JAIME
Jaime sat in his room as the first dawn began to break. The morning air was cool through the slightly open window, bringing with it the dampness from Blackwater Bay and a thin blanket of mist that still clung to the lower parts of the city.
Sitting on a wooden chair at his writing desk, Jaime unfurled a parchment scroll that displayed the fiery handwriting of Prince Oberyn Martell. This letter had actually arrived last night, but Jaime hadn't opened it. Yesterday had been long, the meeting with Father, the conversation with Prince Rhaegar, and he hadn't had the energy left to deal with Oberyn's typically exaggerated prose.
But now, in the silence of the morning, he felt ready. Reading the letter slowly, a smile began to appear on Jaime's face as the characteristic opening lines came into view.
"King's Landing, ugh, King's Landing," Oberyn wrote. "You are in King's Landing while I am cooped up here? May this letter reach its destination correctly, because the ravens in this cursed place seem as lethargic as the maesters. Oldtown is so stuffy and cramped that I believe it is the true hell on earth."
Jaime chuckled softly. That was so typical of Oberyn.
"I met Baelor Hightower yesterday," the letter continued. "Do you remember him? The tall, awkward one who farted right in front of Elia when we visited? That memory is still so seared into my mind that I still laugh every time I see his serious face. Luckily, I managed to hold it in (this time)."
"Honestly, he's a good man, though dull as a rock. And I feel a bit bad for laughing, well, just a little. He was kind enough to show me around, playing the part of my personal tour guide in this ancient city. It's quite nice when I have a local 'friend' who can show me the interesting places, which means hidden taverns, rather than just spice merchants and the maesters' dusty libraries."
Jaime turned to the next page, shaking his head in amusement. Oberyn's thoughts always made him laugh. The man was so blunt, so unconcerned with propriety, reminding him of some friends from his other life, Steven's life. A world that felt blurrier every day.
"Oh, also, your paper is finished?" The letter's tone shifted to one of more interest. "That's good. You have talent, boy. I will guard this secret as tightly as a maiden's thighs, so that when you actually start selling it, it will be a huge explosion! It will be interesting to see everyone's reaction, the arrogant Maesters, the pious Septons, the greedy Merchants! Haha! Imagine their faces!"
"I honestly wish you could show me that thing sooner, but yes, life sucks and doesn't always go our way, does it? Like that damn Yronwood, for example. How can I be accused of killing Edgar? The man was as weak as a newborn kitten. I wouldn't need poison to kill him if I really wanted to. He'd probably just trip on a stone in the street and die of embarrassment."
"Anyway, enough complaining. See you again, little lion. Next time we meet, you'll have to tell me a lot so I'm not too shocked by what you'll make next. A flying machine? A potion of immortality? I wouldn't be surprised."
Jaime laughed again, a genuine laugh. He folded the letter carefully and placed it back on the table. He would write his reply tonight, when the time felt right, when he could find the right words to answer Oberyn's mix of mockery, support, and complaints. Their strange friendship, forged through letters across half the kingdom, was one of the most unexpected yet enjoyable things in this new life of his.
He rose from the chair and walked to the window, gazing at the mist that was slowly beginning to thin over the city. Today he had plans with Prince Rhaegar again. The Prince had invited him to discuss "something related to music." Musical instruments... Jaime sighed inwardly. He was completely blank there. As Steven, he had tried to learn the guitar a few times, driven by a fleeting desire to look cool, but his packed work schedule quickly extinguished that spark. He had only managed to master a few basic chords before giving up. He could enjoy music, he could feel it, but he could not create it. That was Rhaegar's territory.
Speaking of Rhaegar, there was something relieving about the Prince at the moment. As far as Jaime could see, Rhaegar had not yet become obsessed with "the prophecy."
A Song of Ice and Fire.
Jaime's memory of the TV show was like scattered shards of glass, sharp in some places, but mostly blurry and incomplete. He only remembered vague parts. Rhaegar and the prophecy of the Prince That Was Promised. Rhaegar and the "abduction" of Lyanna Stark at Harrenhal. The war that tore the kingdom apart. Robert Baratheon. Rhaegar's death at the Trident. And then... Jon Snow. The son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. The question of his heritage. Then the Zombie King... did Jon kill him? Steven couldn't remember. It all felt like a forgotten nightmare.
What was certain, if he could stop Rhaegar from obsessing over that prophecy... if he could divert the Prince's attention to more tangible things, like music, or paper, or even actual governance... maybe, just maybe, Robert's Rebellion could be avoided. And if the war could be avoided, fewer people would die. Hundreds of thousands of lives. It was a massive thought, a terrifying burden.
But what about the Mad King? Aerys was a different problem. He couldn't be left on the throne. He was a ticking time bomb. They had to depose him, right? Yes! Of course. Somehow. That was another puzzle for another day.
Jaime pushed those dizzying thoughts aside. Step by step. Right now, the focus is on building a relationship with Rhaegar, planting different ideas, offering another path. And focusing on his own projects.
He smiled as he thought about Father finally agreeing to build a school in Lannisport. That was a huge victory. His first real victory. This was the first step in his larger plan. After years of discussing the history of bookmaking from parchment, and the dissemination of knowledge with Maester Creylen, all under the guise of research for his paper project, this gave him the perfect excuse. A new excuse where he could randomly "rediscover" or "develop" ideas, like the printing press, schools, ink, that a nine-year-old boy in Westeros shouldn't know about.
Yes, Jaime thought as he turned from the window and began to get ready to meet the Prince. Everything is going according to plan. At least, for now.
Jaime opened his chamber door and stepped out into the still-dim corridor. The morning air was cool, carrying the faint scent of extinguished candles and ancient dust. Outside his door, as he had expected, stood Ser Jon, his sworn shield, as steadfast and silent as a rock.
"Quite cold, isn't it?" Jaime said with a smile, rubbing his arms.
"Feels like being in the North," Jon replied, his gruff voice echoing in the quiet. "Not that I've ever actually been to the North."
"One day, Jon," Jaime reassured him lightly, "you'll be leading an army against the undead."
Jon made a face, a comical expression of discomfort flashing across his usually stoic features. "Uh, it's bad enough fighting the living, young master. I'd rather not add the undead to the problem."
Jaime laughed lightly. This was why he liked being with Jon. With him, he didn't have to hide himself as much. He could toss out strange jokes about a future he shouldn't know, and Jon would just chalk it up as another quirk from his eccentric master. It was different from being with Father, where every word had to be calculated, or even with his friends like Addam, where he had to constantly try to sound like a nine-year-old boy.
Well, maybe not try that hard. The original Jaime's memories, the instincts and habits of the boy whose body he inhabited, had helped him blend in well enough. He still enjoyed sword practice, though now with a much deeper tactical understanding, he could still laugh at a crude joke, and he still had a child's characteristic impatience. But sometimes, Steven would surface, in his choice of words, in the way he analyzed a situation, in the strange references he made. And people would definitely look at him strangely.
At least Jon never showed it. Maybe he thought him odd, but he hid it well behind his quiet loyalty. And Jaime was grateful for that.
They walked through the labyrinthine corridors. Jaime, despite only being here for a few days, was already beginning to memorize the route, his sharp mind mapping every turn and tapestry. They arrived at the appointed place, a smaller, more private room near the library, which Jaime knew was where Prince Rhaegar often escaped to play his music.
The door was slightly ajar, and the soft sound of a harp drifted from within. Jaime knocked softly. The music stopped.
"Enter," Prince Rhaegar's voice called out.
Jaime and Jon entered. The room was warm and comfortable, lit by the morning light streaming through a high window and a crackling fire in the hearth. Prince Rhaegar sat near the fire, his small harp resting beside his chair. Across the room, in an armchair, sat Arthur Dayne, though this time he wasn't reading. He was simply observing their arrival with his calm eyes.
"Ah, you found your way," Prince Rhaegar teased, a friendly smile on his face. "I hope you didn't get lost?"
Arthur added in his typical deadpan. "At least he had Jon as an adult to guide him."
Jaime laughed, feeling instantly at ease. The atmosphere here was so different from Father's cold study. "Rest assured," he said. "Jon would have carried me if we were truly lost. He doesn't like to see me tired, you know?"
Jon, behind him, just gave a small, almost inaudible huff.
"A true man. Helping children," Rhaegar laughed as Jaime sat in the plush chair opposite him. On the low table between them, a spread of morning snacks was laid out: small cakes, fresh fruit, and a pitcher of fragrant herbal tea. Rhaegar leaned forward slightly. "I hope you haven't had breakfast, as I told you yesterday. We can finish all of this."
"I could do it with my eyes closed," Jaime said, not hesitating to pick up a small lemon cake. The taste exploded in his mouth, sweet, tart, and incredibly soft. This cake was made with a skill one could only find in the royal kitchens. Something he was grateful for in this current life was this: he could eat good food without having to think about his sometimes-pitiful wallet in his previous life. He savored that simple luxury.
"We've already written the first lyric and its tune, haven't we?" Rhaegar interjected, in between sips of his tea. He seemed excited, his violet eyes shining.
"Yes. Is there anything you want to change, Prince?" Jaime said, putting down his cake.
"Nonsense, the lyrics are quite good," Rhaegar said. "I just need your opinion on the music. I tried a few variations last night. I'm thinking we'll use the harp as the base, of course, but maybe add a bit of flute for the chorus? To give it a lighter, more hopeful feel."
"Opinions, I'm good at giving opinions," Jaime smiled. "But don't expect me to be able to play anything in this matter."
"You can learn," Rhaegar grinned, a challenge in his eyes. "But yes, later. We'll finish the song first."
After they finished eating a few more snacks, feeling a new energy from the sugar and the warmth of the tea, the mood shifted to one of more focus. Jaime watched Rhaegar pick up his harp, the instrument looking so natural in his hands. The prince closed his eyes for a moment, as if summoning the melody from within himself.
Then, he began to pluck the strings. The first notes opened softly, a simple yet beautiful sequence, flowing like a calm river. The rhythm was consistent, melodic, capturing the melancholic yet hopeful mood of the first verse's lyrics they had written together.
Jaime listened intently, not just with the ears of Jaime Lannister, who might only have heard a beautiful melody, but also with the ears of Steven, who had been exposed to thousands of songs from another world, with different structures and harmonies.
Rhaegar finished the opening section and looked at Jaime, waiting.
"It's beautiful," Jaime said honestly. "Very... Targaryen. Majestic yet sad."
Rhaegar smiled faintly. "But?"
"But maybe a little too... polished?" Jaime hesitated, searching for the right word. "The lyrics speak of common people, of their difficult yet hopeful lives. Maybe the music could be a little more... grounded? Perhaps some simpler notes at the beginning, before building to the more complex melody as the lyrics speak of hope?"
Rhaegar frowned, not in offense, but in deep thought. He plucked a few different notes, trying to feel what Jaime meant. "Like this?" he asked.
"Yes!" Jaime said, enthusiastic. "That feels more... honest. Closer to the song's theme."
Rhaegar nodded slowly, absorbing the feedback. He played the opening part again, this time incorporating Jaime's idea. The simpler notes provided a more solid foundation, making the more intricate melody that followed feel more impactful, like a sliver of beauty emerging from a rougher background.
"Better," Rhaegar admitted.
They continued like that for almost an hour. Rhaegar would play a section, then look at Jaime. Jaime would offer his opinion.
And the most amazing thing was, Rhaegar understood. The prince was a true musician, able to translate Jaime's abstract ideas into real notes. He would try different variations, experimenting with rhythm and harmony, until they both felt it was "right."
In the corner of the room, Jaime occasionally glanced towards Arthur and Jon. Dayne was listening intently, his expression calm but clearly interested. Jon, on the other hand, looked a little sleepy, but he remained standing straight, doing his duty with the patience of a saint.
Slowly but surely, the song began to take shape. The first verse now had a strong yet touching melody. They started working on the chorus, where Rhaegar truly incorporated the idea of the flute, playing a light, soaring counter-melody over the harp's foundation, creating a feeling of fragile optimism.
There was a strange synergy between them, a shared joy in the creative process. Jaime felt as if he were helping to paint a beautiful picture, even if he couldn't hold the brush himself. He only could suggest a color or the shape of a shadow.
As the sun began to climb higher in the sky, they had managed to complete the basic framework for the first verse and the chorus. Rhaegar played it all from beginning to end, and this time, it felt complete. It was a sad song, yes, but also a song filled with a quiet beauty and a glimmer of hope.
"This..." Rhaegar paused, searching for the right word, his violet eyes shining. "This feels right."
Jaime smiled widely. "Yes," he said. "It really does."
...
Thanks for reading! You can read chapters 22-42 early at Patreon.com/Daario_W
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