JON
It was coarse and thick. Jon stared at the newly lifted sheet with nearly unbearable frustration. It was an unappealing pale gray, its texture more like worn-out sackcloth than something you could write on, and there were little clumps of fiber that stuck out from its surface like warts. After days of pounding the damned cloths until his arms felt like they would fall off, after carefully pouring the watery pulp into the mould, and after painstakingly pressing it under that strange press, the result was still a failure. Again.
He glanced at the pile of other sheets that were already drying on a nearby wooden rack. They were all the same. Each one was a testament to his wasted effort.
Jon let out a long sigh, a puff of white vapor escaping his mouth in the chilly workshop air. He could feel eyes on his back. He turned to the side. There, under the only window that let in the dim light, stood Lord Jaime and his friend, Addam Marbrand. They were also examining one of the failed sheets.
Lord Jaime held the rough paper in his hands, tilting it towards the light, feeling its texture with his thumb. Jon expected to see disappointment or even anger on the boy's face. Instead, he just nodded slowly, his expression filled with the concentration of someone examining something interesting.
"Well, the first attempt always begins with failure," Jaime said, more to himself than to anyone else. "But at least we're learning." He glanced at the pile of drying sheets. "We must be lacking in the pounding and the pressing."
Jon wanted to snort at that last sentence. We? Since the pounding process had begun, Young Lord Jaime had done nothing but watch, giving instructions from a safe distance while Jon sweated over the stone mortar, the heavy pestle feeling like a cow in his hands. It was he who had spent hours turning scraps of cloth into a disgusting, fibrous pulp. It was his muscles that were still screaming in protest.
"You could still write on this," Addam said, taking the sheet from Jaime's hand and examining it skeptically. "Well, if you tried really hard. And if you didn't mind your quill breaking."
Jaime smiled wryly, "We're making paper to make things easier, Addam, not harder."
"Why bother anyway?" Addam frowned, voicing the question that had been in Jon's mind for weeks. "We've always used parchment. You can get it anywhere."
"Now, that's where you're wrong," Jaime countered, his enthusiasm returning. He seemed most alive when he could correct someone. "Parchment is expensive. Very expensive. You have to raise a sheep or a calf, slaughter it, skin it, clean it, stretch it, scrape it… it's a long and difficult process. That's why only lords and maesters have it. Only people with money can afford it."
Jon had to agree with that. In his village, no one owned any. He had never cared much about parchment, but he knew it wasn't something you could buy at the market.
"Then you can afford it, Lannister," Addam said, nudging his friend's shoulder. "You have a mountain of gold. You could buy all the parchment in Westeros if you wanted to."
Jaime laughed, a genuine, carefree laugh. "You think I'm going to all this trouble just to use it myself?"
Addam looked confused. "So why are you making it? To sell it? You already have plenty of money."
"Of course to sell it," Jaime nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And then, something new entered his voice, something that sounded like a merchant.
"Besides, what man doesn't want to be richer?" he said. "Parchment is expensive and hard to come by. With paper, we might be able to minimize the cost. Used linen cloth is much cheaper than sheepskin. The process, once we perfect it, can be done by common laborers. With that, we can sell it for less. Much less. And a lower price means more people will use it. The merchants in Lannisport. The scribes. The septons. Maybe even the household stewards to make their shopping lists. And if more people use it…" He paused, a sly smile on his lips. "…the money will keep flowing."
Money.
The word buzzed in Jon's head like a bee. Suddenly, the ache in his back lessened slightly. His frustration with the rough paper eased a bit. He looked at the drying pile of failures, and for the first time, he didn't see a pile of trash. He saw a pile of unminted coins.
If Young Lord Jaime succeeded… if they could really make cheap paper… and if they sold it… and if the money really did "keep flowing"…
Suddenly, Jon felt a strong urge to try making this damned thing again. He didn't care if he had to pound cloth all night. Maybe, just maybe, some of that "money" would splash on him. A handful of Gold Dragons could change the entire year for his family back in Clearwater.
"You really do sound like a merchant from Lannisport," Addam said, shaking his head in amusement.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Jaime replied without hesitation. "But it's more than just money, Addam. Think about it. What makes a kingdom strong?"
"Swords," Addam answered instantly.
"Swords are important," Jaime agreed. "But a sword needs a hand to hold it, and that hand needs a brain to guide it. Information, Addam. Knowledge. That's what makes a kingdom truly strong. Right now, that knowledge is locked away on expensive parchments in the cabinets of lords and maesters. It's a slow-flowing river that only a few can drink from."
He picked up one of the failed paper sheets. "Paper… paper is a way to widen that river. To make it flow faster, to more places. If a merchant can easily write down his inventory, he can trade more efficiently. If a builder can easily draw his plans, he can build stronger walls. If a commander can easily send orders to his subordinates, his army will move faster. When information is available to more people, more people can make money. More people can innovate. And that will make all of us, the entire Westerlands, more prosperous. And a more prosperous kingdom is a stronger kingdom."
Jon listened, his mouth slightly open. He didn't fully understand everything Jaime was saying, but he understood the basic idea. His young lord wasn't just trying to make paper. He was trying to change the world. Or at least, their part of it.
"You think too much, Jaime," Addam said with a laugh, but this time his laugh was softer. "My head hurts listening to all that. Leave this pile of wet trash. The sun is still shining, and I hear the fish in the river near the woods are hungry. Let's go fishing. At least we might catch our dinner."
Jaime's serious face instantly transformed, replaced by the enthusiastic gleam of a young boy. "That's the best idea I've heard all day!" he exclaimed. He carefully placed the paper sheet back. "Much better than staring at cloth pulp."
He turned to Jon, his grin returning. "Jon, did you hear that? Leave this rubbish. Get us some fishing rods and bait from the storeroom. We're going to show Addam how a Lannister catches fish."
Jon could only nod, an overwhelming sense of relief washing over him. Fishing. He could do that. Fishing was quiet. Fishing was peaceful.
As Jaime and Addam walked out of the workshop, already arguing cheerfully about who would catch the biggest fish, Jon stayed behind for a moment. He walked over to the drying rack and touched one of the rough paper sheets. It felt like nothing. Just crushed and dried cloth.
Shaking his head, Jon followed them out of the workshop.
…
The sun felt warm on Jon's back, a pleasant warmth that soaked into his tired muscles. The air was filled with peaceful sounds: the soft rush of the river flowing over stones, the whisper of the wind in the leaves of the nearby forest, and occasionally, the muffled laughter of two boys sitting on the riverbank.
He stood leaning against an old tree, his arms crossed over his chest, his watchful eyes scanning his surroundings. Although the chances of danger here, so close to Casterly Rock, were minuscule, the habits of a sworn sword were hard to break. But most of his attention was on the two boys. Lord Jaime and Addam Marbrand sat side-by-side on the grassy bank, each holding a simple wooden fishing rod, their lines disappearing into the clear water. They didn't talk much, just enjoying the comfortable silence and the quiet competition of who would get the first bite.
"Jon?"
Jaime's voice broke the silence. The boy didn't turn, his eyes still fixed on the tip of his fishing rod.
"Yes, Lord Jaime?" Jon raised an eyebrow, straightening his posture.
"You've never been outside the Westerlands, have you?" he asked in a light tone, as if commenting on the weather.
Jon smiled faintly. "You know me well, Lord Jaime," Jon replied. "What's this about?"
"My father sent a raven," Jaime said. He was still staring at the water, but there was a shift in his tone. A little more serious, a little more tired. "He wants me to come to King's Landing. He said, 'it is time you saw how the kingdom is truly run, not just from books.' He said it could open up more knowledge and connections for me." Jaime snorted softly. "Though he didn't say it quite like that, I knew what he meant."
Jon felt a small jolt of interest. King's Landing. The capital. The seat of the Iron Throne. The place where history was made.
"Oh, you're going to King's Landing?" Addam's voice came, full of surprise and a little jealousy. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Jaime finally turned, and he smiled at his friend. It was a strange smile, Jon thought. A patient and slightly condescending smile, like an old man talking to a child. Since Jon had known him, that look would sometimes appear, as if the boy were seeing them from a great distance. And yet Jaime himself was only nine namedays old. "I just got the letter this morning," Jaime said calmly. "And the day was busy enough to start with news of a rather long journey. Do you want to come?"
Addam's eyes lit up immediately. "Come? To King's Landing? Of course," he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I've never been to King's Landing."
"Good," Jaime said, a sly grin returning to his face. "That means we'll be leaving Lefford behind."
Addam snorted lightly, his excitement subsiding into a familiar annoyance. "That boy has a dozen others to bother."
"You have a good point," Jaime grinned. Then he turned, his green eyes looking straight at Jon, and Jon felt the full force of his young master's attention return to him. "And that means, Jon, you'll have to pack. Though we probably won't leave for another month. Father isn't always in a hurry for things like this."
King's Landing. The thought swirled in Jon's mind. He would see the Red Keep. He would see the same streets that Aegon the Conqueror had once walked. He would see the greatest city in all of Westeros. It was a staggering prospect for a farmer's son from Clearwater.
"That's good, Lord Jaime," Jon replied, trying to keep his voice steady, though a little excitement was creeping in. "A change of scenery will be welcome."
"Now, don't get too excited," Jaime countered, his smile growing wider. "I hear the place smells like a pile of human filth."
The three of them laughed, their free and genuine laughter echoing over the quiet river, scaring a bluebird that was perched on a nearby branch.
Suddenly, Jaime's fishing line twitched violently, the tip of his rod dipping sharply towards the water.
"A bite!" Addam exclaimed.
Jaime reacted quickly, pulling his rod back with a practiced motion. The line went taut, and for a moment he could feel the resistance on the other end, the strong pull of something alive beneath the surface. Then, with a sudden snap, the line went slack. He reeled it in, and the hook came out of the water, empty and glistening in the sun. The fish had gotten away.
Addam groaned in disappointment. Jaime just stared at his empty hook for a few moments. Then, he shrugged and cast his line back into the water.
He turned to Jon, a small, enigmatic smile on his face.
"Fishing requires patience, doesn't it?"
Jon just nodded, saying nothing.
Indeed, Jon thought to himself, his mind suddenly flashing back to the dusty workshop and the pile of failed cloth. Everything requires patience.
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JON
It was coarse and thick. Jon stared at the newly lifted sheet with nearly unbearable frustration. It was an unappealing pale gray, its texture more like worn-out sackcloth than something you could write on, and there were little clumps of fiber that stuck out from its surface like warts. After days of pounding the damned cloths until his arms felt like they would fall off, after carefully pouring the watery pulp into the mould, and after painstakingly pressing it under that strange press, the result was still a failure. Again.
He glanced at the pile of other sheets that were already drying on a nearby wooden rack. They were all the same. Each one was a testament to his wasted effort.
Jon let out a long sigh, a puff of white vapor escaping his mouth in the chilly workshop air. He could feel eyes on his back. He turned to the side. There, under the only window that let in the dim light, stood Lord Jaime and his friend, Addam Marbrand. They were also examining one of the failed sheets.
Lord Jaime held the rough paper in his hands, tilting it towards the light, feeling its texture with his thumb. Jon expected to see disappointment or even anger on the boy's face. Instead, he just nodded slowly, his expression filled with the concentration of someone examining something interesting.
"Well, the first attempt always begins with failure," Jaime said, more to himself than to anyone else. "But at least we're learning." He glanced at the pile of drying sheets. "We must be lacking in the pounding and the pressing."
Jon wanted to snort at that last sentence. We? Since the pounding process had begun, Young Lord Jaime had done nothing but watch, giving instructions from a safe distance while Jon sweated over the stone mortar, the heavy pestle feeling like a cow in his hands. It was he who had spent hours turning scraps of cloth into a disgusting, fibrous pulp. It was his muscles that were still screaming in protest.
"You could still write on this," Addam said, taking the sheet from Jaime's hand and examining it skeptically. "Well, if you tried really hard. And if you didn't mind your quill breaking."
Jaime smiled wryly, "We're making paper to make things easier, Addam, not harder."
"Why bother anyway?" Addam frowned, voicing the question that had been in Jon's mind for weeks. "We've always used parchment. You can get it anywhere."
"Now, that's where you're wrong," Jaime countered, his enthusiasm returning. He seemed most alive when he could correct someone. "Parchment is expensive. Very expensive. You have to raise a sheep or a calf, slaughter it, skin it, clean it, stretch it, scrape it… it's a long and difficult process. That's why only lords and maesters have it. Only people with money can afford it."
Jon had to agree with that. In his village, no one owned any. He had never cared much about parchment, but he knew it wasn't something you could buy at the market.
"Then you can afford it, Lannister," Addam said, nudging his friend's shoulder. "You have a mountain of gold. You could buy all the parchment in Westeros if you wanted to."
Jaime laughed, a genuine, carefree laugh. "You think I'm going to all this trouble just to use it myself?"
Addam looked confused. "So why are you making it? To sell it? You already have plenty of money."
"Of course to sell it," Jaime nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And then, something new entered his voice, something that sounded like a merchant.
"Besides, what man doesn't want to be richer?" he said. "Parchment is expensive and hard to come by. With paper, we might be able to minimize the cost. Used linen cloth is much cheaper than sheepskin. The process, once we perfect it, can be done by common laborers. With that, we can sell it for less. Much less. And a lower price means more people will use it. The merchants in Lannisport. The scribes. The septons. Maybe even the household stewards to make their shopping lists. And if more people use it…" He paused, a sly smile on his lips. "…the money will keep flowing."
Money.
The word buzzed in Jon's head like a bee. Suddenly, the ache in his back lessened slightly. His frustration with the rough paper eased a bit. He looked at the drying pile of failures, and for the first time, he didn't see a pile of trash. He saw a pile of unminted coins.
If Young Lord Jaime succeeded… if they could really make cheap paper… and if they sold it… and if the money really did "keep flowing"…
Suddenly, Jon felt a strong urge to try making this damned thing again. He didn't care if he had to pound cloth all night. Maybe, just maybe, some of that "money" would splash on him. A handful of Gold Dragons could change the entire year for his family back in Clearwater.
"You really do sound like a merchant from Lannisport," Addam said, shaking his head in amusement.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Jaime replied without hesitation. "But it's more than just money, Addam. Think about it. What makes a kingdom strong?"
"Swords," Addam answered instantly.
"Swords are important," Jaime agreed. "But a sword needs a hand to hold it, and that hand needs a brain to guide it. Information, Addam. Knowledge. That's what makes a kingdom truly strong. Right now, that knowledge is locked away on expensive parchments in the cabinets of lords and maesters. It's a slow-flowing river that only a few can drink from."
He picked up one of the failed paper sheets. "Paper… paper is a way to widen that river. To make it flow faster, to more places. If a merchant can easily write down his inventory, he can trade more efficiently. If a builder can easily draw his plans, he can build stronger walls. If a commander can easily send orders to his subordinates, his army will move faster. When information is available to more people, more people can make money. More people can innovate. And that will make all of us, the entire Westerlands, more prosperous. And a more prosperous kingdom is a stronger kingdom."
Jon listened, his mouth slightly open. He didn't fully understand everything Jaime was saying, but he understood the basic idea. His young lord wasn't just trying to make paper. He was trying to change the world. Or at least, their part of it.
"You think too much, Jaime," Addam said with a laugh, but this time his laugh was softer. "My head hurts listening to all that. Leave this pile of wet trash. The sun is still shining, and I hear the fish in the river near the woods are hungry. Let's go fishing. At least we might catch our dinner."
Jaime's serious face instantly transformed, replaced by the enthusiastic gleam of a young boy. "That's the best idea I've heard all day!" he exclaimed. He carefully placed the paper sheet back. "Much better than staring at cloth pulp."
He turned to Jon, his grin returning. "Jon, did you hear that? Leave this rubbish. Get us some fishing rods and bait from the storeroom. We're going to show Addam how a Lannister catches fish."
Jon could only nod, an overwhelming sense of relief washing over him. Fishing. He could do that. Fishing was quiet. Fishing was peaceful.
As Jaime and Addam walked out of the workshop, already arguing cheerfully about who would catch the biggest fish, Jon stayed behind for a moment. He walked over to the drying rack and touched one of the rough paper sheets. It felt like nothing. Just crushed and dried cloth.
Shaking his head, Jon followed them out of the workshop.
…
The sun felt warm on Jon's back, a pleasant warmth that soaked into his tired muscles. The air was filled with peaceful sounds: the soft rush of the river flowing over stones, the whisper of the wind in the leaves of the nearby forest, and occasionally, the muffled laughter of two boys sitting on the riverbank.
He stood leaning against an old tree, his arms crossed over his chest, his watchful eyes scanning his surroundings. Although the chances of danger here, so close to Casterly Rock, were minuscule, the habits of a sworn sword were hard to break. But most of his attention was on the two boys. Lord Jaime and Addam Marbrand sat side-by-side on the grassy bank, each holding a simple wooden fishing rod, their lines disappearing into the clear water. They didn't talk much, just enjoying the comfortable silence and the quiet competition of who would get the first bite.
"Jon?"
Jaime's voice broke the silence. The boy didn't turn, his eyes still fixed on the tip of his fishing rod.
"Yes, Lord Jaime?" Jon raised an eyebrow, straightening his posture.
"You've never been outside the Westerlands, have you?" he asked in a light tone, as if commenting on the weather.
Jon smiled faintly. "You know me well, Lord Jaime," Jon replied. "What's this about?"
"My father sent a raven," Jaime said. He was still staring at the water, but there was a shift in his tone. A little more serious, a little more tired. "He wants me to come to King's Landing. He said, 'it is time you saw how the kingdom is truly run, not just from books.' He said it could open up more knowledge and connections for me." Jaime snorted softly. "Though he didn't say it quite like that, I knew what he meant."
Jon felt a small jolt of interest. King's Landing. The capital. The seat of the Iron Throne. The place where history was made.
"Oh, you're going to King's Landing?" Addam's voice came, full of surprise and a little jealousy. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Jaime finally turned, and he smiled at his friend. It was a strange smile, Jon thought. A patient and slightly condescending smile, like an old man talking to a child. Since Jon had known him, that look would sometimes appear, as if the boy were seeing them from a great distance. And yet Jaime himself was only nine namedays old. "I just got the letter this morning," Jaime said calmly. "And the day was busy enough to start with news of a rather long journey. Do you want to come?"
Addam's eyes lit up immediately. "Come? To King's Landing? Of course," he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I've never been to King's Landing."
"Good," Jaime said, a sly grin returning to his face. "That means we'll be leaving Lefford behind."
Addam snorted lightly, his excitement subsiding into a familiar annoyance. "That boy has a dozen others to bother."
"You have a good point," Jaime grinned. Then he turned, his green eyes looking straight at Jon, and Jon felt the full force of his young master's attention return to him. "And that means, Jon, you'll have to pack. Though we probably won't leave for another month. Father isn't always in a hurry for things like this."
King's Landing. The thought swirled in Jon's mind. He would see the Red Keep. He would see the same streets that Aegon the Conqueror had once walked. He would see the greatest city in all of Westeros. It was a staggering prospect for a farmer's son from Clearwater.
"That's good, Lord Jaime," Jon replied, trying to keep his voice steady, though a little excitement was creeping in. "A change of scenery will be welcome."
"Now, don't get too excited," Jaime countered, his smile growing wider. "I hear the place smells like a pile of human filth."
The three of them laughed, their free and genuine laughter echoing over the quiet river, scaring a bluebird that was perched on a nearby branch.
Suddenly, Jaime's fishing line twitched violently, the tip of his rod dipping sharply towards the water.
"A bite!" Addam exclaimed.
Jaime reacted quickly, pulling his rod back with a practiced motion. The line went taut, and for a moment he could feel the resistance on the other end, the strong pull of something alive beneath the surface. Then, with a sudden snap, the line went slack. He reeled it in, and the hook came out of the water, empty and glistening in the sun. The fish had gotten away.
Addam groaned in disappointment. Jaime just stared at his empty hook for a few moments. Then, he shrugged and cast his line back into the water.
He turned to Jon, a small, enigmatic smile on his face.
"Fishing requires patience, doesn't it?"
Jon just nodded, saying nothing.
Indeed, Jon thought to himself, his mind suddenly flashing back to the dusty workshop and the pile of failed cloth. Everything requires patience.
---
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