TYWIN
Tywin Lannister exited the Small Council chamber for the umpteenth time with a sour taste in his stomach. The meeting, like so many before it, had been an exhausting exercise in futility.
Today's problem was the same as last week's: piracy. They had lost another merchant ship, this time a large cargo vessel carrying silks from Myr, swallowed by the pirates who hid like rats among the rocks of the Stepstones. The solution was obvious and tedious: build more warships, order stricter patrols. And of course, it all had to be funded by the royal treasury, a treasury that was steadily dwindling due to the King's reckless spending and endless ambitions.
As if that wasn't enough, there was the problem of King's Landing itself. The construction of sewers for every street in the city was costing an immense fortune, a bottomless pit for the royal coffers. Yet, it was necessary. The stench of human filth and rotting garbage in the streets was overwhelming, especially in the summer. It wasn't just a matter of discomfort; it was an economic issue. The stench and disease would drive away skilled merchants and craftsmen. Disturbing their comfort meant people would leave, and their departure meant the economy would stagnate.
It was astonishing, Tywin thought as he walked down the cold corridor. This city, the base of Aegon the Conqueror, was built on ambition, not planning. King's Landing had no concept; it just grew organically like fungus on rotting wood, becoming the tangled and inefficient mess it was today. Perfect. And he was the one who had to clean it up. Looking at history, the Targaryen kings mostly only knew how to destroy with fire, never learning how to build.
He was lost in his dark thoughts when he saw her. His daughter, Cersei, standing alone in a hall overlooking one of the inner gardens. She wasn't doing anything, just standing by a tall, arched window, staring into the distance. Her eyes were unfocused.
Tywin disliked seeing anyone, especially his own child, daydreaming and lost in thought. Daydreaming was a sign of weakness, a sign of an undisciplined mind. So, he approached his daughter, his silent footsteps on the carpet not announcing his arrival.
"Why are you standing here, Cersei? Do you have nothing else to do?"
Cersei blinked, startled from her reverie. She turned to face him, and for a fleeting moment, Tywin saw something unusual in her eyes: vulnerability. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the mask of composure he had taught her. "Nothing, Father," she replied. "My other activities are finished. I have nothing interesting to do."
"Then try harder," Tywin said, his voice sharp and unsympathetic. "The world will not hand you entertainment. You must take it. Learn whatever you can. Learn the names of the Houses at court, learn their weaknesses, learn who owes whom. Never waste time."
Cersei nodded, her eyes downcast. "Yes, Father." She paused, and Tywin could see she was wrestling with something. Finally, she raised her head again, hesitation clear on her face. "Father," she said, her voice a little softer, "I always cross paths with Prince Rhaegar. In the garden, in the library. But we rarely speak... you are going to do something about that, aren't you?"
Tywin looked at his daughter. He saw the anxiety in her eyes, the impatience of a young girl who wanted her prize now. 'Does she think I've been idle?' he thought. He had been doing 'something' for her since before she was born, since the day he decided that his perfect daughter would be Queen.
"That is my concern," he answered coldly. "You will simply have to wait."
"But," Cersei said, and now her tone was filled with a barely controlled frustration, "he's practically with Jaime constantly! I saw them this morning, walking with Ser Arthur Dayne. I heard they spent the previous evening in the Prince's solar, talking about music. It should be me he's seeing!" She gritted her teeth, an unladylike habit that Tywin detested.
Tywin knew that. Of course, he knew. Jaime reported every interaction with the Prince to him each night, a concise and efficient report. It was good. Jaime was laying the groundwork. He was using their shared interest in books and music as an entry point, a way to gain the Prince's trust and interest. Tywin knew Jaime had planted his initial ideas about 'paper' with Rhaegar, framing it as an intellectual revolution, not just a business venture. Schools... it was a foreign idea. But when he thought about them, House Lannister, being able to control the curriculum, print the books, and subtly shape the minds of the next generation of rulers and merchants... it was tantalizing. It was a form of power far more enduring than that of the sword.
"Jaime is doing his duty," Tywin said flatly, deciding to give his daughter a small fraction of the truth. "He is gaining the Prince's interest. That is a necessary first step. And it will make the match with you easier." Tywin doubted that last sentence. He knew perfectly well that the biggest obstacle wasn't a lack of interest from the Prince, but the madness of the King. Aerys was a wall he could not breach. But Cersei didn't need to know about that doubt. Doubt was poison.
Cersei seemed to think for a moment, her anger subsiding slightly as she processed the logic of her father's words. She no longer saw it as a betrayal from her twin, but as a maneuver in a larger campaign. "Does that mean I should be with Jaime to talk to the Prince?" she asked, her mind already shifting to tactics.
Tywin looked at his beautiful, ambitious daughter. He had given her a goal. Now, he would see if she had the intelligence to achieve it.
"Do what you think is right," Tywin said, his voice sharp, each word both a command and a test. "But do not make a mess of it."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away. He left Cersei alone with her thoughts and her burden. He had given her permission, but also full responsibility for the outcome. That was Tywin's way of teaching.
And it was the way the world worked. Results were all that mattered.
Tywin Lannister's footsteps made no sound. He walked alone, his mind then shifting to one thing. The matter of Jaime.
He thought about the conversation in his study. About paper, and about the logical next step his son had conceived: the "printing press". An idea so transformative that at first, it sounded like a fantasy. But Jaime had broken it down into a series of solvable problems, a series of technical challenges. And the first problem, as his son had correctly identified, was the ink.
Jaime had mentioned they were only lacking the right ink. The ink they had now wouldn't work. It was too fluid. It wouldn't adhere to the cold, smooth metal surface of the letter blocks. Under the pressure of a printing press, the ink would spread like a water stain, ruining the paper and making the words illegible.
No, they needed something different. Something Jaime had described with surprising precision, quoting from his research with Maester Creylen. An oil-based ink. Something thicker, stickier, that would cling to the metal in a thin layer and transfer cleanly to the paper. The basic formula, according to Jaime, would likely involve oil boiled from flaxseed until it thickened, mixed with fine soot collected from burning oil lamps as the black pigment, and perhaps stabilized with something to aid in drying.
Tywin didn't understand half of that science. That was the business of maesters and craftsmen. But what he did understand was logistics.
If they wanted to produce this printing on a large scale, it meant they needed a large and stable supply of oil-based ink. And to make that ink, they needed its primary raw material: flax plants. A great many flax plants.
His mind immediately turned to the Westerlands. Who had suitable land? Who could be trusted to meet production quotas without asking too many questions? A raven would be sent to Silverhill. Lord Serret was a practical man; he would understand a profitable business order when he saw one. House Serret and other Houses with extensive farmlands would be ordered to significantly increase their flax production. They would be compensated well, of course. Well enough to ensure their compliance and low enough to maximize Lannister profits. The gold of Casterly Rock would turn fields of wheat into waving fields of blue flax.
That was the first problem solved.
Then there was the second problem: the paper itself. The production at Casterly Rock was a good start. The watermill Kevan had ordered would increase the yield dramatically. Lannisport was indeed a bustling market, the perfect place to introduce this new product. But to achieve something greater, to truly dominate the market and, as Jaime had said, "control information," they had to promote this thing throughout the Seven Kingdoms. And beyond.
They needed an emissary. Not a maester who would talk about its technical merits, and not a knight who would look out of place. They needed someone who could speak to the merchant princes of Essos in the language of profit, and to the Lords of Westeros in the language of charm. Someone who would not arouse suspicion, someone whose arrival would be met with a smile, not a raised shield.
Tywin's mind immediately went to his brother. Gerion.
The man had been doing nothing useful lately, other than spending Lannister gold on wine and women in Lannisport. He was the laughing lion, the family joke, a man without purpose. But it was precisely those qualities that made him perfect for this task. His charm and his ability to make people laugh, usually a source of annoyance for Tywin, could now be the perfect tool. He could travel to the major cities: Oldtown, Gulltown, White Harbor. Even across the Narrow Sea to Braavos, Pentos, and Myr. He would go not as an official envoy of the Hand of the King, but as Gerion Lannister who happened to be carrying samples of "an interesting new invention from his nephew."
He would show the paper, let the merchants and scribes feel it, let them see its quality and imagine its lower price. And while he did so, he would also perform another task. He would use his charm to open doors that were normally closed. He would listen to gossip in taverns and in the palaces of merchants. He would seek information about ship movements, commodity prices, political intrigues. Sending Gerion on this journey would give him a purpose, give him a way to finally serve House Lannister in a meaningful way. It was an efficient solution to two problems.
These thoughts, which had been swirling in his mind, had now become a clear plan, a series of logical steps. Flax. Ink. Gerion. Each piece had its place.
Tywin arrived at the door of his own solar, the quiet and secluded tower of the Hand of the King. He had been walking aimlessly, and his feet had brought him back to the center of his power. The fresh air had done its job. His mind was now clear, his actions decided.
He saw the guard standing silently by his door, an unmoving statue.
"Find my son, Jaime," Tywin commanded, his voice flat and emotionless. "Bring him to me."
Entering, Tywin took up a stack of documents, reading and filling them out while waiting for the boy. Fifteen minutes later, he appeared.
"Are you done playing with the prince?"
Tywin's voice cut through the silence of his study as Jaime entered. It was a deliberately dismissive question, an opening test. Tywin observed him, assessing his son's posture, the expression on his face.
Jaime did not seem intimidated. He simply closed the door quietly behind him and walked to the chair in front of his father's desk. "The Prince is truly enthusiastic," Jaime replied, his voice calm. "He remains composed on the surface, but his eyes... you can see it in his eyes, Father. All the songs I sang, all the stories I told, it all captured his interest. It was like giving water to a very thirsty man."
"Spending so much time with the common folk has its uses, apparently," Tywin said flatly, his pale green eyes locking with his son's.
Jaime met his gaze without flinching. "Everything has its use, depending on how and on whom you use it," he said. It was a Lannister's answer. It was the correct answer. "What is it, Father?"
"Here. Help me read these reports." Tywin pushed a stack of parchments across the desk. They were trivial reports he had set aside: harvest yields from a small farm near the Golden Tooth, a petty dispute over grazing rights between two low-ranking knights, cargo manifests from ships carrying wool to Lannisport. It was tedious work, but suitable for training the boy's mind without giving him too much sensitive information.
Jaime nodded, taking the stack without further comment. He pulled his chair closer and began to read, his sharp eyes moving quickly from line to line.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth and the rustle of parchment. Tywin feigned returning to his own work, but he watched his son from the corner of his eye. He saw the way Jaime didn't just read the words, but absorbed the information, a small frown creasing his brow as he processed numbers and facts.
Tywin put down his quill, breaking the silence. "What do you see in those reports?"
Jaime didn't look up immediately. He finished the page he was on, then carefully placed it on top of the stack. "Lord Clark's harvest report is ten percent lower than last year's," he said. "But the land around there should be fertile. The report from Lord Swain, whose lands are adjacent, shows a five percent increase in harvest."
"Continue," Tywin said, keeping his voice neutral.
"Lord Swain mentioned in his report that he built a small dam upstream three months ago to irrigate his new fields," Jaime explained. "The same river flows through Lord Clark's land. It's likely the dam reduced the water flow to his lands, causing his harvest to decline." He paused for a moment. "And in the report, both men are vassals of House Lefford. This should have been settled by them, not brought to Casterly Rock. It shows a weakness in how Lefford manages his own vassals."
Tywin did not smile. He never smiled. But inside, he felt a flicker of cold satisfaction.
"A good lord," Tywin said quietly, "knows his lands not by riding through them, but by reading them. Every report is a window. Never forget that." He paused, letting the lesson sink in. Then, he moved on to the real business. "We will build the 'school' you spoke of."
Jaime lifted his eyes from the parchment, his composed face finally showing a hint of reaction. Tywin could see a quick spark of excitement in his eyes before he managed to control it. "In Lannisport?"
"Yes," Tywin nodded. "We will try it. Build one. Supervise it closely. If it goes as well as you say, if the merchants are truly willing to pay, it's very possible to expand it."
A smile finally broke on Jaime's face, a genuine and triumphant smile. "That's excellent, Father. Knowledge has always been held by the Citadel and the Maesters. If we do this, we can change the game."
"But it will also antagonize the Maesters," Tywin stated the obvious logic. He didn't care for the opinions of those foolish grey-robed maesters. He just wanted to see Jaime's thinking, to see if his son had considered all the angles.
"Let them think what they will," Jaime replied instantly, and there was a steel in his voice that reminded Tywin of himself. "They depend on the Lords for protection and funding. They wouldn't dare oppose us openly. House Lannister will always be at the top." He paused, and added his trump card. "Plus, now Prince Rhaegar shares the same idea. He sees its value."
It was a smart move. Using the Prince's interest as a political shield. Tywin nodded slowly. "We'll just have to wait for him to become king then."
"Yes," Jaime commented, his smile fading slightly, replaced by a thin, cold one. "But that will take time."
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