JON
After two weeks, after two damned, relentless weeks where his muscles screamed and his patience was tested to its limits, Jon finally saw it. And the sight, strangely, left him speechless.
On the long table in the center of the workshop, arranged in neat stacks, lay the fruits of their labor. Paper. But not like the coarse, thick sheets they had produced before, which were more like stiff rags than anything else. This was different.
These papers were thinner, almost translucent when held up to the afternoon light filtering through the window. They were a clean white, not the pale gray of their failed attempts. And when Jon dared to touch one, its surface felt slightly rough yet smooth under his calloused fingers.
He stared at the stacks with an admiration he had never felt before. This was not the beauty of a sword blade or the grandeur of a tapestry. This was a different kind of beauty. The beauty of something born from chaos. He knew exactly what was contained in each of those sheets: hours of pounding linen cloth in a stone mortar until his arms felt numb, the strange smell of the boiled pulp, the frustration of lifting the mould from the water and seeing the pulp clump incorrectly, and the ache in his back from pressing the water out of the stacks. He had hated every second of it.
But now, seeing the result, he felt a strange, powerful wave of pride.
At the end of the table, Lord Jaime was grinning, of course he was grinning. The satisfied grin of a general who had just won a difficult battle. It worked! It worked! After Jon did almost all the heavy lifting!
"This is very good, Jon," Jaime said, his voice filled with sincere satisfaction. He was sitting on a stool, holding one of the paper sheets, and carefully dipping the tip of a quill into an inkwell. He began to write, his strokes smooth and unhindered. "The texture is not bad," he murmured, more to himself. "And the ink absorbs without spreading or bleeding."
"I am glad to hear that, Young Lord," Jon said calmly, keeping his voice flat and respectful. But in his mind, he was cheering: 'I've conquered this stupid game! I did it! I, Jon of Clearwater, am the best papermaker in all of Westeros!'
The workshop door creaked open, and Addam Marbrand entered, followed by the more reserved Cleos Frey. They had been coming every few days to check on "the Lannister's crazy project," as Addam called it.
"Wow," Marbrand said as he approached and saw the stacks of paper. He picked up a sheet, examining it with a critical eye. Cleos also leaned in for a closer look. "This actually looks good," Addam admitted, sounding genuinely impressed. "Thinner and whiter than parchment." Then, he did a strange thing. He sniffed it. "And it doesn't smell too bad. Not like sheepskin."
"Amazing," Cleos said, nodding earnestly. His eyes shifted from the paper to Jon. "Seeing Jon fail repeatedly and finally succeed is something worth celebrating."
'Yes!' Jon cheered in his head. 'Let's celebrate! You don't need to provide food or drink, Young Lord. You just have to give me a gold coin and I'll be happy!'
"With this, the first problem is solved," Jaime said, setting down his quill and nodding in satisfaction at his work.
Jon frowned. "There's a second problem?" he asked, his heart sinking a little. He thought his suffering was over.
Jaime looked at him, and that grin returned, this time a little more sly. "Of course there is. The easy parts are done." He leaned back in his chair. "For mass production, we can't use high-quality linen like this... well, we could, but it wouldn't be profitable."
"Therefore," Jaime continued, "used cloths will be very useful. Old clothes, rags, torn ship sails. Anything we can get cheaply. We can get that from many places."
"For example?" Addam asked, his curiosity piqued.
Jaime shrugged, a strange, casual gesture. "There are plenty in this castle. Think of all the old sheets or worn-out servant's tunics. In Lannisport, there are thousands of households. Every house must have a pile of used cloth."
"After mass production, we can sell it?" Jon asked, finally getting to the part he really cared about.
Jaime grinned at him, his eyes dancing. "No, we're going to eat it." He paused for a moment to enjoy the confused expression on Jon's face before laughing. "Of course we're going to sell it, Jon! I'll gather these papers first, our best 'samples.' I'll show them to the merchants in Lannisport later. And maybe to my father when we visit King's Landing."
King's Landing. The journey was getting closer. Jon nodded slowly. With the Lannister name and the connections of the Hand of the King, selling these stacks of paper would be very easy. He could see it now: carts full of paper, and other carts returning full of gold.
"If paper can spread information like you say, Lannister," Addam said slowly, his gaze distant. He held a sheet of paper in his hand as if it were something far more precious. "This might change a lot of things later. The Maesters, the Septons… even the kings. And I'm here to witness it."
"You'll see," Jaime said, his grin full of absolute confidence.
"But how will you get all those used cloths?" Cleos asked, ever the practical one. "You can't just go from house to house and ask for their old clothes."
"That's where the clever part comes in," Jaime said. "We're not going to ask for it. We're going to buy it. For a very cheap price, of course. We'll pay people for their trash. They'll get a few copper pennies, and we'll get our raw materials. Everyone is happy." He turned to Jon. "And you, Jon, will be a very powerful man. You'll have to supervise the workers later."
Jon knew it was just a joke, but he tried to imagine himself ordering a dozen men to do the back-breaking work he had done alone. The image was quite pleasant.
"This all sounds like a lot of work," Addam said. "I think I'd rather fight with a sword."
"That's why you'll be a great knight, and I'll be a rich Lord," Jaime retorted cheerfully. "Everyone has their role."
Jon listened to them talk, his mind spinning. Money. Mass production. Connections. Changing the world. It was all too big for him to fully comprehend.
"Let's go, Jon, I'm going to see Uncle Kevan."
Young Lord Jaime's voice broke the satisfied thoughts in the workshop. The boy moved with a sharp purpose, carefully gathering the best sheets of paper—the whitest, the smoothest, the most perfect. He placed them one by one into a leather pouch he had prepared specifically for this moment. Every movement was filled with conviction, the conviction of a man who knew he held something valuable.
'Oh, this is the first stage for the spread of this paper!' The thought flashed through Jon's mind, and a hot wave of excitement washed over him, banishing all the remaining fatigue from his muscles. This was it. The moment when all his sweat and his aching back would start to pay off.
They left the workshop, bidding a brief farewell to Addam and Cleos, who were still staring at the stacks of paper with a mixture of awe and confusion.
The journey from the workshop to the solar felt different. Usually, when walking beside Young Lord Jaime, Jon felt like a guard, a protector. Today, he felt like an escort on an important mission. Every step on the familiar stones felt heavier, more meaningful. He carried the pride of the work he had done, not as a knight, but as a… creator. It was a strange and intoxicating feeling.
They arrived at the door to Ser Kevan Lannister's solar. The thick wooden door seemed intimidating, like a gate to a different world. In Jon's world, people solved problems with swords or muscle. Behind this door, problems were solved with words, numbers, and quiet decisions that could change the fates of thousands. Two guards in crimson cloaks stood at attention on either side of the door, their spears held perfectly. They nodded respectfully at Jaime, their gazes betraying no curiosity.
Jaime didn't hesitate. He knocked on the door three times, a sharp, confident rap.
A calm, deep voice came from within. "Enter."
Jaime pushed the door open and stepped inside. Jon followed him, standing silently behind his young lord's shoulder, his hand instinctively on the hilt of his sword, a habit hard to break even in the safest place in the Westerlands.
Ser Kevan's solar was exactly like the man himself: orderly, efficient, and without unnecessary frills. Neat bookshelves lined one wall, scrolls of parchment were stacked meticulously on a table, and a large map of the Westerlands was spread under glass on a massive desk. Ser Kevan himself was sitting behind that desk, reading a scroll. He looked up as they entered, and a pair of thick, blond eyebrows rose in surprise.
"Jaime? You're not practicing your sword or playing? That's something."
Jaime shook his head and walked forward, sitting in one of the chairs in front of his uncle's desk without waiting to be invited. "Practice and play can wait, Uncle," he said, his voice calm and serious. "Right now, I have something important."
Jon watched the interaction closely. Ser Kevan was a hard man to read. He didn't have the intimidating coldness of Lord Tywin, nor the easy cheerfulness of Ser Gerion. He was a quiet, considerate man, a man whose actions always had a purpose.
"What is it? Is the toy you were making finished?" Kevan smiled lightly, a rare smile that softened the corners of his eyes. Jon knew that beneath his serious demeanor, Ser Kevan was very fond of his nephew.
Jaime laughed, a relaxed sound. "You can read my mind, Uncle. Only, this isn't just a toy anymore. I have something real, that might, just might, change a few things for real."
With a deliberate movement, Jaime opened the leather pouch and carefully took out a small stack of white paper. He placed it on the desk between himself and his uncle.
The paper I made. Jon could feel a hot wave of pride rise in his chest. He had seen that paper wet, clumpy, and torn. Now, seeing it lying on Ser Kevan's polished wooden desk, looking so clean and perfect, it felt almost like magic.
Kevan stared at the stack with a confused expression. He reached out and took a sheet. Jon watched as his uncle's thick, strong fingers gently felt the surface of the paper. "You made this?"
"Yes," Jaime said. "I didn't show it to you before because, frankly, it was more like trash than something you could write on." He leaned forward, his enthusiasm beginning to show. "Now it's finished. Try writing something, Uncle. Feel it for yourself."
Kevan didn't speak. He set the sheet down, took a quill from its stand, dipped it in ink, and then, with a steady, firm stroke, he wrote a single word in the center of the white page.
Lannister.
The black ink looked sharp and clear on the white surface, absorbing quickly without the slightest bleed.
Kevan set down his quill and stared at the word for what felt like a very long time. The room was completely silent, the only sound the frantic beating of Jon's heart in his ears.
Finally, Ser Kevan looked up and stared straight at Jaime. The amused expression on his face was gone, replaced by something much deeper. Something that looked like genuine admiration.
"This is very good, Jaime."
"I know!" Jaime exclaimed, his excitement finally bubbling over. He leaned even further forward, almost jumping out of his chair. "I know how you value brains and information, Uncle, so you of all people would understand. It's cheaper to make than parchment, faster, and lighter. I plan to produce and sell it. For that, I need your help. And Father's."
Kevan smiled again, this time a different smile. Not the smile of an uncle to his nephew, but the smile of a lord who has just seen a powerful new weapon. "A thing like this is indeed worthy of appreciation," he said, his quiet voice filled with a new weight. He picked up the sheet again. "How much of it can you make? If it's the same or less than parchment, it's useless. Just a waste of time."
It was a Lannister's question. A question of scale, efficiency, and profit.
"For now, I can't confirm it for certain," Jaime answered, not at all daunted. "But I am sure, with the right process, we will be able to make about ten to twenty thousand sheets every three weeks." He nodded, as if it were a simple calculation. "That's if we have up to twenty skilled workers."
Jon raised his eyebrows. Ten to twenty thousand? The number was so large he couldn't even imagine it. He had spent two weeks making less than a hundred decent sheets. The thought of twenty thousand made his head spin.
Ser Kevan also seemed taken aback. He set the paper sheet back down as if it had suddenly become hot. "Ten… thousand?" he repeated, to make sure he hadn't misheard. "Jaime, with that amount, the maesters at the Citadel could write the history of the entire world in a year. You… you could write endlessly with that much." He looked at his nephew as if seeing him for the first time. "What do you need?"
And then, Jaime began to explain. Jon listened in awe as his young master spoke no longer like a boy, but like a planner. He spoke of "pulping efficiency," of the need for larger mortars, and of his main idea: a waterwheel.
"We can build it on the riverbank," Jaime said with passion, his hands moving as he explained. "The power of the water can be used to move giant wooden hammers. Those hammers will pound the cloth into pulp continuously, day and night. It will be much faster than human labor. It will be the heart of the operation."
Kevan listened intently, his eyes never leaving Jaime's face. He nodded slowly, absorbing every detail. When Jaime had finished, silence once again filled the room.
"A waterwheel," Kevan said softly. "That is a large project. It will require gold."
"We have gold," Jaime replied simply.
Kevan looked at his nephew for a few more moments, and then a decision was made. "Alright," he said. "You will have your waterwheel. And your twenty workers. I will arrange everything." He paused, and a sly smile very similar to Jaime's appeared on his face. "But first, I will tell Tywin. I will send a raven to King's Landing tonight." He picked up the sheet of paper he had written on. "And of course, I will use your invention to write the letter."
Jon felt a thrill of excitement. This was real. This was really happening.
"One more thing, Jaime," Kevan said, rising from his chair. "I want to see it."
Jaime looked confused. "See what, Uncle?"
"The process," Kevan said. "Take me to your workshop. I want to see with my own eyes how you turn a pile of rags into… this."
...
Thank you for reading! Chapters 15-37 are now out on Patreon.com/Daario_W!