TYWIN
"You have done very well, Lord Velaryon."
Tywin Lannister's voice was flat, nearly swallowed by the roar of the salty wind and the frenetic bustle of Blackwater Bay. They walked along the wet, moss-slicked wooden docks, Tywin's footsteps maintaining a steady rhythm amidst the organized chaos surrounding them.
Everywhere, men moved like insects whose hive had just been kicked. Sailors scrambled up thick rigging, shouting coarse orders to stevedores whose backs bowed under the weight of supply crates. Salt pork, barrels of cheap ale, and sacks of grain were rolled into the gaping maws of transport ships. Amidst them, soldiers stood tall, overseeing the loading of weapons.
Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, walked beside him with a gait that was slightly limping as he tried to match Tywin's long strides. The man wore a proud smile—a wide, wet smile that did not reach his eyes.
"There are a few ships currently inoperable, Lord Hand," Lucerys reported, his voice carrying an annoying, high-pitched timbre. "Six at the moment; it seems their hulls suffered minor leaks during last week's storm. They should be repaired quickly, mere basic damage. My carpenters are working day and night. They may not depart at our designated time, but they will catch up swiftly. I guarantee it."
Lucerys replied with a feigned enthusiasm, his face beaming as he reported the minor failure as if it were an achievement. Tywin did not stop walking, offering only a flat, unblinking side-glance in return.
Tywin knew exactly who this man beside him was. Lucerys was Aerys's most loyal lackey, the kind of spineless creature who would laugh the loudest at the King's witless jokes, and nod the fastest at Aerys's whims. Tywin knew that Lucerys Velaryon often insulted him behind his back, whispering in Aerys's ear about the 'Lion who had grown too large for his cage' or how Tywin had forgotten his place.
Yet, Tywin harbored little grudge... at least not for this man. Hatred required energy, and Lucerys Velaryon was not worth that energy. Tywin's hatred was a deep, cold ocean, reserved entirely for Aerys. The man before him was but an ant compared to the King. House Velaryon, who once rode dragons and wed Targaryens, had lost its glory long ago. They were merely a dim shadow of past power, rotting on their damp island. Later, when the dust settled and the new order was established, Tywin could easily flick this louse from the Small Council with a snap of his fingers.
"As long as they catch up within the expected timeframe, it matters not," Tywin finally said. His green eyes fixed on the shapes of the royal ships bobbing in the water.
The timber was good, he had to admit. Pitch-black hulls, their upper decks gleaming under the sunlight. They were well-maintained, at least on the surface.
"We are not sailing there to fight a great naval battle, Lord Velaryon," Tywin continued. "We are going there to catch a mouse that thinks it is a cat."
The sentence carried a dual meaning, a double layer Tywin often employed.
The first meaning, which the shrimp-brained Lucerys likely understood, was a calming message: 'No need to rush, we have plenty of time. Lord Darklyn in Duskendale isn't going anywhere. This is a standard siege, not open warfare.'
The second meaning, understood only by Tywin himself, was far darker: 'Bring however many ships you have, I do not care. Six, sixty, it is irrelevant. The naval blockade is a formality. All of this is merely a cover for what I will do on land.'
"Ah, yes, of course, Lord Hand! The poor mouse," Lucerys chuckled, agreeing too quickly, his nervous laugh sounding like a choked seagull. "Lord Darklyn must have gone mad. We shall show him the Dragon's fangs... and the Lion's claws, of course!"
Tywin stopped walking. He turned his body slowly and looked Lucerys dead in the eye. The gaze was void of emotion, yet it held a crushing weight. Lucerys's laughter died instantly in his throat, freezing into an awkward grimace.
"Just ensure those ships are ready," Tywin said softly, yet every syllable was distinct. "I want no further distractions. No excuses. No further delays."
"Yes, Lord Hand. Of course. I will oversee the repairs myself."
They parted ways at the end of the pier. Lucerys hurried back toward the shipyard, starting to shout orders at his subordinates with a voice raised louder than before, attempting to project the authority that had just been stripped away.
Tywin did not look back. He walked toward his waiting horse, a black destrier guarded by four Lannister household guards. He mounted the saddle with efficient movement.
The ride back to the Red Keep was a journey through the belly of a sick dragon. King's Landing smelled as it always did—a mixture of human waste, woodsmoke, and rotting fish—but today there was an additional scent: fear. The common folk scattered from his path as if he were a plague. Their eyes were cast down, but Tywin could feel their stares. He ignored them.
Upon arriving at the Red Keep courtyard, he handed his horse to a stable boy and headed straight for the Tower of the Hand. He passed lesser lords trying to catch his attention, dismissing their greetings with cold silence.
Inside his solar, silence finally greeted him. The room was spacious, dominated by dark wood and tapestries. Tywin sat, feeling the stiffness in his back ease slightly. With the King taken hostage, Tywin had been increasingly busy of late. He was practically the King in all but name. He arranged troop movements, ensured grain supplies were sufficient for a winter that might come at any moment, and kept the Seven Kingdoms from collapsing due to Aerys's folly. This was the price of power.
However, amidst the pile of royal duties, Tywin never forgot his primary purpose in King's Landing: the glory of House Lannister.
His large hand picked up a neatly wrapped letter sealed with the wax of Casterly Rock. It was from Kevan.
He broke the seal and began to read. The letter was written in Kevan's hand. Tywin skipped the opening, the formal pleasantries, the condolences for the King's situation—which Tywin knew Kevan wrote just in case the letter was intercepted—the harvest reports, and minor complaints about dissatisfied bannermen.
Tywin's eyes stopped at the final section, the most critical paragraph.
"...It is unfortunate that just as our paper enterprise has begun to flourish, the realm faces such trouble. The crisis in Duskendale was certainly unforeseen, and with this, perhaps some trade routes to the Crownlands will be temporarily hampered. However, Gerion has done his task well in Essos. What we possess now has spread by word of mouth further than we anticipated.
"Thanks to his promotion, there are more merchants from the Free Cities, Braavos, Pentos, even Myr, continuing to visit Lannisport. They no longer come just for gold, but for paper. They favor its texture and practicality. It seems we did not waste our coin 'squandering money' to build those mills. The schools we established are also constantly full; for now, they can accept no more students and must wait until next year. Or we must accelerate the construction of others.
"This signifies that behind all the flaws and massive initial costs, this project is succeeding. Little by little, we are shifting the dependency on learning away from Oldtown. We will reap the true benefits, not just in coin, but in control."
Tywin nodded slowly, a rare satisfaction touching his heart. A knock at the door broke his concentration. Three times. Firm, but polite.
Tywin folded the letter and stored it in a locked drawer. "Enter."
The door opened. A man stepped in with calm but wary movements. He had red hair and a beard that was beginning to whiten, a face forged by sea wind and sun. His clothes were of good quality, made of fine wool but unobtrusive. He looked like a successful middle-class merchant, the type one would see a thousand times in the market and forget in a second.
Luke. A fish merchant from the Westerlands, or so his cover went.
"Good afternoon, Lord Hand." The man bowed, a friendly smile etched onto his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, yet his movements were still agile. "An honor to see you again."
"Sit," Tywin said, wasting no pleasantries. He pointed to a hard wooden chair across his desk. Tywin disliked wasting time in situations like this, especially with hired men.
Luke's eyes practically sparkled. Of course. Tywin was the man who had saved him from ruin ten years ago. Luke was just a poor fisherman with mounting debts when Tywin saw potential in his cunning and his network of contacts in the Lannisport harbor. Tywin paid his debts, gave him ships, and invested. In return, Luke gave his soul.
"How do you fare?" Tywin asked, his tone flat, though the question itself was a boon for a man of Luke's station.
"My business has flourished since last time, My Lord. Truly flourished," Luke answered enthusiastically, sitting on the edge of the chair. "This time I am not only shipping salt fish and shellfish to Oldtown or Dorne, but also Gulltown, Duskendale, Maidenpool, and of course, King's Landing. My merchant fleet grows larger thanks to your aid. And naturally, I have capable crews... men willing to do hard work and ask few questions."
He clasped his hands together at the end of the sentence, his rough fingers interlocking. He fell silent, his eyes on Tywin, waiting for instructions. He knew he wasn't summoned to the Tower of the Hand just to discuss fish prices.
"Good," Tywin said, leaning forward slightly. The afternoon sunlight cast sharp shadows across his face. "I need your men in Duskendale. Not for trade."
Luke's face turned serious in an instant. The mask of the friendly merchant cracked. "Duskendale is in trouble, My Lord. Lord Darklyn has closed his gates."
"Gates are closed for armies, not for food merchants bringing supplies in a time of crisis," Tywin interrupted. "Make sure to choose the men you can control most. Those who have something they value that we can hold as collateral... or simply, those who desire gold the most and do not fear blood."
The Tower of the Hand was Tywin's absolute domain. These walls were thick, and the guards outside were deaf to anything but his commands. There was no need for him to use excessive metaphors. He had to be careful, yes, but being paranoid was not Tywin's nature.
"I have many such men, My Lord," Luke said quietly. His fingers began tapping his knee, an old habit. "They are loyal as mongrels fed meat. They will listen to whatever I desire, and they have never disappointed so far. They know who truly feeds their families."
Luke paused, weighing how far he could ask. "If I may know, My Lord... what is it you want with them inside?"
Tywin did not answer immediately. He stared at Luke, measuring the man once more.
"I need someone to slip in there. As you already know, we will lay siege. We will cut off their access from land and sea. The city will go hungry. And when a city hungers, the people become restless."
"So..." Luke smiled crookedly, a guess forming in his head. "You want my men to sneak in, find where the King is held, and rescue him? To be heroes in the shadows?"
Tywin suppressed a harsh scoff. He leaned back in his chair, shadows obscuring his eyes.
"Do not jest," Tywin's voice was ice cold. "Aerys is surely guarded heavily by Darklyn's best soldiers. It would be difficult, even impossible, to rescue him in such a manner. The risk of failure is too high."
Tywin stared straight into Luke's eyes. "Furthermore, this is not a rescue mission. Quite the opposite."
Luke's fingers stopped tapping his knee instantly.
His eyes widened slightly, his pupils contracting. He stared at Tywin rigidly. Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Luke was a smart man; he understood the implications of those words. Quite the opposite.
This was high treason. This was kingslaying, even if done with a passive hand.
But Tywin was his master. Tywin was the god who plucked him from the mud. And more importantly, Tywin was the man who could crush him back into dust before the sun set.
Luke's lips twitched. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Slowly, his large fingers began to play again, kneading the fabric of his trousers. He exhaled a long breath.
"You shall have exactly what you desire, My Lord," he whispered, his voice slightly hoarse but firm. "I will ensure it is provided."
Tywin nodded, satisfied. No hesitation, no moral questions. Only business.
"I want you in the vicinity of Duskendale. Use your identity as a merchant trapped or trying to profit from the war. Send your three best men to sneak into the city, through the sewers, through the sea wall, I do not care how."
Tywin picked up a blank piece of paper, as if inspecting its quality, but his eyes remained on Luke.
"Their task is not to approach the King. Their task is to hear everything. And then... to speak." Tywin set the paper down. "I want them to spread fear."
"You want to corner Darklyn," Luke concluded.
"I want to create chaos," Tywin corrected. "I want the situation inside to be so heated, so desperate, that Darklyn makes a fatal error. Or better yet... in the midst of that chaos, if the King's guards panic, or if a riot reaches the holding cells..."
Tywin let the sentence hang. 'If Aerys is killed in that chaos, then it is a regrettable tragedy. A tragedy that puts Rhaegar on the throne and puts me back in full control without the interference of a madman.'
"We will squeeze them little by little, for as long as possible," Tywin continued. "Until we find an opening to end it all. Do you understand, Luke?"
Luke stood, bowing deeply. His merchant's smile had returned, but now there was a dangerous glint within it.
"Yes, yes. Of course, My Lord. Chaos and despair. That is an expensive commodity, but I can deliver it."
"Go," Tywin commanded. "Do not disappoint me."
As the door closed behind Luke, Tywin Lannister picked up his quill once more. He pulled a fresh sheet of paper, paper made in Lannisport, and began to write orders for the vanguard.
Outside the window, the sun began to set on King's Landing, casting a blood-red shadow over the entire city. The Siege of Duskendale had only just begun, and Tywin intended to win it, without a living King at the story's end.
As always. Thank you for reading. You can read chapters early on Patreon!
Oh, I made a new story, The Sound of Silence - (Viserys SI) maybe you guys want to read it, well my focus is still on this story. Award ReplyReport331DaarioWednesday at 3:48 PMNewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Jaime IX | Tywin X New View contentDaarioThursday at 2:30 PMNewAdd bookmark#995JAIME | TYWIN
The leaves in the gardens of Riverrun rustled softly, following the morning breeze that blew gently toward the east. The gust carried a few yellowing leaves, sending them spinning through the air in a slow dance before landing on the surface of the tranquil pond. The atmosphere was peaceful, wrapped in the warm embrace of the morning sun. It was the kind of warmth that invited one to stop and stand still, simply to feel the serenity seep into their bones.
However, that peace felt wrong, a thin facade that failed to mask the cold new reality. The atmosphere felt entirely incongruous with the news that had just arrived from King's Landing. The news had stopped the laughter in the hall, frozen conversations, and cancelled whatever joy nature and the morning flora had provided.
The King had been taken captive.
The words seemed to swirl in everyone's mind within the castle, from Lord Hoster Tully in his solar to the servants whispering in the kitchens. The words also echoed in Jaime Lannister's mind.
Jaime sat alone in his room, in a chair by the open window. In his hands, he clasped a simple porcelain cup filled with warm water. He did not look at the garden below; instead, he gazed up at the bright blue sky and the clean white clouds drifting slowly by. His green eyes, usually so sharp and lively, shimmering under the morning light, looked slightly dim, as if a shadow had passed over them.
Jaime—Steven, knew this would happen. At least, the broad strokes. In what he remembered of the original story, Duskendale was a pivotal moment. He didn't know what to do in a situation like this. He was hundreds of miles away, trapped in Riverrun, while the great events that would shape the future began to move. All of this was beyond his control.
And that was what frightened him. He feared that this was the inevitable turning point. This was the event that, in the story he remembered, truly broke Aerys's mind. The King would not just be rescued; he would return as a monster. He would become the 'Mad King' as portrayed in that TV show. This was the end of the road for the man. If that happened, when that happened, the great war he feared, the war that would destroy so many, the war that would put Robert on the throne, would have a much higher probability than before.
Moving his right finger slowly, Jaime lifted the porcelain cup. He felt the faint warmth of the cup spreading through his fingers, a strange contrast to the cold knot in his stomach. It was perfect to accompany the cool morning air. He sipped slowly, letting the soothing sensation of the warm water fill his mouth. He swallowed, feeling the water go down, falling into his throat and warming his chest.
Holding the cup in silence, he steeled his resolve. He could do nothing. Not right now. He was an eleven-year-old boy. He was not Ser Jaime the Kingsguard, he wasn't even the heir in command. At this moment, he was merely a political guest in his betrothed's castle.
His role now was what he had been in his previous life: a spectator. He would only observe, take notes, and then think of a way to prevent things from worsening in the future. His focus had to remain here.
He stared at his faint reflection in the water in the cup. The face of a boy stared back. Instantly, his thoughts shifted to another family that would soon be destroyed by the King's madness. Eddard Stark.
A good man. Too good to survive in King's Landing.
And his father and brother... if he wasn't mistaken, Eddard's father and brother, Brandon, were burned alive by the Mad King. Brandon went to King's Landing to seek Lyanna, who was 'kidnapped' by Rhaegar. Jaime didn't remember the exact details, when exactly it happened, but he knew, that was when the real war began.
Jaime felt like laughing bitterly. Before, this was all just a story on a screen, evening entertainment after a day of teaching. Now, that story was his life, his brutal reality, and he was the only one in this entire world who knew what was coming. It truly sucked. It was like someone had placed a thousand weights on his shoulders, and then left him just like that to bear it alone.
He shook his head, banishing those dark thoughts. Father. His father should be marching with his army toward Duskendale by now, leading the siege. Lord Darklyn was truly brave, or foolish. Who knew what entered the man's mind to do such a thing. Jaime mused, the line between brave and crazy seemed to lie on a very thin wire indeed.
Deciding that there was no point in dwelling on problems hundreds of miles away and completely out of his control, Jaime stood up. He was currently wearing casual black attire, a soft cotton tunic and comfortable trousers. He had to focus on what was in front of him. He would go out of his room. Perhaps practice swords with Uncle Tygett. Or maybe sit with Lord Hoster and pretend to be deeply interested in river politics. Or, most likely, he would share adventure stories with Edmure as he had always done lately.
The boy, so eager when Jaime explained the world of Middle-earth, about Hobbits and rings. Edmure even made up his own theories. That was good. Imagination was something children should have; it was something to be protected.
Walking out of his room, Jaime found the castle corridor deserted. He looked up at the high arched ceilings above him, supported by thick ancient oak beams. As Steven, a modern man, even after years in Jaime's body, he still felt a deep awe for the castle architecture he constantly encountered. They were so grand, built with hands and sweat, not machines. Every castle had its own uniqueness, all crafted with care like an artist who would not be satisfied if the result did not match their imagination.
"Jaime!"
A voice called out, full of unrestrained energy. Jaime turned just in time to see Edmure Tully running toward him down the corridor. Of course, the kid was always energetic. He ran very fast, ignoring the servants who were dusting the tapestries or carrying dirty linens to be washed. Edmure's fiery red hair looked like moving embers.
"Are you going to tell another story this time?" Edmure asked with a wide grin, his breath slightly panting as he stopped in front of Jaime.
Jaime chuckled softly, looking at the boy who was clearly the heart of Riverrun. "Maybe later, Edmure," he said. "How about we focus on the reality of this morning? And you shouldn't run indoors like that. Look, you startled that servant."
"That's easy," Edmure nodded quickly, looking not at all remorseful. "But reality is boring. Stories are much better! Except for swords! When are we going to practice swords?"
"Yes. We can go to the training yard."
"Great!" Edmure exclaimed. "And after that?"
"After that," Jaime said as he started walking side-by-side with Edmure, "you have lessons with Maester Vyman, right? About the various Houses of the Crownlands."
Edmure immediately rolled his eyes dramatically. "Ugh, yes," he groaned. "Just hearing it makes me tired. He just lists names and castles. There are so many of them they look like ants gathering in my head. Who cares about Lord Stokeworth or whoever Rosby is?"
"You should care," Jaime said. "You should be excited, you will lead Riverrun one day."
Edmure's eyes immediately lit up at the prospect. "And fight on the front lines?"
'Oh, don't be too eager for that,' Jaime thought to himself, remembering the war that might soon occur. He kept smiling on the outside. "That's one part of it. But the bigger part of leading is knowing who your neighbors are. That's why those lessons are important."
"How can a list of names be important?" Edmure asked, genuinely confused.
"Because those names own land," Jaime explained. "That land grows wheat, or raises sheep, or controls roads. You have to know who your neighbors are, what they need, and what you have to trade. Knowing that can stop a war before it starts."
Edmure seemed to ponder this for a moment, as if he had never thought of it from that perspective. "That sounds... that sounds like a lesson on managing a kitchen and a granary."
Jaime chuckled. "Exactly. Managing a region is like managing the world's biggest kitchen. You have to make sure everyone has enough food and isn't fighting over the last scrap of meat."
"Huh. I guess that makes sense," Edmure said, though he was clearly still more interested in the war part. "Alright! But we train first. I want to try that disarming move you showed me the other day! I bet I can beat you this time!"
"We shall see," Jaime said with a smile. They continued walking down the corridor, Edmure now enthusiastically explaining his strategy for their practice fight, while Jaime's mind was still divided between the spirited boy beside him and the shadows gathering in Duskendale.
As the two of them continued their steps, descending the wide spiral staircase toward the main courtyard, another boy emerged from an adjacent hallway. He walked with a calm, unhurried gait. He wore simple but neat black clothes and was carrying a stack of books clamped tightly against his chest. Petyr Baelish.
"Petyr!" Edmure called out cheerfully, waving.
The small, slender boy stopped and turned. A thin, polite smile immediately formed on his lips. "Edmure. Good morning."
His eyes then shifted to Jaime. His polite expression didn't change a bit, but Jaime felt a barely perceptible shift in the air. Something assessing, observing.
"Lord Jaime." Petyr Baelish gave a small nod, a sign of respect perfectly calculated.
"We're both going to the training yard to practice swords," Edmure said, his wide grin returning. "You want to come?" He then glanced at the books Petyr was carrying with a hint of scorn. "Come on, forget those boring books. We can spar together. Three is more fun."
Petyr chuckled softly, a laugh that sounded too mature for a child his age. He shook his head. "I cannot, Edmure. I have financial records I've been studying all week, and it's time to see if the lessons have soaked into my brain. Maester Vyman will test me by having me rewrite them."
"Bleh, you can do that anytime," Edmure urged, clearly not understanding.
"Perhaps," Petyr agreed amiably, unaffected by Edmure's insistence. "But I prefer to finish it now. Besides, you have Lord Jaime here." He glanced at Jaime again, his smile unwavering. "He is surely a far better sparring partner than I am."
Edmure pouted. "Of course I know that," he grumbled, his tone clearly deflating. "But it would be more fun with more people... fine, if that's what you want."
The Tully heir then turned and resumed walking, his steps stomping slightly in annoyance. Jaime paused for a moment, smiling at Petyr. "Good luck with your records," he said, sincere.
"You as well, Lord Jaime," Petyr replied, his eyes holding Jaime's gaze a moment longer than necessary. "I hope your sword practice is enjoyable."
The two of them parted ways. Petyr continued his journey toward the library, while Jaime caught up with Edmure, who was now walking faster down the stairs.
"He's never excited to practice swords," Edmure whispered when Jaime was beside him. "At all. How can he fight bandits if he leaves the castle later?"
Jaime chuckled softly at Edmure's simple logic. "Everyone has their own interests, Edmure. Petyr, for instance, he likes numbers and counting. That is very useful for managing many things in a castle or a kingdom. Far more useful than you think."
"But what about bandits?" Edmure insisted.
"For bandits," Jaime shrugged, "he can go with a dozen armed guards. Not too difficult, right? Some men fight with brains, others with steel."
"But still..." Edmure shook his head quickly, unconvinced. "Never mind. Come on, hurry, I want to hit the practice shield!"
Jaime laughed, freer this time. Edmure's overflowing energy was contagious.
...
The wind blew fiercely over the command ship's deck as the small fleet cut through the waves toward Duskendale. The sharp scent of salt rose from the sea, mixed with the faint smell of tar and wet rope. The air felt crisp, full of the promise of life, or death, depending on which side the sword fell. Seagulls circled above the ship's masts, their cries piercing the wind as if guiding them north.
Tywin Lannister stood at the prow, his crimson cloak billowing violently behind him, yet his body remained still as a stone statue. He watched the birds intently, not out of admiration for nature, but out of a sailor's instinct. The weather would hold; he could feel it in his bones. Their journey today would be logistically smooth. That was the only thing he cared about.
"Nature seems just as eager as we are to save the King, Lord Hand."
The voice came from beside him. Ser Barristan Selmy. The man stood tall in his brilliant white Kingsguard armor, his face glowing with holy determination. There was a fire in his eyes, the fire of a knight who believed in songs of heroism.
'Just your imagination,' Tywin commented silently, suppressing the urge to scoff at such naivety. To Tywin, nature cared for neither kings nor beggars. The wind blew where it willed.
However, he did not voice that. "Let us hope that enthusiasm is sufficient to make Darklyn surrender immediately," he said flatly, without turning. His eyes remained fixed on the hazy northern horizon.
"It still takes time to reach Duskendale, Lord Hand," Barristan said, his tone dropping slightly, realizing the reality of the situation. "Do you have another plan if Darklyn truly refuses to yield? If he uses... his hostage as a shield?"
"For now, we simply must cut off the food supply," Tywin replied. "Hungry men are more likely to lose their minds quickly. An empty belly is a poor counselor, but a master agitator."
In his mind, Tywin calculated. This was a delicate situation. A situation that could derail his plans if he wasn't careful. If Darklyn surrendered too quickly, fearing the sight of this fleet, then Aerys would return to the throne unharmed, and his madness would continue to rot within. That would destroy the golden opportunity Tywin was trying to create. He needed time. He needed pressure.
Luke, the fish merchant, had left for Duskendale the same day they met. That meant, if Tywin's calculations were correct, he should be near there by now. Luke's men would be poison in the well.
By the time Tywin's fleet cut off the sea lanes and his army besieged the land, Luke's men would begin to whisper. They would create chaos, spreading rumors that Tywin Lannister came not to negotiate, but to raze the city to the ground. That even surrendering would not save them.
Tywin wanted Darklyn to feel cornered. He wanted the Lord of Duskendale to know the risks, that he would not get out of this alive unless he did something drastic.
"He lost his mind the moment he dared to take the King captive and kill a Kingsguard," Barristan gritted his teeth as he said it. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. The death of his sworn brother, Ser Gwayne Gaunt, at the hands of Darklyn's soldiers evidently still haunted the knight. "That is a stain that must be cleansed with blood."
Tywin glanced briefly at Barristan. Honor. It was a heavy chain.
"Your vengeance will be paid, Ser Barristan. You simply must be patient," Tywin explained, his tone slightly sharper. "We do not fight to satisfy your anger. We fight to restore order."
"Justice, Lord Tywin," Barristan corrected, his eyes staring sharply. "Justice is what I shall uphold. For my King, and for my brother."
Tywin did not answer. He returned his gaze to the sea. He had no energy to entertain such nonsense. Justice was a word small men used to feel better about the cruelty of the world. Tywin knew the truth: there was only power, and those who held it.
'As you will, Barristan. As you will.'
As always. Thank you for reading. You can read chapters early on Patreon! Award ReplyReport326DaarioThursday at 2:30 PMNewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Jaime X | Rhaegar VII New View contentDaarioToday at 8:22 AMNewAdd bookmark#1,014JAIME | RHAEGAR
"So in the end, the Prince succeeded in finding Cinderella and taking her to wife?" Catelyn asked, a soft smile blossoming upon her youthful face. Her eyes sparkled, reflecting the glint of sunlight that pierced through the leaves of the great tree sheltering them.
"It was so romantic and magical," Lysa added quickly, her hands cupping cheeks that were slightly flushed from the heat. She giggled, the sound of a young maiden full of dreams. "I was most satisfied to hear that Cinderella's stepsisters were shamed before the Prince whilst trying to force their great feet into that glass slipper. They were so wicked; they deserved their fate!"
Jaime Lannister sat at ease in a carved wooden chair within the Tully's private gardens. All around him, summer blooms were in full flower, red roses, bluebells, and towering sunflowers. The sun above shone fiercely, the azure sky stretching cloudless as far as the eye could see. The heat bit at the skin slightly, yet the breeze from the river made Jaime feel alive. He stretched his arms slightly across the back of the chair, savoring the warmth.
Nearby, Edmure sat with legs crossed, looking slightly skeptical yet listening intently. In a corner far enough away to be unobtrusive but close enough for propriety, Catelyn and Lysa's guards stood tall, their armor gleaming intermittently, watching over their young lord and ladies with quiet vigilance.
"But the Prince ought not to have wed a commoner," Edmure finally voiced his protest, his red brows furrowing in amusing disapproval. "It makes no sense, Jaime. His bannermen would be wroth. A Prince must wed a daughter of a Great House, or at the very least a powerful Lord's daughter for an alliance."
Jaime smiled in amusement. Little Edmure was already thinking like a feudal politician. Hoster Tully's nature had clearly trickled down to him, raw though it still was. 'He has a point,' Jaime admitted, nodding to Catelyn who looked ready to scold her brother.
But Lysa huffed, waving her hand as if swatting a fly. "Why does it make no sense? True love cares naught for castles or family names, Edmure. Look at history! Prince Duncan Targaryen did just that with Jenny of Oldstones. He gave up everything for love."
"And look what came to pass," Edmure retorted stubbornly, pointing a finger. "He lost his claim to the throne, and King Aegon was furious! It caused a great many troubles. Father always says we must put duty before desire."
"Even so, he wed her still. And they were happy, for a time at least," Lysa insisted, shaking her head until her hair swayed. "Besides, this is a tale of Jaime's making! Tales need not make sense! In tales, mice can turn into horses and pumpkins into carriages. Why cannot a maidservant become a princess?"
"Aye," Catelyn interjected with a soothing voice, acting as the wise eldest sister. "Tales are made to comfort, Edmure. That is why there is much magic in them. Our world may be harsh and full of rules, but in stories, we may dream of something sweeter."
Jaime chuckled softly. It felt strange to debate the logistics of a fictional Disney royal wedding in the middle of Westeros, but it was refreshing. "True," he said, then added a small white lie to maintain his image lest he seem too childish. "These stories I actually crafted only to tell Tyrion."
"You tell girls' tales to your brother?" Edmure widened his eyes in disbelief, his mouth slightly agape.
"Tyrion likes stories," Jaime replied casually, picturing his brother. A sudden pang of longing surged within him. "It matters not if it is about knights or princesses with glass slippers, so long as it entertains him and keeps him from weeping at night. He is a clever lad; he fancies the magical."
"That is truly sweet," Catelyn said, her gaze upon Jaime softening.
"We women often hear tales meant for boys about wars and dragons," Lysa defended, still unwilling to lose to Edmure. "Do not be surprised if boys also hear of such romantic tales."
"Uh, aye. Very well. I suppose you have the right of it," Edmure yielded, raising both hands in defeat. He then looked up at the sky, his expression turning slightly dreamy. "Lysa… if there were magic in this world, magic like that fairy godmother, it would be exciting indeed. I would wish for magic that could make me a master swordsman overnight."
Jaime smiled at that. "There are no shortcuts for the sword, Edmure. Only calluses and sweat."
Silence reigned for a moment, filled only by the sound of bees buzzing around the roses. Then, Edmure leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes squinting childishly as if he were sharing a state secret.
"And perhaps… hark, do you think the King will be freed?"
The question burst their bubble of fantasy sharply. The harsh political reality of Westeros came rushing back into the small garden.
"I heard," Edmure continued in a low voice, "that Lord Darklyn has gone mad. The servants say he might turn into a demon later for daring to defy the dragon. That he drinks blood for strength."
"From whence did you hear that?" Lysa was clearly astounded, her eyes round with fear. Her hands reflexively clutched her dress.
Jaime was no less surprised, though for different reasons. Demons? Drinking blood? Rumors in Westeros truly worked like an extreme game of broken telephone. The imagination of the smallfolk was always wild when it concerned things they did not understand. Yet, behind the ridiculous rumors, there was real danger. Fear created monsters.
Edmure seemed to think, trying to recall his source. "When I walked through the kitchens this morning seeking lemon cakes, I overheard the servants whispering whilst scrubbing the plates. That is what they said. That Duskendale is cursed."
Catelyn shook her head, clearly feeling both amusement and pity for her brother's naivety. She smoothed her dress gracefully. "You need not listen seriously to whisperings in the wind, Edmure, especially ones so wild. Servants love to dramatize matters to chase away boredom. Lord Darklyn is a rebel, aye, but he is a man, not a demon."
She looked at Jaime and her brother in turn with a firm yet gentle gaze. "Let us pray that the King will be freed as soon as possible and peace restored. That is the best thing we can do at this moment. Leave the matters of war for the Lords to ponder."
Jaime nodded in agreement, though his mind was in turmoil. 'Aye, let us pray he is freed,' he thought cynically. 'And let us pray that once freed, he does not decide that burning people is his new favorite hobby.' Jaime knew that prayer was likely in vain. The Aerys who walked out of Duskendale would not be the same Aerys who walked in. The Steven inside him knew this history too well. That madness was like a slow-burning fire, and Duskendale was the oil.
Heeding his sister's words, Edmure nodded, looking slightly relieved that no actual demons would be crawling out of Duskendale. Then he looked at Jaime, his spirit reigniting, forgetting politics and demons in an instant.
"Very well, enough about demons and glass slippers. 'Tis better we go fishing now! You promised, Jaime!" Edmure stood, patting his trousers which were slightly sullied by grass. "After all, you leave on the morrow, do you not? This is our last chance."
Ah, yes. That reality hit Jaime again. He had been at Riverrun for a month. Thirty days spent far from Casterly Rock. His father, Tywin, had done this with the aim of drawing him closer to Catelyn to build the foundation for a future marriage.
And it must be admitted, it worked. At least the Catelyn part. Their interactions this time were not truly awkward. They could speak as friends, not strangers forced into a match. Catelyn was no longer just a tragic character or a face on a screen; she was a real girl, intelligent, caring, and possessing a warm laugh. Jaime found himself quite enjoying this company as a friend, a peaceful feeling he rarely felt.
"Of course," Jaime said, rising from his chair and stretching. His muscles felt comfortable after resting; he spoke with a hint of wryness. "I could never break a promise to my future good-brother, could I?"
Catelyn's face reddened slightly at the title, but she did not look away. She smiled politely. "Go on. But be careful by the riverbank; the current can be swift after the rains upstream yesterday."
They walked away from the garden, passing through the sturdy stone gates toward the riverbank accompanied by a few guards. Riverrun was a unique castle, a triangular fortress built at the confluence of two great rivers: the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. Water was their natural defense, as well as the vein of life here.
The river flowed calmly, the water clear and cold; they chose a spot where willow trees dipped their branches into the water.
Jaime sat on the edge, his legs dangling over the water. In his hand was a simple fishing rod. Beside him, Edmure was busy with his hook, his face scrunched in concentration.
After several minutes of waiting in comfortable silence, filled only by the sound of rippling water and chirping birds, Edmure pointed into the distance.
"Look at that," he said, pointing to a boat moving slowly in the distance. It was heavily laden, perhaps with grain or wool. "They must be heading to Saltpans."
Jaime squinted, shielding his gaze from the sun. "A calm journey," he commented.
"Aye," Edmure complained. "Uncle Brynden says river travel is easy, but sea travel is the vexing part. He once told tales of how hard it is for ships from Lannisport to sail around past Dorne if they wish to go to King's Landing or the Free Cities. The winds in the Stepstones are perilous, and there are many pirates."
"The sea is cruel indeed," Jaime murmured. "And sailors are blind at night without stars."
"True!" Edmure exclaimed. "Uncle says if a storm comes and covers the stars, they can only guess or try to sight the coastline. Imagine being lost in the middle of the sea, seeing only water as far as the eye can see. It is terrifying."
Edmure's words, simple and innocent, suddenly triggered something inside Jaime's brain. Like a light switch flipped in a dark room.
'Guessing. Sighting the coastline.'
Steven, the modern soul inhabiting Jaime's frame, was suddenly struck by a realization most fundamental. Something that in his former world was a trifle, a child's toy, yet here... in Westeros, it could be a revolution.
Navigation in this world was still somewhat primitive. They sailed hugging the coastlines, or depended upon the stars and sun. If clouds covered the sky, or fog descended, a fleet could be crippled entirely or lost.
'A Compass.' Yes, he had thought of this once, but being too busy with papers and other matters, he had done nothing.
The principle was simple. Magnetism. He knew of lodestone—natural magnetic rock. He remembered seeing Maester Creylen at Casterly Rock possessing several stones that could attract iron. The people of Westeros knew of magnets as curiosities, toys for Maesters, but none had applied them for maritime navigation en masse.
Jaime stared at the river barge again, but his mind had already drifted far to Lannisport.
If the Lannisters possessed the compass...
Imagine the advantage. Lannister ships would no longer need to hug the treacherous coastlines. They could cut directly across the open sea, saving weeks of time. They could sail when it was overcast, during storms, during starless nights, whilst their enemies had to drop anchor and wait for the weather to clear.
In war? It was a priceless strategic advantage. The Lannisport fleet could appear from unexpected directions, maneuvering in thick fog to ambush.
In trade? It was a monopoly. They could chart new trade routes that were safer and faster to the Free Cities, perhaps even further.
A needle that points North.
Jaime began to construct the schematic in his head. He needed an iron needle, which would then be rubbed against a lodestone to magnetize it. He could ask the best smiths at Casterly Rock to forge a perfectly balanced needle, and glassblowers to enclose it so it would not be disturbed by the wind. He would add a compass rose beneath it—North, South, East, West.
"Jaime?" Edmure's call jolted him back to the present.
"Huh?" Jaime turned, blinking.
"You were dreaming. Your bait is taken," Edmure said, pointing at Jaime's rod which was bending slightly.
Jaime quickly pulled up his rod, feeling a small resistance. A medium-sized silver fish thrashed at the end of the line. He pulled it in with practiced movements, but his mind was still half-left on the design of the compass.
"A fine catch!" Edmure praised.
"Aye," Jaime muttered, unhooking the fish and tossing it into the woven basket. "A very fine catch."
He stared at the flowing water. He would try to realize this idea to distract his mind from the problems at hand. This must become another secret project of House Lannister. Something he would present to his father one day.
"You are smiling strangely," Edmure commented, looking at him suspiciously.
Jaime laughed, genuine this time.
"I was just thinking about... direction," Jaime replied. "About how we know where we are going."
Edmure frowned, not understanding. "We go downstream, of course. Or that way if you wish to go home."
"Precisely," said Jaime, casting his hook back into the water. "Sometimes it is that simple."
"Hey, Jaime," Edmure spoke again, his voice slightly hesitant. "If you leave on the morrow... will you write letters?"
Jaime turned, seeing the boy's slightly sad expression. Edmure, the youngest child in a great castle, clearly enjoyed having a new 'big brother' for this past month.
"Of course," Jaime promised. "I shall send a raven. Perhaps I shall slip a new story or two inside. About a pirate who could find his way home in the darkest storm."
Edmure's eyes lit up. "That sounds grand. Tell me later!"
"I shall."
The sun began to dip, touching the horizon, turning the river's surface into a sheet of shimmering copper. The afternoon wind began to blow colder.
Jaime packed up his fishing gear. "Come," he said, clapping Edmure on the shoulder. "Before your Lord Father scolds us for being late to supper."
…
The wharves beyond the walls of Duskendale were a living, breathing entity, wrought of wood, rope, and organized despair. The place was bustling and clamorous, a sickening contrast to the deadly silence that hung over the Dun Fort itself. Cask upon cask was stacked in every available corner; inside them lay salted fish still smelling of the sea, fruits beginning to rot under the heat, wilted vegetables, and of course, cheap wine and ale to drown the soldiers' fears.
Men moved on foot hauling these goods, their backs bowed under the burden of siege logistics. They scurried to and fro like ants whose hill had been disturbed, and every so often, their weary eyes would glance toward the royal retinue atop the deck of a great ship flying the three-headed dragon.
Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the prow of the command ship. He observed them from above with scrutiny, his violet eyes sweeping over the scene below. The atmosphere here seemed business as usual, trade continued to flow, bellies had to be filled, but there was a tension creeping through the air like the breeze before a storm.
Lord Tywin Lannister did not play games. The Hand of the King had already ordered every soldier to board the merchant vessels, inspecting every hold and crate, restricting existing supplies with brutal efficiency. Access to the Dun Fort had been severed completely. No grain went in, no messages came out. The town was being slowly strangled, and Tywin was the hand holding the rope, tightening it inch by inch without emotion. All were guarded with rigorous precision.
The royal soldiers, in armor reflecting the sunlight with a blinding glare, walked with steady steps down the gangplank. The company traveling by land had not fully arrived, hindered by mud on the Kingsroad, so there were few horses on the docks. Yet, the sound of every stomp of their boots upon the wooden wharf was loud, rhythmic, and merciless, as if they would shake the earth and bring down the city walls with their steps alone. Their faces were flat, expressionless, disciplined to show no doubt; their bodies stood rigid as pikes ready to thrust.
Firm footsteps, heavier than a common soldier's, sounded from behind Rhaegar. Without needing to look, he knew who it was. He turned to find Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, walking toward him. His white armor was stained by the dust of travel, but his white cloak still hung with undeniable authority. The old bull's face looked harder than stone.
"How stands the situation, Ser?" asked Rhaegar, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of unspoken worry.
Gerold wore a serious countenance, the only expression to be found on any face Rhaegar had seen of late, on the faces of lords, knights, and he was certain if he looked in a mirror, he would find the same shadow upon his own visage.
"It is secured, my Prince," Gerold reported, his voice gruff and low. "No man shall approach the Dun Fort within the designated perimeter. Archers have been stationed on the rooftops. Merchants have been warned with threats of asset seizure should they breach the blockade, let alone the locals. And if any rat attempts to scurry out of that castle, we shall catch it, alive or dead."
"No word of the King?" Rhaegar asked, his eyes shifting back to the grim stone fortress looming in the distance, where his father was held.
Gerold shook his head, an expression of frustration crossing his weary eyes. "None. Lord Tywin has already sent an envoy to deliver the ultimatum. We must only wait for Darklyn's response now. There is naught else we can do. Time and patience are the only path, so says the Lord Hand."
They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the shouts of ship captains barking orders. Rhaegar felt estranged. He was the Prince, the heir to the throne, yet here, in this slaughterhouse being prepared, he felt like a spectator. Tywin Lannister was the master of this siege, and Rhaegar was merely a royal ornament required to be present.
"They say Darklyn has gone mad to dare this," Rhaegar murmured, more to himself than to Gerold. "But what drives a loyal Lord to this point? Fear? Or desperation?"
"Greed and folly, my Prince," Gerold answered firmly. "There is no reason that justifies touching a King."
Suddenly, a commotion below drew their attention. They saw the figure of Lord Tywin Lannister, in armor of crimson and gold, standing amidst a throng of soldiers. He looked like a living golden statue, unaffected by the chaos around him. Then, a horse ridden hard approached him, mud splashing everywhere. It was the envoy they had sent.
The man dismounted in haste, nearly falling from exhaustion or fear. He offered a trembling salute and began to speak to Tywin. The distance was too great for Rhaegar to hear the words, but he needed not hear to understand. He saw the envoy's expression—pale as a sheet, eyes wide, cold sweat drenching his brow. And he saw Tywin's reaction, or rather, the absence of one. The Lord of Lannister's face did not change in the slightest.
"Come," said Rhaegar, urgency suddenly gripping him. He and Gerold hurried off the ship, their steps quick across the wooden planks toward the docks.
They approached the circle of commanders. The smell of horses and sweat assaulted them. Tywin turned as he saw the Prince approaching, his gaze calm and analytical.
"What is it, Lord Hand?" Rhaegar asked, his voice slightly demanding, though he already knew the answer from the aura of darkness shrouding the group.
Tywin looked straight into Rhaegar's eyes. There was no sympathy there, no fear.
"Darklyn refuses to yield," Tywin said sharply, every word cut with precision. "He refused the offer of pardon for his family should he surrender himself. His mind remains unchanged; he will only agree to hand over the King if we accede to all his demands."
"So... He threatens Father's life?" Rhaegar felt his blood run cold.
"He seems to still possess the nerve," Tywin continued, his tone flat, as if discussing the rising price of wheat.
"Then what is our plan?" Rhaegar pressed.
Tywin's pale green eyes flashed, a glint that sent a shiver down Rhaegar's spine. "We shall not retreat, my Prince. We shall wait. And if Darklyn believes he can use the King as a shield forever, he shall learn that the Lion does not treat with rebels."
Nodding, Rhaegar thought that this would be a very long day indeed...