JAIME | RHAEGAR
Dawn at Riverrun brought a thin mist creeping over the surface of the water, enveloping the sandstone fortress in a cold, wet embrace. The morning sunlight had just begun to peek from behind the eastern hills, turning the mist into shimmering pale gold.
Jaime and Catelyn walked side by side down the open stone corridor, their footsteps echoing softly on the cold floor. The morning air felt fresh, carrying the scent of river water and freshly baked bread from the castle kitchens.
"I have grown accustomed to your presence, so it will feel lonely when you leave, Lord Jaime."
Catelyn's voice broke the morning silence. Jaime turned, looking at the girl. Her face was calm, her hands folded politely in front of her green gown, but there was sincerity in her eyes. Jaime only nodded slowly in response. Whether Catelyn was just making small talk for the sake of politeness or not, Jaime found himself believing her.
And to his own surprise, Jaime realized that he felt it too. He would miss Riverrun.
He would miss the way this castle seemed to grow from the water, not perched arrogantly above it like Casterly Rock. He would miss the endless expanse of green grass, a contrast to the rocky cliffs of his home. He would miss the sound of the rushing rivers, flowing ceaselessly, singing like eternal music in his ears. It was a living place, a breathing place.
"I am indeed often missed by someone," Jaime replied with a light teasing tone, trying to banish the melancholy of parting. He grinned the typical Lannister grin. "That is my skill, apparently. Leaving an unforgettable impression."
Catelyn chuckled, a light and pleasant sound. "Do not be too confident, My Lord. Perhaps it is not you personally that we will miss." She glanced at him with a playful glint. "It is your stories that will be missed. Edmure might be sad for a few days when you depart. There will be no one to sit with him in the garden anymore and tell tales of princes, giants, and glass slippers."
Catelyn's face softened at the mention of her brother. "Our old servants only know stories about ghosts and scary warnings so children won't be naughty. Edmure often complained about that before because their stories were bland and caused nightmares."
"They should learn from the expert," Jaime responded, puffing out his chest with mock arrogance. "I might have to build a school dedicated to bedtime stories, yes? Ser Jaime's Academy of Tales."
Catelyn giggled again, this time more freely. "You are not a 'Ser' yet. But it is indeed worth a try. Imagining you, the heir of Casterly Rock, standing in front of old nannies and teaching them how to dramatize a witch's voice... that is a moment worth capturing in a painting."
"Oh, believe me, My Lady. When that happens, they would surely interrupt me halfway," Jaime said while rolling his eyes. "They would lecture me about real life, about how wolves do not speak, and in a few minutes, I would be the one sitting listening to their scolding. Everything would be reversed."
Jaime pretended to let out a long sigh, tightening his grip on the strap of the small leather bag slung over his shoulder. He had packed two nights before, efficient and neat as Uncle Tygett had taught him. His main belongings were already loaded onto the wagons; all he carried now were personal necessities.
They continued walking, passing high windows that now let the morning sunlight in, creating patterns of light on the floor.
"My father is very impressed with you, you know," Catelyn said suddenly, her voice more serious. "He said you possess a patience rarely found in young men your age, especially when dealing with Edmure. My uncle, Ser Brynden, is often not that patient."
Jaime smiled faintly. "Edmure is a good lad. He just wants to be heard."
They finally arrived at the double doors leading to the Great Hall of Riverrun. The sound of departure preparations could already be heard from the courtyard outside, but inside the Hall, the atmosphere was more formal.
Hoster Tully stood, wearing a thick velvet doublet with a silver trout motif on his chest. He looked gallant and authoritative, the Lord Paramount of the Trident in every aspect. Beside him, Edmure stood with an undisguised gloomy face, his eyes slightly red. Lysa stood on the other side, looking sad but remaining graceful.
And of course, Uncle Tygett.
Tygett Lannister stood with a calmness radiating from every line of his body. He was already wearing his traveling armor, helm under his armpit, looking like a lion ready to pounce if they did not move soon.
"Ready, Jaime?" Tygett's voice echoed in the hall, sharp and direct.
Jaime nodded to his uncle, then bowed respectfully to Hoster Tully. "Lord Hoster. Thank you for your hospitality. Riverrun has been a second home to me this month."
"You are always welcome here, Jaime," Hoster replied with his warm, deep voice. He patted Jaime's shoulder. "Send my regards to your father. Tell him that the Trout and the Lion swim in the same current."
Edmure stepped forward, holding out his small hand. Jaime shook it firmly. "Do not forget about that sword technique, Edmure. Focus is the key."
"I won't forget," Edmure promised, his voice trembling slightly. "You have to come back and tell the rest of the story about the boy who could fly."
"I promise."
After a series of formal farewells, the Lannister party finally moved out into the courtyard. The horses were already prepared, their breath steaming in the morning air.
Jaime looked back. He saw Catelyn, a blue figure in the middle of the window, raising her hand in a graceful wave of farewell. Jaime returned it, then turned his horse to face the gate. The drawbridge had been lowered, the road open ahead.
The holiday was over.
…
A month. It had been a full month of them rotting in this place.
Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the end of the damp wooden dock, his black and red cloak fluttering gently in the salty sea breeze. Before him, towering over a rocky hill jutting into the sea, stood the Dun Fort. The ancient fortress of House Darklyn looked like a sleeping stone giant, dark and silent, yet harboring a deadly threat in its belly.
They could only stare at it. Standing still staring at those stone walls as if their gaze alone could crumble them. But they could not get close. They could not storm it. The area around the fortress had turned into forbidden ground, an invisible death zone. Because Lord Denys Darklyn had made his rules clear: not a single step.
Rhaegar ground his teeth, a harsh grating sound echoing inside his own skull. His jaw ached from the constant tension. He did not know how many times he had done that tonight, holding back a scream of frustration that wanted to explode from his chest.
The night was bright, a stark contrast to the mood of the besieging army. Stars twinkled in the cloudless sky, thousands of cold eyes staring down at their failure. Behind him, booted footsteps approached, heavy and familiar.
Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington stood there, flanking their prince like two supporting pillars. Arthur's face, usually calm and stoic, was now shadowed by deep anxiety. Jon, with his red hair flaming even in the darkness, looked restless, his hand twitching near the hilt of his sword. It was a day without progress, just like yesterday, and the day before.
"Darklyn's food supplies are running low, that is certain," Jon's voice broke the silence, rough and sharp. "We have blockaded the harbor and the land roads. Not even a rat can get in or out."
It was true. They had found signs. Three days ago, one of their archers managed to shoot down a raven flying out of the maester's tower. The message tied to its leg was a desperate plea to a merchant to send grain via smugglers. And yesterday, they caught two servants trying to sneak out through the sewers, shivering, ordered by their mad Lord to find anything edible.
"It is pathetic," Rhaegar said, his voice low and full of venom, his eyes not leaving the dark windows of the Dun Fort. "We have the largest army in the kingdom. We have all the equipment to crush that castle into dust. Yet we can only stand quietly here, on this dock, counting the waves while my father rots inside there."
"They have started to worry, Rhaegar," Jon tried to reassure, stepping forward slightly. "They know they must ration food to stay alive in there. Their morale is crumbling. When the food truly runs out, it should be easy enough to conquer. History proves that hunger is more terrifying than any sword cut. An empty stomach makes even the most loyal man a traitor."
"I know the theory, Jon," Rhaegar cut in, a humorless laugh escaping his lips, sounding dry like tree bark. "But time is not our ally. Every day that passes..." He paused, swallowing saliva that tasted bitter. "According to rumors from the servants we caught, my father is in a dungeon cell. Dark, damp, and cold. I do not know if he is treated as a human or not. I do not know if he is still... himself."
Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, shook his head slowly. The light reflected grimly on the hilt of the great white sword.
"He is the King, my Prince," Arthur said with firm conviction, the conviction of a knight who believed in the rules of war. "That is all they have besides walls for defense. King Aerys is Darklyn's only bargaining chip. It would be foolish if they harmed him. If the King is harmed, there will be no mercy for Darklyn, not for his family, not for anyone within those walls. Lord Denys might be a rebel, but he is not a fool, at least not a complete one."
Rhaegar turned slowly, looking at Arthur. His violet eyes were dark, piercing the knight's mask of calm. Arthur was a good man, a noble man. He lived by a code of honor, where even the enemy had common sense and boundaries.
But Rhaegar knew something Arthur might not have fully grasped.
"Madmen do not think with common sense, Arthur," Rhaegar whispered, his voice almost lost in the crashing of the waves. "You speak of logic. Of strategy. But Denys Darklyn has taken his own King hostage. He crossed the line of 'foolishness' on the first day."
Rhaegar looked back at the fortress, the shadow of the Dun Fort seemingly gripping his heart.
"A man who has jumped into the abyss does not care how deep the bottom is," he continued softly. "He only cares about dragging others down with him."
…
The air inside the blacksmith's workshop was thick with the scent of sulfur, sweat, and burning metal. The sound of hammers striking hot iron created a deafening rhythm, a rough yet captivating industrial symphony to Jaime Lannister's ears.
"You can do it, Pete?"
Jaime handed over a sheet of paper on which he had drawn with charcoal. The lines were firm and precise. The drawing showed the basic shape of a compass needle: a flat metal bar, pointed at both ends like an elongated diamond, and as light as a feather. In the center, there was a crucial pivot point.
Pete, a blacksmith only in his thirties but already with a head as smooth as a boiled egg, squinted at the sketch. He wiped the sweat on his forehead with the back of a soot-stained hand.
"Easy, Young Lord," Pete snorted, his tone full of confidence gained from years of conquering the famous Lannisport steel. "I have made things far more complicated than this. Those little letters for your printing press? That was a nightmare. But something like this? This is like cutting butter with a hot knife!"
Jaime laughed, a crisp sound amidst the rumble of the workshop. He patted the man's shoulder, indifferent to the ash stains that might stick to his expensive silk tunic.
"That is what I call spirit! I like people who don't make many excuses," exclaimed Jaime. "I will rely on you, Pete. Make ten of them, yes? And remember, the balance must be perfect. If it is even slightly lopsided, the thing will be useless to me."
"I will finish it quickly, Young Lord. Tomorrow afternoon it might be ready," Pete nodded, his face serious as he began to visualize his work.
"No, no, no need to rush." Jaime raised a hand, smiling relaxedly. "We have plenty of time. Quality over speed. I don't want you working on it while half asleep."
Pete nodded again, putting the paper on his cluttered workbench. However, his curiosity, usually buried under piles of orders for horseshoes and nails for the city garrison, finally surfaced.
"If I may ask..." Pete hesitated for a moment, twirling his hammer. "What is this actually for, Young Lord? The shape is strange. Too small for a throwing knife, too blunt for a nail."
Jaime's green eyes glinted mischievously. "To sew the fabrics of my clothes," he joked with a perfect poker face.
Pete gaped for a moment, before Jaime chuckled.
"No, of course not," Jaime continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if the walls of the workshop had ears. He brought his face a little closer. "But you don't need to know, Pete. It's a secret. The kind of secret that keeps Lannisport rich."
"Oh, alright, sorry. I didn't mean to be presumptuous," Pete said quickly, hurriedly returning to his hearth, clearly not wanting to get involved in the complicated affairs of Lords.
Jaime smiled with satisfaction, then turned and stepped out, leaving the heat of that artificial hell.
As he stepped out of the dark workshop, the sunlight hit him, bright but cooled by a strong wind from the sea. Jon of Clearwater, the loyal guard assigned to him, was leaning against the stone wall outside, looking bored.
"You have only been back three days, and you are already very busy making things, My Lord," Jon commented, straightening up as he saw his master exit. There was a note of admiration mixed with weariness in his voice.
"There isn't much else to do, Jon," Jaime replied, putting his gloves back on. "Plus, this is one of the 'breaks' Uncle Tygett gave me. He said I needed a rest from sword practice after the long journey from Riverrun. So I will use it as best as I can."
"By making ten iron needles?" Jon joked, raising an eyebrow. "Are we going to switch professions to become Lannisport tailors if your career fails?"
Jaime grinned.
"That needle will shake the seas, Jon," he said, his eyes gazing towards the distant docks, where merchant ships sailed in and out, bringing the world's wealth to his doorstep.
"Somehow I believe that," Jon sighed, nodding resignedly. "Whatever you say, My Lord."
Jaime began to walk down the wide cobbled street into Lannisport, his step light. His mind spun. He had already ordered a carpenter to make small round wooden cases for those compasses. The cases had to be precise, with a small brass pivot in the center. For the glass cover, he would have to go to the glassblower tomorrow. He was already exhausted today.
He had to admit, Riverrun had changed him a little. The peace there, the constant sound of the flowing river, Catelyn's conversation and Edmure's innocence... it all made him a little soft. Or lazy. Maybe both. But returning to Casterly Rock with its shameless energy and wealth woke him up again.
However, he knew his limits. He could enjoy a rest, but he must not stop moving. The world would not wait for Jaime Lannister to finish sunbathing.
His stomach growled, a loud sound of protest that broke his reverie.
"You said there was a newly opened eating place near the harbor, Jon?" Jaime asked, turning to his guard. A sudden hunger attacked him, sharp and demanding.
Jon's eyes lit up instantly. The topic of food was clearly more interesting to him than needles.
"Yes, My Lord! Near the east dock. The place is small," Jon explained with fiery enthusiasm, his hands moving to paint the taste. "They have a fish menu... oh, by the Seven Gods. Fresh sea fish caught just this morning, fried with flour until very crispy on the outside, but the meat remains soft and steamy on the inside."
Jon swallowed, clearly imagining the taste. "They smother it in a bright red sauce. Thick, savory, sweet, and there is a kick of sourness that makes your eyes open wide. That taste... I have never forgotten that taste since I first tried it last week."
Jaime laughed seeing that pure enthusiasm. It was rare to see Jon so excited about something that wasn't swords or wages.
"Don't eat too much, Jon," Jaime warned in a playful tone, patting his guard's stomach. "I don't want to be guarded by someone who can't even run later because they are too full of that sweet sauce. If an assassin attacks, I need you to be an agile meat shield, not a stationary sack of potatoes."
"Very rude to say that to your loyal friend, Lord Jaime," Jon held his chest, pretending to be severely wounded by the comment, though his lips curled into a wide smile. "I eat to maintain strength, solely to protect you."
"Of course," Jaime snorted with amusement. "Come on, show the way. If the fish is not good, you pay."
"Deal," Jon answered confidently.
The two of them walked faster, cutting through the vibrant crowd. Lannisport today felt more crowded, more alive, and noisier than Jaime remembered. As they walked towards the east dock, cutting through the sea of humans packing the wide cobbled streets, Jaime realized something different. There was a new energy in the air, a pulse accelerated by his own invention.
This city had always been a center of trade, of course. Casterly Rock's gold always attracted merchants like honey attracted flies. But now? Now there was something else besides gold attracting them.
Paper.
Jaime saw it everywhere. On street corners, in market stalls that usually only sold spices or cloth. He saw a merchant with a forked beard bargaining the price of a stack of thin books with great spirit. He saw a cloth merchant from Braavos, wearing striking colorful clothes, examining the quality of sheets of clean white paper with his ring-filled fingers, nodding in satisfaction before ordering his men to load wooden crates containing the paper onto a cart.
Even book merchants from Oldtown, who were usually arrogant and only cared for Citadel parchment, were now seen sweating and jostling, fighting for a quota of the latest print of The Seven-Pointed Star.
"Very crowded," Jon muttered, using his broad shoulders to part the crowd so Jaime could pass comfortably. "Half of Essos seems to have decided to stop by Lannisport this week."
"This is a good thing, Jon," Jaime said, his eyes sweeping the scene with deep satisfaction. He saw wooden crates stamped with the Golden Lion sigil, ready to be shipped across the sea. "At least everything I did was not in vain. Paper and ink... no one thought something so fragile could be as strong as gold, did they?"
"Lighter to carry, that's for sure," Jon agreed.
They passed a group of sailors sitting on wine barrels outside a tavern. They were laughing loudly and swapping dirty stories. There was no shadow of fear on their faces. No shadow of any fear whatsoever... as if they didn't care about the captive king.
Jaime slowed his steps slightly, listening. He heard conversations about the price of wool, about storms, also new whores in the brothel.
But not a single word about Aerys Targaryen.
The King was being held captive in Duskendale, his life threatened every second. There his father and Rhaegar as well as thousands of others were experiencing hardship. But here?
People seemed completely unaffected.
To them, the King was just a name in the wind. A distant concept, unreal, and irrelevant to their daily lives. Aerys could die tomorrow, and the Lannisport market would stay open. Fish would still be sold. Gold would still flow. As long as there was no war, they were safe. And Tywin Lannister provided protection here.
"There, My Lord!" Jon exclaimed, breaking Jaime's reverie.
They arrived at a simple wooden building wedged between a salt storage warehouse and a ship rope shop. There was no grand signboard, only a bell hanging above the door, swaying gently in the sea breeze. The aroma wafting from inside, however, was something completely foreign and tempting. The smell of vinegar, burnt sugar, garlic, and ginger mixed together, creating a scent that made Jaime's saliva accumulate instantly.
Jon led the way in with the confidence of a general entering territory he had conquered. The inside was small, dimly lit, and filled with steam. Rough wooden tables were full of sailors and merchants of various nations.
An old man with a long thin white beard welcomed them. He wore a silk robe that was worn but clean. Seeing Jon, his face broke into a wide smile displaying sparse teeth.
"Ah! Big Master Jon!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "And bring friend! Good, good! Sit, sit!"
They took a spot in the corner. Jon ordered without looking at the menu, or rather, because there was no menu. "Two portions of Red Fish, Uncle!"
Not long after, the dish arrived. And by the Seven Gods, it was a beautiful sight.
A whole red snapper, fried so expertly that its shape curved like a dragon leaping from the water, mouth open, fins blooming crisply. The fish was bathed, no, baptized, in a thick reddish-orange sauce that glistened under the candlelight, billowing hot steam that carried the promise of delight.
Jaime looked around once more before picking up his cutlery. The people around them ate ravenously, laughing, their faces red from heat and satisfaction. The kingdom's problems felt a million miles away from this sticky wooden table.
Jaime cut a piece of the fish meat. The skin made a satisfying crack sound as his spoon pierced the crispy flour layer, revealing soft and juicy white meat inside. He scooped it up along with the thick sauce and put it into his mouth.
Explosion.
That was the only word that could describe it.
Sweetness hit his tongue first, followed quickly by a sharp kick of vinegar sourness that made his salivary glands work hard. Then came the savoriness of garlic and a spicy touch of ginger that warmed the throat. The texture of the fish was perfect, the contrast between the crispy skin and the melt-in-the-mouth meat was a culinary miracle.
Jaime closed his eyes for a moment, letting the flavors dance on his tongue. This was not complicated court food often bland due to too many rules. This was honest food. Bold food.
"How is it, My Lord?" Jon asked with a full mouth, his eyes shining expectantly.
Jaime swallowed, feeling warmth spread throughout his body. He grinned, then took a second, larger bite.
"Jon," Jaime said seriously, pointing at the fish with his spoon. "If you ever get bored of being a guard, remind me to appoint you as the Official Castle Taster. This... this is extraordinary."
Jon laughed, his face beaming at the validation. "I told you! This sauce... I think they use magic in it."
"Good magic," Jaime muttered. He continued his meal.
The Duskendale arc will end in probably 8 more chapters, I want to speed it up... Really.
As always. Thank you for reading. You can read chapters early on Patreon!