Chapter 840 - Reghar

CATELYN​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He offered the flower to Catelyn.

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

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

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

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

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

Catelyn was a little surprised by the change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"True," Petyr said suddenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catelyn knew it had not slipped out.

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Petyr!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

We will move to King's Landing in the next chapter. :'p

Also, thank you for the likes and comments :'D

Oh. You can read 5 chapters early on Patreon! Award ReplyReport398Daario14/11/2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Rhaegar IV New View contentDaario16/11/2025NewAdd bookmark#828RHAEGAR​

"Look, he is laughing!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was then that he truly noticed her. Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only Mother knew.

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

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

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

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

Rhaegar's heart felt heavy.

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

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

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

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

Princes do not always get what they want. No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then I will not press it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aerys was still talking to himself, raving.

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

And the storm found it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a fatal mistake.

"QUIET!"

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

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

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

The accusation hung in the air, vile and venomous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

Tired. Yes. We are all tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tywin Lannister.

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

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

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

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

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

"A difficult day, my Prince?"

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

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

"My father cannot be stopped, can he?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tywin ignored the bitterness in Rhaegar's tone.

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

"...A brief rest."

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

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

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

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

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

Tywin Lannister was offering him a choice. An alliance.

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

He made a decision.

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

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

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Father was gone.

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

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

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

'A brief rest.'

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

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

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

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

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

He squared his shoulders and walked on.

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

He knocked on the thick oak door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tywin gave a small nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Precisely."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tywin did not blink. "Just that."

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dancing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh? The reason?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catelyn looked surprised, but she nodded slowly.

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

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

At least, that was what Jaime thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jaime stopped abruptly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jaime could only hope that advice was enough for now.

----

We will see what happens in King's Landing in the next chapter. As always. Thank you for reading. You can read chapters early on Patreon! Award ReplyReport386Daario19/11/2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Tywin VIII New View contentDaario21/11/2025NewAdd bookmark#932TYWIN​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Sometimes the simplest way is the most effective.'

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question hung in the air, sharp and dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tywin just stared, letting the silence fill the room.

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

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

And Tywin could use it at any time.

RHAEGAR​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mother?" Rhaegar called softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He intends to win," Arthur said.

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

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

But what will happen to my Father while Tywin waits?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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