cold and discuss music.

Rhaegar laughed softly. "This is a song your son told me of, Lord Hand. A haunting melody. I am sure you have heard it often at Casterly Rock." The prince hugged his harp a little tighter. "Would you care to join me and hear me sing my version?"

No, Rhaegar was very wrong. Tywin never knew what songs Jaime had, nor did he care, as long as the hobby did not interfere with more important duties. The invitation was clearly extended half in jest, a formal politeness that was expected to be formally declined.

However, Tywin, in an instant, decided to see where this would lead.

"Certainly," Tywin said.

He even allowed a small smile, a stiff and rarely shown muscle movement, to touch his lips.

The reaction was exactly as he had expected. The answer seemed to leave Rhaegar and, even more so, Connington, completely stunned. Rhaegar's eyes widened slightly in confusion before he managed to control himself, while Connington looked as if Tywin had just announced he would dance naked under the moonlight.

"Very well," Rhaegar said. His voice, usually full of calm confidence, now sounded a little hesitant. The prince clearly had not expected his offer to be accepted, and now seemed a bit unsure what to do. "Let us go to a quieter place then. Over there, near the small tower."

They walked in heavy silence. Tywin followed behind him, his steps measured and soundless. Connington walked at Rhaegar's side, his posture stiff and protective, his wary eyes glancing briefly at Tywin before staring straight ahead again. The night wind rustled softly through the trees.

They found an isolated bench in the shadow of an old tower, far from the main path and hidden from most of the castle windows. There were not many people here; in fact, there was no one. The place was deserted, silent, lit only by the cold starlight and the dim light from the moon.

Rhaegar sat on the bench, placing his harp on his lap. Jon Connington remained standing behind him. Tywin did not sit next to the prince; instead, he remained standing for a moment, observing, before finally sitting on the other end of the cold bench. The stone felt hard and uncomfortable beneath him, a familiar and almost calming sensation.

Rhaegar's long, slender fingers hovered over the harp strings, but he did not play yet. He looked at Tywin, a thin, nervous smile playing on his lips.

"Well, Lord Hand, since you are willing to see me play this time, I feel I must at least try to make you enjoy it."

It was an attempt to be polite, to ease the awkwardness between them. Tywin simply looked at him, his face unreadable in the gloom.

"I have often heard you play music and sing," Tywin said, his voice flat. "Though only in passing, when walking through the halls or gardens, Prince. And it is very good."

It was the truth. The prince's music was one of the few things in King's Landing that did not sicken him. It was structured, precise, and executed with a technical skill that Tywin could appreciate.

Before Rhaegar could respond to the unexpected compliment, Connington spoke up for the first time. His tone was sharp, as if defending the prince from an unspoken criticism.

"Yes, your singing is good, Rhaegar," he said quickly. "You do not need to be modest every time. Just play."

Rhaegar's eyes met Tywin's for a final moment, as if seeking confirmation. Tywin just gave a slight nod, once. It was enough.

Then Rhaegar played his harp.

The melody was foreign. Not like the grand melodies of Westeros or the lewd songs from the taverns. The notes were simple, clean, and filled with a deep melancholy. Then, the singing came. Rhaegar's voice was clear and strong, carrying a sadness that seemed to surpass his age.

"Yesterday,"

That one word hung in the cold night air. Yesterday.

"All my troubles seemed so far away."

The song began strongly, and suddenly, without his permission, Tywin's mind was thrown back. Not to last year, or a decade ago, but to a past that felt like only yesterday. An image so clear it hurt appeared in his mind: Joanna. Not the pale, sick Joanna on her childbed, but Joanna alive. She was smiling at him on the balcony of Casterly Rock, her golden hair gleaming in the sunset, her green eyes, the same green as Cersei's, but full of warmth, crinkling at the corners with laughter. Yesterday.

"Now it looks as though they're here to stay."

The thought shifted, like a cloud covering the sun. Joanna was gone. And those troubles were indeed here to stay. Much further back, he remembered Aerys. Not the tense king on the throne, but the young Aerys, Prince Aerys. Handsome, charming, cheerful. The two of them, like two inseparable people, planning the renewal of the kingdom in these very halls. They were going to bring unprecedented prosperity.

"Oh, I believe in yesterday."

Yes, he believed in yesterday. Yesterday was where things made sense. Now they were still physically close, Aerys on the Iron Throne, he in the Tower of the Hand, yet the distance between them felt greater than the stretch from Dorne to the Wall.

Rhaegar took a breath, his eyes closed, completely immersed in the music.

"Suddenly,"

"I'm not half the man I used to be."

"There's a shadow hangin' over me."

"Oh, yesterday came suddenly."

Everything had changed. Joanna's death was a sudden storm, ripping away his anchor. And Aerys's corruption... was that sudden too?

Rhaegar's fingers moved across the strings, the notes becoming more urgent, more questioning.

"Why she had to go, I don't know, she wouldn't say."

"I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday."

The song softened again, returning to the heart-wrenching initial melody.

"Yesterday."

"Love was such an easy game to play."

"Now I need a place to hide away."

"Oh, I believe in yesterday."

The final string vibrated in the air, its note holding for a long time before finally fading into total silence.

Rhaegar let his hands rest on the harp. The silence seemed thicker than before. Jon Connington looked at his prince, then at Tywin, his face tense. Rhaegar himself looked emotionally drained, but he watched Tywin with curious eyes, awaiting judgment.

Tywin did not move. He sat petrified on the cold bench. The enlightenment came, not as a storm, but as a cold, absolute clarity.

Ah, Tywin understood it. He finally understood.

The song, that song had given him the key. The Aerys who was here, in the Red Keep, was not the Aerys of yesterday. He was not his lost friend.

He was the shell of that man, a man possessed by a gnawing stress. He was just someone wearing his friend's skin.

The Aerys he knew was dead, as surely as Joanna, killed not by poison or dagger, but by his own burdens and by Tywin's success. And this man sitting on the Iron Throne, he should not be there, it was because he was weak. He did not deserve to wear that crown.

The thought freed him. The loyalty that had bound him for so many years, the sense of responsibility that had weighed him down, it all vanished. He owed no loyalty to this fragile, jealous man, who cared more for his wounded ego than the prosperity of the kingdom.

Slowly, Tywin turned his head to look at the prince.

"You played it well, Prince," Tywin said. His voice was calm.

Rhaegar looked slightly relieved, though he clearly did not understand the depth behind those words. "I am glad you liked it, Lord Hand."

Tywin liked it very much. The song had given him more than just a moment's entertainment. It had given him clarity. His mind was clearer now than ever before. The fog of frustration had lifted. He knew what he had to do. Not now, not tomorrow, but the path was clear.

Glancing at Rhaegar again for a little longer. Tywin felt free.

And then... the butterfly flies :'p

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"The red house yonder," Oberyn Martell suddenly spoke up, his smooth voice carrying clearly over the market din. He pointed with his chin toward a three-story building painted a striking wine-red, from within drifted the sounds of flirtatious music and the high, shrill laughter of women. "I hear it is a place of some passion, Gerion," Oberyn grinned, his hot, Dornish smile playing on his thin lips.

"Their lovely women," he continued, his dark eyes glittering with mischief, "are rumored to be as spirited as mares. They can keep a man company from dusk until the dawn breaks again, without pause. Ah, if only our own vigor could match theirs, life would be far more pleasant, would it not?"

Gerion Lannister gave a small laugh and shook his head, his thick golden mane swaying slightly. He was well accustomed to the Dornish Prince's ribald jests. "Such affairs are better savored no more than once a sennight, Oberyn. Consider it. You can gather your strength, build the anticipation, and then spend it all in one memorable night. It makes the prize far sweeter. It is a boon for patience, like a fine wine, cellared for years before it is uncorked."

"I suppose our paths diverge, Gerion," Oberyn said with dramatic flourish, as if his heart had just been broken. "I find no burning passion in you. You think too much, too much strategy even for the bedchamber. And that is a great pity, for I have greatly enjoyed our travels together of late. Perhaps... perhaps it is time we parted ways."

Gerion knew it was only a jest.

They had been traveling together for the better part of a year, a friendship forged in dust and bargaining. Gerion had found Oberyn in Oldtown. The young prince had sought Gerion out as soon as he heard the rumors of his nephew's wondrous paper.

Oberyn had wanted to see and hear about Jaime's paper from Gerion's own mouth. With a burning intensity, he had asked how it was made, its raw materials, the process. Of course, Gerion had only answered vaguely; it was a valuable Lannister trade secret, not something to be shared, not even with Jaime's friend.

Oberyn was 'studying' at the Citadel at the time. He was mastering the art of poisons, at least that's what he proudly claimed. He said that if the world was going to insist on calling him the 'Red Viper'—a nickname he had earned from the rumored killing of Lord Yronwood, he might as well master it fully. He would wear the moniker with pride, make it a weapon, rather than be like a sniveling child whining about slander.

But Gerion knew that Oberyn bored quickly. So, when the prince heard that Gerion was planning a trade journey to Essos for House Lannister, Oberyn immediately volunteered to come along. Gerion, who always appreciated a clever and slightly dangerous drinking companion, had readily agreed. Of course, Gerion told no one about his infamous traveling partner, especially not Tywin in his reports. As far as Westeros knew, Prince Oberyn Martell was still safely buried in the Citadel's libraries in Oldtown.

"I thought our friendship ran deeper than that?" Gerion acted in kind, placing a hand on his chest. "But if it is your deepest wish, Oberyn, I cannot stop you. But know this, you will always be in my deepest heart."

Oberyn truly clutched his own chest, his eyes welling with mock tears. "Your words wound me, Gerion. So poetic. Perhaps I will stay with you a while longer. Just to see if you are still worth fighting for."

"I will prove it tonight," Gerion smiled, amused. "With the finest wine gold can buy."

They continued on their way, their laughter fading. Behind them, a dozen Lannister guards followed quietly, their hands ready on the hilts of their swords, their eyes warily scanning the foreign crowd. They were a stark contrast to the thin silk garments and olive skin of the local populace.

Currently, Gerion was in Myr on official business, representing the trade interests of House Lannister. He was scheduled to discuss the price and export volume of paper with one of the wealthiest Magisters in the city, a man named Lorras.

As they moved deeper into the heart of the city, the sights began to change. Gerion's laughter and jests slowly faded, replaced by a discomfort that gnawed at his stomach. In Myr, as in many of the Free Cities, there were slaves. It was a sight that made Gerion deeply uncomfortable every time he saw these human beings, marched through the streets with their necks bound by iron collars, and given only tattered rags to cover their bodies.

They were treated like filthy animals. No, Gerion corrected himself internally, even animals were treated with more respect. Horses, for example. His guards' horses were well cared for; their coats had to be brushed regularly, their hooves needed to be trimmed and shod, and they were also fed plentifully to keep them healthy and strong. Horses were an investment.

But these slaves? They were thin, their eyes dull and empty. They received none of that. All the basic things that even the poorest man should have, freedom, dignity, they could not have. It was a sickening sight.

They finally arrived at the gates of Magister Lorras's complex. The contrast with the squalid streets they had just passed was striking. The building was large, magnificent, and had an admirable architecture, a private palace built from expensive, yellowish-brown stone. A high, sturdy wall surrounded the property to protect the wealth within. At the main gate, stood two gate guards. They wore brightly polished armor and featureless masks, making them look like lifeless metal statues. They were as still as stone, not even blinking as the Lannister party approached.

"We come here at the invitation of Magister Lorras," Gerion said, his voice clear and firm. "We have some business to discuss."

One of the masked guards looked at him for a moment, then gave a single, wordless nod, and the gate began to open, granting them entry.

Inside, there was a courtyard so perfect it seemed unreal. It was something isolated from the chaos and suffering of the city outside. The courtyard was vast, and the grass was trimmed with impossible precision, its color a deep emerald green. A large pool in the center reflected the blue sky, its water so clear that Gerion could see the intricate stonework bottom beneath.

And the smell. The scent in the air was so fragrant, a soft aroma like the most expensive perfume made from rare flowers. It was subtle, it was calming... and to Gerion, it felt nauseating. This paradise, he thought bitterly, was bought with the suffering of the slaves he had just seen.

When they stepped into the manse itself, a coolness immediately enveloped them, a welcome contrast from the heat outside. Magister Lorras greeted them in a marble-lined atrium. He stood there with his arms open wide, a smile blooming on his well-groomed face, which was slightly wrinkled around the eyes and featured a neatly trimmed mustache.

He wore clothing clearly designed to display wealth without looking garish; the finest black silk robes, embroidered with fine gold and silver thread in intricate geometric patterns. Behind him stood several masked guards identical to the ones at the gate, and several serving women who kept their eyes downcast, almost invisible.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Lord Gerion Lannister. I hope your journey was pleasant," Lorras said, his voice smooth and practiced. He bowed slightly for a moment, a calculated gesture of respect.

Gerion returned the smile, the smile of a Lannister trained in diplomacy. "My journey was indeed pleasant, Magister. I saw many sights that do not exist in Westeros, and it was very entertaining."

'No,' his mind whispered sharply, 'seeing men chained like hounds is not entertaining in the slightest.'

"Ah, yes!" Lorras gave a small laugh, as if Gerion had shared a private joke. "Because of the efforts of many Magisters to build this city, the sights have indeed become very beautiful, have they not? Everything is made with care, from every stone that is laid, the artisans who carve them, and even the placement of the gardens. We all think about it very carefully."

Lorras proudly led them into a larger room, a luxurious receiving room filled with plush sofas and silk cushions. A low table sat in the center. "Sit, my lords, do not be shy. It is rude to start a conversation without a drink to smooth the throat, is it not?" He gestured to the sofas. "What do you prefer? Tea? Fresh fruit juice? Or perhaps Dornish wine? I have a very fine vintage."

"Orange juice, if you have it," Gerion said, choosing something simple. "It is quite hot today, and I think that would be very refreshing." He and Oberyn sat on the sofa opposite the Magister.

"And your friend...?" Lorras gestured to Oberyn, his sharp eyes observing the quiet prince.

"Marwyn," Oberyn lied smoothly, his voice flat. "Of course I want wine. Who refuses wine at this hour?"

"Ah! A connoisseur. I like that!" Lorras agreed with a laugh. He then clapped his hands twice. "You heard them! Prepare drinks for our polite guests. And do not forget the honey cakes!"

Several serving women who had been standing silently in the corner of the room immediately moved, their steps soundless on the thick carpet, then left to the back, following the order.

A brief silence fell as the servants disappeared. Lorras leaned forward slightly, his friendly smile fading, replaced by a sharp business expression.

"So," he said, getting straight to the point, no more pleasantries. "What about this 'paper'?"

Gerion felt the small adrenaline rush of negotiation begin. He shifted on the cushion, his relaxed demeanor hardening into a merchant's focus. Beside him, he could feel Oberyn just watching with amusement behind his calm gaze.

"As you might expect, Magister, business is very good," Gerion began, his voice confident. "We have a plentiful supply. As you know, the paper has already spread throughout Westeros with surprising speed. We have just completed the construction of two more mills in Lannisport to meet the demand."

"Good, good. Seizing an opportunity," Lorras nodded, his fingers tapping on the armrest of his chair.

"Not just seizing, Magister. We are dominating," Gerion corrected him subtly. "Currently, we are the only known maker of quality paper. Of course, we guard that secret closely." Then he thought. 'Jaime and Kevan assume that some worker might be bribed and the recipe will leak, but for now, it has not. And we will crush anyone who tries.'

"So yes," Gerion continued, "as it stands, paper has almost replaced parchment at the Citadel and among the maesters in a single stroke. This is something rarely seen in centuries. When something comes and changes life so quickly, is it not?"

"Precisely. That is why I am interested in this," Lorras admitted, his eyes glittering with undisguised greed. "It has great potential. Very great. And I want to be the one to maximize that in Essos."

"In that case, let us discuss the price first," Gerion said, just as the drinks arrived on an engraved silver tray, served by the same silent servants. He took his cold, dewy glass of orange juice. "As you know, the price of paper has decreased and become more affordable over time as more mills have been built. The retail price of paper per sheet today in Lannisport is 8 coppers. One ream, containing 500 sheets, costs 65 Silver Stags."

Gerion sipped his juice. Sweet and tart, very refreshing. "Of course, if you truly intend to be our main distributor in Myr, the price will be much lower. Let's say... 55 Stags per ream."

Magister Lorras gave a small, dry, hoarse laugh. "55?" He shook his head slowly, while Oberyn sipped his wine leisurely, his eyes dancing between the two negotiators. "That is too expensive, Lord Gerion. Far too expensive."

"Expensive?" Gerion raised an eyebrow. "Magister, this is a product that is revolutionizing the way men record history. 55 Silver is a very low price for a monopoly."

"It may be cheap in Westeros," Lorras countered sharply. "But here, I am the one bearing all the risk. The cost of shipping across the Narrow Sea, the risk of pirates, harbor tariffs, and I have to create a new market to compete with cheap parchment. I offer 35 Stags."

Now it was Gerion's turn to laugh. "35? Magister, at that price, I would be better off burning it to warm my castle in winter. I will not sell it below 50. That is already a very generous offer."

"40," Lorras said quickly. "And I will guarantee a minimum purchase of 1000 reams every two months. That is a very large volume, Lord Gerion. Guaranteed cash for your new mills."

Gerion pretended to think hard. 1000 reams was a very large amount. It would stabilize production and secure a large, consistent profit. Tywin would be pleased with such a contract.

"You drive a hard bargain, Magister," Gerion said, letting out a false sigh. "Very well. But not 40. We meet in the middle. 45 Stags per ream. That is my final price. Take it or leave it."

Lorras stared at him for a long time, his sharp eyes calculating the numbers in his head. Gerion stared back, not blinking, maintaining his calm smile.

Finally, the Magister broke into a wide grin, showing his slightly wine-stained teeth. "Lord Gerion, you are a formidable negotiator, just like your brother, I hear." He held out his hand. "45 Stags per ream, for 1000 reams, first shipment to begin in two months."

Gerion shook the well-manicured hand firmly. "You have a deal, Magister Lorras."

After leaving the Magister's stuffy manse, Oberyn finally spoke after a long silence, the fresh air in the street feeling like a gift. Gerion, who had been holding his breath inside the room, felt the same relief.

"That conversation was so dull I could not bring myself to interfere," said Oberyn, waving his hand as if to brush off the lingering remnants of boredom. A cynical smile played on his lips. "I almost fell asleep in that chair, and that would have been an unforgivable insult to the honorable Magister."

Gerion laughed crisply, his voice echoing between the dense stone buildings of the Free City. He glanced at Oberyn, admiring the man's audacity in speaking such blunt truths. "You were right not to interfere, Prince," Gerion replied, clapping Oberyn on the shoulder. "That was a dance I had to perform myself. You know, the dance of merchants and politicians."

Oberyn nodded, his sharp gaze sweeping the street crowd, observing the busy merchants and locals. "As luck would have it, I would rather clean a stable than continue staring at him," he said, his expression turning to amusement. "At least there is a more honest smell there, and more genuine filth than the horseshit we just heard." Gerion could only shake his head, a smile still playing on his lips. Oberyn always had a way of lightening the mood, even after the most exhausting of meetings.

I was confused with the Westeros currency, yeah, so I modified a few things. Please don't think too much about it :'p

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