Chapter 879 - 2

CERSEI​

The morning sunlight streamed in through the high windows, illuminating the wooden breakfast table. On the table, various sweet dishes were laid out, lemon cakes, fresh fruits, and honey, yet Cersei's appetite was slightly disturbed.

"Cersei, do you know where Jaime is?"

The voice was shrill and slightly hoarse. Cersei lowered her porcelain cup slowly, her emerald-cold eyes shifting to stare at the source of the sound. Tyrion. Her four-year-old brother sat there, perched atop a stack of cushions so his chin could reach the edge of the table. His deformed face, with a protruding forehead and mismatched eyes, made this bright morning feel as if it had lost a little of its light.

Every time she saw him, Cersei felt an instinctive urge to turn her face away. This little creature was the reason her mother was gone. However, Cersei restrained herself. She took a deep breath, reminding herself of a greater purpose.

To be a graceful Queen by Rhaegar's side later, she had to possess steely fortitude. She had to be able to tolerate unpleasant things, even the worst of them. If she could face the dirty and smelly smallfolk without wrinkling her nose, then she should be able to face her own brother. This was practice. Practice in patience for her future on the throne.

Also, on second thought, it was not entirely the boy's fault that mother was gone.

"He is Uncle Tygett's squire, Tyrion," Cersei replied in a flat tone, her pitch perfectly controlled. "He is very busy. Cleaning swords, polishing armor until it shines, tending horses, and doing whatever Uncle Tygett tasks him with. That is a man's duty."

Cersei shook her head slightly, her golden hair glistening in the sunlight, then sipped more of her orange juice to rinse the annoyance from her tongue.

"He only just arrived five days ago, and he is already gone again," Tyrion said with a childish bitterness, his lips pouting. His small, chubby hands played with breadcrumbs on his plate. "He didn't even have time to finish reading the story. Even though I just made up my own story, and this is the best one..."

Cersei raised a perfectly formed eyebrow. Stories.

Jaime indeed had strange habits. He liked telling fairy tales to the deformed child. And of course, as part of Jaime's strange 'curriculum', he also told those stories to Cersei. Jaime said those stories would help her understand 'human nature' to captivate Prince Rhaegar.

Cersei knew the story of the girl named Cinderella who got a prince with only a glass slipper, about the naive Snow White who ate a poisoned apple, then the Beast loved by a beautiful girl. The women in those stories were so weak, so dependent on magic, that Cersei often had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes every time Jaime told them.

However, she had to admit, there was a pattern there. Jaime did not create those stories without reason. Behind the naivety of the characters, there were lessons about emotional manipulation, about how kindness, or at least the image of kindness, could be a potent weapon.

Her thoughts drifted for a moment to Duskendale. Prince Rhaegar and her Father were still there, besieging the rebellious town. It had been over a month. The news coming to Casterly Rock was minimal. Cersei tapped her finger on the table. She did not care about King Aerys's fate. In fact, in her heart of hearts, she hoped the King would die soon at the hands of Lord Darklyn. Aerys's death would smooth Rhaegar's path to the throne, and accelerate her own coronation as Queen.

The sound of rustling paper broke her reverie. Tyrion was shifting a stack of papers on his lap, trying to tidy them with his clumsy hands.

"You are noisy, Tyrion," Cersei said sharply, pointing to an empty chair across the table closer to her. A safe distance, yet close enough to hear without shouting. "Sit there. Tidy those papers."

"What is it?" Tyrion looked at Cersei in confusion, his eyes blinking. White papers were in the boy's arms, looking too large for his tiny body.

"Just sit," Cersei ordered while rolling her eyes, having no intention of explaining that she was bored to death and needed a distraction.

Tyrion nodded obediently. He climbed down from his chair with difficulty, waddled carrying his load of paper, then climbed onto the chair opposite Cersei. He sat quietly, looking at his sister with a mixture of fear and hope. Waiting for her to speak.

Cersei looked at him for a moment, assessing. "What story did you make?" she asked finally.

Tyrion looked surprised. His mouth opened slightly. Yes, this was the first time Cersei, his older sister, was willing to indulge the boy's hobby. Honestly, Cersei just wanted to test him. Jaime and Maester Creylen always praised Tyrion's intelligence, saying that behind his deformed body lay a sharp mind. Cersei wanted to prove it herself. If he was indeed as clever as they said, at least this conversation would not be too torturous.

Puffing out his small chest, Tyrion placed the papers on the table, flattening them with his palms. His handwriting was still messy, large and untidy ink scrawls, but Cersei could see he was trying hard.

"It is a story about a man who will become king," Tyrion said, his eyes shining with a spirit that did not match his physical form.

"Will?" Cersei raised an eyebrow, a skeptical tone coloring her voice. "So he is not yet a king? Is he a prince waiting for his father to die? Or a usurper gathering an army?"

"No! Neither!" Tyrion shook his head vigorously, his voice almost shouting with enthusiasm. "He is not an ordinary noble. He is an ancient human. He fell asleep for thousands of years in the past, buried in ice or a crystal cave. He slept because he had absorbed pure dragon magic into his body, so much magic that it took centuries for him to digest the power."

Cersei fell silent for a moment. Ancient human. Dragon magic. It sounded like one of Jaime's tales, but with a darker twist. "Then?" she asked, signaling for Tyrion to continue. She had never heard of such a thing before.

"Then when he woke up," Tyrion continued, his hands moving to form explosive gestures, "he found that the world had gone on without him. The times had changed. In this future, magic no longer exists like in our world. The dragons are dead."

Tyrion's face turned serious, seemingly mimicking the grim expression he often saw on adults' faces. "But war is happening everywhere. Kingdoms are destroying each other. The people are suffering. So he comes, not as a conqueror, but as a savior. He uses his dragon magic power to heal the common folk who are victims of war. He repairs their burned houses, heals their wounds."

Cersei frowned deeply. She placed her cup gently on the saucer. The plot of the story sounded ridiculous to her. Politically nonsensical.

"Why save the common folk?" Cersei asked, her tone full of genuine incomprehension. "They are just sheep, Tyrion. They exist to be herded, sheared, or slaughtered if necessary. Your hero is wasting energy. With power that great, he could help one side, the strongest side, and work with them to end the war quickly. That way he could get a high position, wealth, or even a crown for himself."

Tyrion shook his head hard, his pale blonde hair swaying. "No, Cersei. You don't understand. I haven't thought it through to the end, but..." He looked at his paper, as if searching for an answer there. "Those warring sides, they have their own evil interests. One King wants land, the second King wants gold. It is impossible for them to make peace without destroying each other."

Tyrion looked at Cersei with a sharp gaze that was strange for a child his age. "They are also 'evil' in their own way. They don't care who gets trampled. So the hero of this story doesn't want to side with anyone. He becomes a Third Party. He is stronger than those kings."

"A lone third party will be crushed by the other two united by fear," Cersei countered coldly, channeling the wisdom she often heard from her Father. "Power without alliances is arrogance, Tyrion. Your hero is a fool. If he keeps healing the common folk, who will fund his army? Who will feed him? The common folk have no gold."

"He doesn't need gold!" Tyrion insisted. "He has magic!"

"Magic cannot be eaten," Cersei scoffed. "And the common folk he saves? As soon as they are healed, they will turn and betray him if offered a silver piece by the ruling king. That is basic human nature."

Tyrion fell silent. His small shoulders slumped slightly. Cersei's logic seemed to penetrate the fortress of his imagination. He looked to be thinking hard, his thick brows knitting together.

"Then..." Tyrion muttered softly, "what should he do?"

Cersei smiled thinly. "He must be firm. He cannot just be a healer. He must be a terrifying protector. He must make the people and other kings fear him, not just admire him."

Cersei leaned forward slightly, looking into her brother's eyes. "Listen, Tyrion. In the real world, or in this story of yours, kindness is a weakness if not accompanied by absolute power. If your hero wants to survive, he must stop being a traveling healer and start being a God."

Tyrion stared at Cersei, his mouth slightly open. He looked horrified yet fascinated by his sister's suggestion. He immediately grabbed the quill lying on the table, dipped it into the ink clumsily, and began to scribble something on his paper.

"Become a God..." Tyrion muttered. "He can make them stop fighting with the threat of destroying them with his magic."

"Exactly," Cersei said, leaning back in her chair with satisfaction. "Fear is more effective than gratitude."

They continued to talk for the rest of the morning. Tyrion told of the monsters his hero faced, and Cersei, in her haughty yet sharp way, offered critiques on how the monsters should be defeated, not with silly bravery, but with deceit and strategy. And more importantly, with absolute power.

For a moment, at that breakfast table, under the shadow of the war happening in Duskendale, Cersei forgot her annoyance at her brother's physique. She saw the seed of Lannister intelligence there, though still raw and covered by naive idealism that Jaime might have planted.

…

The sun had crept down from its peak, bathing the stone walls of Casterly Rock in warm golden light. Cersei sat in the spacious central solar, a room with high vaulted ceilings and thick rugs that muffled footsteps. She was reading a history book about Aegon's conquest, but her eyes more often watched the entrance. There was the sound of footsteps there.

When the heavy wooden door finally opened, Cersei closed her book with a satisfying thud.

"Good, look who's back," Cersei said, her voice breaking the silence of the room.

Jaime stepped inside. He wore a simple dark red tunic with a small golden lion embroidered on the left chest. His golden hair was a bit messy, blown by the sea breeze, but the most striking thing was the expression on his face. There was a silly smile playing on his lips, a smile that made his green eyes squint.

"Good afternoon, Cersei," Jaime greeted lightly, giving a casual nod far from court formalities.

Cersei did not return the smile. She straightened her back in the high-backed chair, looking at her twin with an appraising gaze. "Tyrion was looking for you all morning," she said, her tone full of accusation. "He was so annoying because he kept whining to see you. 'Where is Jaime? When is Jaime coming home?'. Truly, you spoil him until he cannot stay still."

Jaime stopped in the middle of the room, his smile fading slightly replaced by a patient expression. "Don't be too harsh on him, Cersei. He is just a child. It is natural if he wants to play." His eyes narrowed slightly, looking at Cersei suspiciously. "You didn't snap at him, did you?"

Cersei snorted, a sound that was unladylike but very expressive. "Do you think I have the energy to raise my voice at him? You overestimate his importance in my life. I just told him to sit still."

Jaime seemed to accept the answer, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

Cersei then tilted her head, observing her brother's face again. "Then," she asked, curiosity finally defeating her pride, "Why was there a smile on your face just now? You walked in like someone who just got a new toy. Is there happy news from Duskendale? Is the King finally dead? Or have you gone mad because your training helm hit a rock?"

"Duskendale?" Jaime shook his head, his face turning flat for a moment. "I know nothing of Duskendale. Uncle Tygett didn't get a new raven today. As far as I know, they are still stuck there. Father is still waiting."

Jaime then walked to the velvet sofa near Cersei and threw himself onto it with a long sigh. He stretched his legs, looking very comfortable.

"I just feel that today my plans all went smoothly," he said, staring at the painted ceiling. "And I am very happy. Sometimes, small things go your way and that is enough to make a good day."

Cersei raised one neat eyebrow. "Plans? What else are you doing anyway?"

She had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that Jaime's strange projects had results. His paper was everywhere now, on Father's desk, in the library, even in Tyrion's hands. It brought gold into Casterly Rock's coffers, and gold was power. So, if Jaime was planning something new, Cersei wanted to know. Knowledge was a weapon.

Jaime turned to her, and the smile turned into a mysterious grin. He winked one eye.

"Secret."

Cersei's blood boiled instantly. She hated it when Jaime did that. Hiding something from her, as if Cersei wasn't smart enough to understand.

"I won't tell you," Jaime continued with a light teasing tone. "Besides, this isn't something very important to you. Just... a new toy. A navigation aid."

"Navigation aid?" Cersei sneered. "You want to be a sailor now? You really are strange."

"Who knows," Jaime shrugged. "The world is vast, Cersei."

Cersei snorted again, losing interest because the topic sounded boring and technical. "Keep it to yourself then, do as you please with your new toy."

She picked up her book again, intending to ignore Jaime, but a memory flashed in her mind. "And one more thing," she said sharply, pointing at Jaime with her book. "Finish your story for Tyrion. Don't leave before it's done, or he will whine to me again about heroes and dragons. He makes up his own stories and my ears hurt hearing them."

Jaime's face turned a little guilty. He scratched the back of his head. "Ah, yes. I was just tired at the time." He smiled awkwardly. "How about you? Why don't you try telling him something before he sleeps? That is something a good older sister would do. You have a fine voice, Cersei."

Cersei looked at him as if Jaime had just suggested she throw herself into the sea. 'Why would I want to do that?' she thought with disgust. 'Spending precious time entertaining that creature?'

"No, thank you," Cersei replied coldly and firmly. "He is entirely yours. You are the one who spoils him, you take care of him."

"You are too"

"JAIME!"

Jaime's sentence was cut off by a loud shout echoing through the room. The sound of small footsteps running hurriedly was heard on the stone floor, fast and irregular.

Before Jaime could stand, a small figure darted into the room. Tyrion. He ran as fast as his short legs could carry him, his face beaming with pure joy. He didn't stop when he reached the sofa; he jumped, headbutting into Jaime's embrace like an overly excited puppy.

"Oof!" Jaime grunted as Tyrion's large head hit his stomach.

"Oh, Tyrion," Jaime laughed, a warm and sincere laugh, as he caught his brother and lifted him onto his lap. Jaime's hand ruffled Tyrion's fine pale blonde hair. "You better not be too excited, little buddy. My chest hurts, and I just had lunch."

Tyrion giggled, his voice no longer annoying shrill like this morning, but full of happiness. "You're home! You're home!" he exclaimed, hugging Jaime's neck with his chubby arms. "Cersei said you went away again!"

Cersei just rolled her eyes and went back to pretending to read, though her ears remained alert. She observed the interaction from behind her book cover.

"I didn't go away, I was just doing something important," Jaime said gently, adjusting Tyrion's sitting position. "So, I heard you made your own story? Cersei said your story is about heroes and dragons?"

Tyrion's eyes widened. He glanced at Cersei with amazement. Then he looked back at Jaime with fiery spirit.

"Yes! He is an Ancient Man!" Tyrion began to tell the story, words tumbling out fast, tripping over each other with enthusiasm. "He woke up and the world was broken. War everywhere! So he used his magic. At first he healed people, but Cersei said that was stupid."

Jaime raised an eyebrow, glancing at Cersei again. Cersei did not react, her face as cold as ice.

"Oh? What did Cersei say?" Jaime asked, his tone interested.

"Cersei said," Tyrion mimicked his sister's haughty tone quite accurately, "that kindness without power is weakness. That people will betray him. So my hero must become a feared God! He will force those evil kings to stop fighting with threats!"

Jaime fell silent for a moment. He looked at Cersei with a gaze that was hard to interpret.

"A very... realistic suggestion," Jaime commented softly. He turned back to Tyrion. "And you agree?"

"Yes!" Tyrion nodded firmly. "Those kings won't listen if just asked nicely. They have to be afraid. So my hero will build a fortress of dragon crystal and anyone who breaks the peace will be... will be frozen. And he himself will become king!"

Jaime laughed. "Frozen? How cruel."

"But effective!" Tyrion exclaimed.

Cersei, from behind her book, felt the corner of her lips twitch forming a thin smile. 'At least he learns,' she thought.

"Alright, alright," Jaime said, patting Tyrion's back. "That sounds like a great story. Much better than mine. You must write it until it's finished."

"I ran out of paper," Tyrion admitted sadly.

"I will get you more. As much as you want," Jaime promised. "But now, how about I tell you the continuation of the Pinocchio story? About how he was swallowed by a whale?"

"A giant whale?!"

"Very big. As big as Casterly Rock!"

Cersei watched them in silence. She saw how Jaime patiently entertained every one of Tyrion's silly questions, how he made funny noises to mimic a whale, how he made the deformed child feel like the most important person in the world.

There was a weakness in Jaime, Cersei thought. A sentimental weakness. He was too soft. Too caring. In this harsh world, such softness could kill him.

However, seeing the laughter on Jaime's face, a laugh rarely seen when he was with Father or Uncle Tygett, Cersei felt a strange prick in her chest. Not jealousy, she convinced herself. She was not jealous of Tyrion. That was ridiculous. They were no longer soulmates anyway.

Maybe it was loneliness.

"I'm going back to my room," Cersei announced coldly, cutting off their laughter. "My head hurts hearing your noise."

Jaime turned, the smile still there. "Rest, Cersei. See you at dinner."

"See you, Cersei!" Tyrion exclaimed innocently.

I guess we'll have to see how this woman develops :'p, and at the same time calm down the atmosphere.

Oh, my friend made a fanfic, My Hero Academia SI. The MC has Magneto-like powers, maybe you guys are interested in reading it. Number One Hero - (MHA SI).

As always. Thank you for reading. You can read chapters early on Patreon! Award ReplyReport399Daario3/12/2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Jaime XII View contentDaario6/12/2025NewAdd bookmark#1,112JAIME​

The object was small, perfectly round, and felt cold in his palm. Under the scorching sun of Lannisport, the wooden casing looked beautiful and its glass layer reflected light that dazzled the eyes. However, the real magic was not on the outside, but what lay beneath.

A thin iron needle, balanced on a very fine pivot, floating in a sealed container.

Compass.

To Steven Evans in his old life, this thing was a cheap trinket one could get at a souvenir shop. But here? In Westeros? It was a marvel of engineering. It was the key to conquering the seas without having to act like a child afraid to let go of his mother's skirts.

Jaime spun it in his hand, smiling with satisfaction as he watched the needle sway gently before stubbornly returning to point in one direction. North.

It only took two weeks. Two weeks to make it. Of course, "make" was too grand a word for what Jaime actually did. He didn't forge the needle himself, he didn't blow the glass, he was merely the person who stroked the needle against a lodestone.

He drew a rough sketch, a blueprint that might have been laughed at by modern engineers, and handed it to the best craftsman in Lannisport along with a pouch of Gold Dragons.

Being rich was indeed pleasant, Jaime thought with a hint of irony. In his past life as a teacher with a meager salary, realizing an idea required funding proposals, bureaucracy, and months of time. Here? He only had to snap his fingers, and people would run to make his imagination a reality for a piece of gold. Power was the best lubricant for the wheels of innovation.

"Take a look," Jaime said, breaking his own reverie. They were walking down the bustling streets of Lannisport, amidst the scent of spices and salted fish. He held the object out to Jon who walked beside him. "What do you think?"

Jon, who usually held a sword or shield with the confidence of a veteran, accepted the small object with an almost amusing caution. As if he were holding a dragon egg ready to hatch. His large hands made the compass look very tiny.

Jon brought the object close to his face, squinting under the sunlight. He stared at the quivering needle in detail. Then, he turned his body to the left, then to the right.

His eyes widened as he saw the needle did not turn with him, but remained pointing in the same direction. Towards the North.

"This..." Jon mumbled, then shook it slightly, trying to confuse the mechanism inside. The needle settled again, pointing north once more. His face looked amazed, a mixture of superstitious fear and pure awe.

"It seems to work well, Lord Jaime," Jon said, his voice low. "This thing... it indeed always points north. No matter where I turn. If this is not magic, then I do not know what is. Did you trap a small spirit inside?"

Jaime chuckled, taking the compass back before Jon dropped it out of fear. "Not a spirit, Jon. And not magic. It is called knowledge."

"Knowledge acting like magic," Jon muttered, still staring at Jaime's pocket where the object had disappeared.

"Lodestone has a natural affinity with the north," Jaime explained with immense simplification. He wasn't going to start explaining about the earth's magnetic field or poles. That would make Jon's head explode. "I only utilized that property of nature."

His thoughts drifted to the next plan. This little object had to be kept secret. At least for now. He planned to tell Uncle Kevan about this. They could then try it at sea, and then the man could see its value.

In trade, time was money. In war, time was victory.

And war... Jaime felt a chill on the back of his neck even though the air was warm. War might erupt soon. The situation in Duskendale was still unclear, and Aerys's madness was a ticking time bomb. If, or when, chaos occurred, House Lannister had to possess every possible advantage to survive. Mastery of the sea was one of them.

His thoughts drifted to other possibilities. Science in his old world was full of things that could change the course of history. If he wanted... he could just go find sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter. Mix them in the right ratio.

Gunpowder.

He could create explosives. He could make cannons that would crumble castle walls in a matter of hours. He could make muskets that would make armored knights obsolete overnight.

But Jaime immediately brushed the thought away. No. That was too dangerous. Too chaotic. This world was already brutal enough with swords and dragonfire. Giving gunpowder to people like Aerys Targaryen or Tywin Lannister? That was akin to handing a match to a child in a dynamite warehouse. He didn't want to be the Oppenheimer of Westeros.

Compass was safe enough. Paper was safe enough. Gunpowder... let that remain Steven's secret.

"We will try it later on a ship," Jaime said, bringing his mind back to the present. "I will speak to Uncle Kevan. Come to think of it, it would indeed be nice to be at sea. I want to breathe the air there, far from book dust and furnace smoke."

Jon sighed in relief, seemingly glad the topic shifted from the 'magic' object. "To sea? As long as you do not intend to sail all the way to Valyria, I am with you. I prefer solid ground beneath my feet, but sea air is indeed good for the lungs."

"Just around the coast, Jon. We need to ensure this needle stays stable when waves hit," Jaime assured. "And maybe fish a little. Who knows, I might be luckier than in the Riverrun river."

"As long as I don't have to clean them afterwards," Jon grumbled, but there was a smile on his face. "Last time fishing with you, the fishy smell stuck to my armor for three days."

"That is called natural perfume, Jon. The ladies might like it," Jaime teased.

"Cat women, maybe," Jon replied.

They laughed, walking side by side up the ascending road to Casterly Rock. The road was wide and winding, carved directly into the living rock of the giant cliff.

Jaime looked up, towards the peak that dominated the sky. This was his home now. A fortress of power built on gold and pride. Sometimes, the weight of the Lannister name felt as heavy as the rock above him.

"By the way, Lord Jaime," Jon said as they passed the gate. "Does that thing... have a name?"

Jaime smiled, touching the pocket where the object was stored.

"I call it 'Pathfinder'," Jaime answered. "Or maybe 'Sailor's Eye'. I haven't decided. Tyrion surely has a better name idea later."

"As long as it's not 'Jaime's Magic Toy'," said Jon.

"That works too."

…

The sea wind blew hard at the Lannisport docks, bringing with it the sharp scent of salt and the cries of hungry seagulls. There was a small merchant ship, bobbing gently at the edge, as if impatient to cut through the waves.

"You really are something, nephew," Uncle Kevan chuckled as they walked down the creaking wooden pier. His voice was deep and calm, a contrast to the noise of the harbor around them. Behind him, several red-cloaked guards followed along with Jon, their eyes watching every dockworker who passed too close.

On Kevan's other side walked a middle-aged man with a sturdy posture like a wooden barrel. Captain Colin. His face was like an old map etched by wind and sun, and his thick hair that might have once been black had now turned completely gray, like sea foam in a winter storm.

"So far since we walked from the castle," Kevan continued, his eyes on the compass he held, "this 'compass' thing indeed hasn't lost its north direction. Even when we turned on the winding roads earlier." He shook his head slightly, a thin smile playing on his lips. "This is something that truly makes no sense."

Jaime chuckled, his steps light on the wooden planks of the pier, accepting the compass back. "Everything there makes sense, Uncle. There are causes for how it happens, it is not magic. Just like water always flows down, this needle always flows north."

They boarded the ship in front of them. The ship was not big, just a coastal merchant vessel with a single mast, but the deck was clean and the ropes were coiled neatly, the sign of a disciplined captain.

"Welcome to the Single Sail, Ser Kevan, Lord Jaime," Captain Colin greeted with a hoarse voice that sounded like grinding stones. He didn't bow too deeply; the sea made everyone a little more equal. It seemed. "The wind is good today. We can reach open water quickly."

"Good," said Kevan. "Take us there, Captain. My nephew wants to show his new toy, and I want to see if it can withstand seasickness."

The ship began to move, the sail unfurled with a loud snap as it caught the wind. Slowly, Lannisport began to shrink behind them. The sounds of the city faded, replaced by the crashing of waves hitting the hull and the hiss of parting water.

Jaime stood near the helm, feeling the ship sway beneath his feet. This sensation... he missed it. In his past life, he had taken a ferry a few times, but nothing could compare to being on a wooden sailing ship, feeling the power of nature pushing you forward.

As the land began to become a thin line in the distance, and they were surrounded by an endless expanse of blue, Jaime took out his compass.

"Captain Colin," Jaime called. "Can you tell me where North is right now? Without looking at the sun."

Colin narrowed his eyes, looking at the sky, then the waves, then back at Jaime. "Without the sun, a sailor uses his experience, My Lord. The wind today blows from the Southwest. The waves move to the Northeast. So North is there," he pointed with a calloused hand towards the port bow.

Jaime opened the compass lid. The iron needle inside wobbled wildly for a moment due to the ship's swaying, then stabilized. The tip of the needle painted red pointed... exactly where Colin pointed.

"Precisely," Jaime said with a smile, showing the compass to Kevan and Colin.

Colin's eyes widened when he saw the small needle. He leaned in, staring at it as if the thing could bite. "By the Seven," he muttered. "That little thing knows the wind direction?"

"It knows the direction of North, Captain," Jaime corrected. "Try turning the ship. Make a full circle."

Colin looked at Kevan for confirmation. Kevan gave a curt nod. "Do it."

Captain Colin shouted orders to his crew. The ship began to turn slowly, its hull tilting as it cut through the waves. The scenery around them shifted, blue sea, then the faint silhouette of Casterly Rock in the distance, then sea again.

But that needle... that needle remained still.

When the ship turned East, the needle pointed to the ship's left. When the ship faced South, the needle pointed to the back of the ship. As if there were an invisible rope tying the tip of the needle to the end of the world.

"Impossible," whispered Colin. He was a man who had spent thirty years at sea, who navigated by stars and instinct. Seeing an inanimate object possess a better directional 'instinct' than him was something that shook his world.

"Imagine, Captain," Jaime said, his voice full of spirit yet controlled. He didn't want to sound arrogant. "Imagine a stormy night. Stars covered by thick clouds. No moon. You are in the middle of the open sea, no land visible. How do you know the way home?"

Colin fell silent. His face turned grim. "We pray, My Lord. And we guess. And often... we are wrong."

"With this," Jaime lifted the compass slightly, "you do not need to guess anymore. You can sail in fog, in storms, in total darkness. You can cut a straight path across the ocean."

Uncle Kevan, who had been observing silently, finally spoke up. He took the compass from Jaime's hand, holding it with respect. His sharp and calculating eyes stared at the object, then stared at the horizon.

"This is not a toy," Kevan said softly, more to himself. "This is a weapon." He looked at Jaime, a glint of recognition in his eyes. "Our ships can appear from places the enemy does not expect. We can attack when they are anchored for fear of storms."

"Exactly, Uncle," Jaime replied. "The Ironborn think they are kings of the seas because they do not fear death. But with this, we become kings of the seas because we will not get lost."

Kevan nodded slowly, a thin smile appearing on his face. "Your father must see this. He will be very... impressed."

"I hope so," said Jaime.

The ship continued to sail, cutting through increasingly high waves. Jaime walked to the bow of the ship, leaving Kevan and Colin now involved in a serious discussion about logistics and navigation, with Colin occasionally glancing at the compass in Kevan's hand with a hungry gaze.

Jaime stood there, his hands gripping the wooden railing wet with salty spray. The sea wind hit him, fluttering his golden hair and his cloak. It felt cold, fresh, and liberating.

Here, in the middle of the sea, far from the intrigues of Westeros, far from his Father's judgmental gaze, he felt... alive. He felt like Steven again, but a better version. A version that could make a difference.

He looked at the endless horizon. There, across this ocean, were other places. Essos. Braavos. Valyria. The world was so vast. And he had just given the key to open that world a little wider.

Paper to spread knowledge. Compass to spread men. Even though the latter would not spread that quickly.

"Lord Jaime!" Jon called from behind, his voice having to compete with the wind. His loyal guard looked a little green in the face, holding tightly to the mast. "Can we go home already? I think my stomach does not agree with this 'knowledge'."

Jaime laughed, a free laugh carried by the wind. He looked back, staring at poor Jon.

"Soon, Jon! Enjoy the view!" Jaime exclaimed.

He turned back to stare at the sea. The sun began to descend, reflecting golden light on the surface of the water, turning the ocean into a field of liquid gold. Yes, fields of gold.

The next four or five chapters are the final part of Duskendale, we won't see Jaime for a while :'p

As always. Thank you for reading. You can read chapters early on Patreon! Award ReplyReport405Daario6/12/2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Denys I View contentDaarioSunday at 2:24 PMNewAdd bookmark#1,169DENYS​

That afternoon, the sun shone with a brightness that felt almost mocking. The sky above Duskendale stretched out in a flawless blue, adorned by white clouds drifting lazily. A gentle breeze blew softly, dancing past the stone walls of the Dun Fort, scattering dry leaves across the courtyard and caressing the faces of the soldiers standing guard with tension in their eyes.

It was the kind of day that should have been celebrated with a hunt in the woods or a feast in the gardens. But for Denys Darklyn, the sunlight felt blinding and painful.

He stood in the highest tower, his hands gripping the rough stone. Denys possessed none of the spark of life a man should have when welcoming the sun. His face was haggard, as if he had slept in his clothes for a full week, and perhaps he had. The wrinkles on his face had grown more numerous and deeper than a month ago, carving a map of anxiety onto his paling skin. His body, once broad and proud, now seemed to shrink beneath his black velvet doublet; he was growing thinner despite eating enough, as if fear itself were eating the flesh from his bones.

His mind was in turmoil, a storm that refused to subside. Sometimes empty, void of ideas, other times full of screaming voices of doubt. What have I done? The whisper came when he slept, when he ate, when he relieved himself. I am holding the King. I killed a Kingsguard.

However, every time panic began to choke him, another voice emerged. The soft, sweet, and confident voice of his wife, Serala.

'They are only bluffing, Denys. Tywin Lannister is a calculating man, not a madman. As long as we have him, as long as we have Aerys, they will not dare do anything. The King is the strongest shield in the world. No sword dares pierce it.'

It was that voice that kept him standing upright. It was that voice that convinced him this was all just a complex game of cyvasse.

Denys shifted his gaze to the harbor below. From this height, he could see the sight he had always dreamed of. The sea was filled with ships. Sails fluttered everywhere, masts like a wooden forest growing upon the water.

Once, he had always hoped that Duskendale would be like this. He wanted his city to rival King's Landing, to be a center of trade where ships fought for space to dock, bringing silk and spices, enriching House Darklyn beyond his ancestors' wildest dreams.

Now his wish was granted. His harbor was full.

But in a strange and terrible way.

They were not merchant ships. They were warships. Ships of the Royal Fleet, ships flying the banners of dragons and lions. They did not come bearing gold. They all came here to blockade his port, to starve his people, and ultimately, to take his head.

The irony tasted bitter on his tongue.

Denys snorted roughly, combing his long, greasy black hair back with trembling fingers. He banished all those dark thoughts. 'No. They won't attack. They are afraid. Just look, it's been a month and they are just sitting there.'

"Yes, they will wait," he muttered to the wind. "And we will wait too. Until they realize my demands are worthy."

Turning away from the painful view, Denys decided he had seen enough of his grim 'glory'. His throat was dry. He needed a cup of ale, strong ale, one that could burn away the fear in his gut, and he needed the daily report from Maester Reggan, though he knew the report would bring no good news.

He began to descend the tower stairs. Step by step he took, the spiral stones winding down into the belly of the fortress seeming endless. The further down he went, the fresh summer air vanished, replaced by a cold and damp chill seeping from the walls. The smell of moss and wet stone filled his nose; the smell of a prison, not a palace.

In the corridor leading to his solar, he met a young guard. The boy looked tense, his hands gripping his spear too tightly until his knuckles turned white. The boy's eyes went wide upon seeing his Lord, full of questions he dared not speak: 'Are we going to die?'

"Summon Maester Reggan to my solar," Denys ordered, his voice hoarse. He did not look the guard in the eye. He couldn't.

"Y-yes, My Lord," the guard stammered, rushing away, his armor clanking in the quiet hallway.

Denys pushed open the door to his solar and entered.

Inside, the atmosphere was slightly different. The room smelled of floral scents and perfumed oils from Myr, thanks to his wife's touch. Serala always tried to make this gloomy fortress feel like her home in Essos. Once, Denys loved this scent. Now, the sweet fragrance mixed with the smell of dust and stale ale, creating a nauseating aroma.

Denys walked to the side table, pouring dark brown ale from a silver flagon into a goblet. He didn't bother to sit. He downed the contents in one long gulp, letting the liquid burn his throat, hoping it could drown out the voices in his head.

Just as he placed the goblet back on the table, there was a soft knock on the door.

"Enter," Denys growled.

The door opened, and Maester Reggan stepped inside. He was a man in his early fifties, his grey robes looking somewhat dull in the dim room light. His hair, perhaps once pitch black, had now begun to whiten at the temples, giving him an aura of weary wisdom. His face was serious, with deep lines around his mouth showing he rarely smiled. He was the type of man who didn't speak much unless ordered, a trait very fitting for a grim situation like now.

"My Lord." The Maester bowed low, the chain at his neck clinking softly.

Denys threw himself into the chair behind his large desk and signaled for him to sit.

"How is our food situation, Maester?" Denys asked the most important thing first, his voice heavy. This was a matter of life and death, more urgent than the swords out there.

Reggan frowned, the furrows on his forehead deepening. He didn't answer immediately, as if weighing how much truth his master could handle today. However, he was a Maester, and his duty was truth.

"Worrying, Lord Darklyn," he answered honestly. "We had prepared to ration even before the army arrived, hoarding what we could. But it is not enough. The grain in the granaries will eventually run out, and with the humidity of this season, the vegetables we stored are starting to rot faster than expected."

Denys felt his stomach churn. "How much longer before we run out? Give me a number, Reggan. Not vague estimates."

Reggan took a deep breath. "Three months. Maybe four, if we are truly frugal and take drastic measures. We must cut supplies for soldiers and servants starting today."

"You mean? We have to take their rations?" Denys frowned, imagining the hungry faces of his people.

"Cut, My Lord," the Maester corrected in a clinical tone. "Half rations. If they only eat once a day, thin porridge in the morning, a bit of hard bread at night, these supplies will last that long. We must prioritize the archers on the walls and the elite guards."

Denys fell silent, thinking about it. He twirled his empty goblet. Three months. Four months. He didn't know how long Tywin Lannister would endure out there with his legendary patience. It felt like a very long time, an eternity in a siege.

His head felt dizzy, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Was there no other way? What could he do to make them, Tywin, Rhaegar, the lords besieging him, listen to him more? He didn't want the people in this castle to starve and die slowly for his ambition. He wanted them alive to see the glory of the new Duskendale he promised.

"If we do that, our people will become weak," Denys said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. "Hungry soldiers cannot draw bowstrings strongly. Hungry servants will be slow. And at that time... disease will strike more easily. It will kill them before Lannister swords have the chance."

Reggan nodded, agreeing with the assessment. He was silent for a moment, then replied in a flat but piercing voice. "There is always a price to pay, My Lord. For anything. The freedom of Duskendale, the city charter you desire... the price is paid with the empty bellies of these people."

Those words hit Denys harder than a physical blow. He stared at the Maester, looking for signs of judgment, but Reggan's face remained neutral.

"And the King?" Denys asked suddenly, shifting the topic from his guilt. "Is he eating?"

"King Aerys refuses most of the food we bring, My Lord," Reggan reported. "He... He is convinced we are trying to poison him. He will only eat bread he sees cut from the whole loaf himself, and drink water that we drink first. His condition... is not good. He is getting thinner, and he talks to himself."

"Let him talk to himself all he likes, as long as he stays alive," Denys grumbled. "He is the only reason these walls haven't crumbled onto our heads."

"There is one more thing, My Lord," Reggan said hesitantly.

"Speak."

"The soldiers... they are starting to whisper. They see the tents out there. They see the smoke from the royal army's camp fires that seem endless. Their morale... is wavering."

"Tell them to shut up and do their duty!" Denys snapped, his anger exploding to mask his own fear. "Tywin will give in! We just need to hold on a little longer!"

Reggan bowed obediently, but his eyes betrayed deep doubt. "As you command, My Lord."

The Maester stood, bowed once more, and left the room with heavy steps.

Denys was alone again. He poured more ale, his hand shaking so violently that some liquid spilled onto the table. He stared at the spill, spreading like dark blood on the wood.

Three months. He had three months before hunger turned his castle into a graveyard. He had to think of something. Or perhaps, he had to start praying. But... pray to whom?

…

Denys lay in his large, luxurious bed, the silk sheets feeling cold against his skin. The moon had replaced the scorching sun, and the sounds of fortress activity had subsided into an oppressive silence.

His eyes were closed, trying to summon sleep that wouldn't come, when he felt movement beside him. A cold and trembling hand wrapped around his body, clutching his sleeping tunic with fragile desperation.

Serala.

Denys turned slowly. In the dim moonlight entering through the window slit, he saw his wife. The woman was staring at him, her dark eyes wide open, reflecting a nameless fear. Her face looked soft, fragile, and her black hair lay messy on the pillow.

"Can't sleep?" Denys asked, his voice hoarse. He lifted his rough hand, stroking his wife's cheek with a gentleness he rarely showed lately.

"No," whispered Serala. "They are all too noisy, Denys."

Denys closed his eyes for a moment, sharpening his ears. He felt the chill seeping in from the stone cracks, bringing the salty smell of the sea. There was no sound. No whispers. Only the gentle breeze passing through the tower window slit.

"You are hallucinating, My Lady," Denys said softly, "There is no one there."

"But it feels real," Serala's voice broke, her eyes tearing up. She pulled the fur blanket higher, covering her body up to her chin as if the fabric could protect her from ghosts.

"Shhh." Denys pulled his wife into his embrace, holding her head to his chest. He could feel Serala's heartbeat racing like a trapped bird.

"They are just hallucinations, Serala," Denys whispered into her fragrant hair. "Tywin Lannister is trying to do that to us, to make us chaotic. As long as we have the King, as long as we have Aerys, they will not dare do anything. The King is the strongest shield in the world. No sword dares pierce it."

Serala clutched the chest of Denys's tunic tightly, her breathing slowly becoming regular, matching the rhythm of her husband's breath. Those words, their protective mantra, seemed to work. Slowly, the tension in his wife's body loosened.

Denys's eyes slowly closed, exhaustion finally pulling him into a restless and dreamless sleep.

...

"FIRE!"

The scream tore through Denys's sleep like a hot knife cutting butter.

He jolted awake, his heart pounding against his ribs. Serala jumped beside him, shrieking in surprise.

"What...?" Denys gasped, his consciousness still foggy.

The scream was heard again, this time more numerous, more frantic. "FIRE! WATER! BRING WATER!"

Denys immediately stood up, ignoring the dizziness hitting his head. He ran to the window, pushing the shutters wide open.

The view outside froze him.

Down there, in the fortress courtyard that should have been dark, a bright orange light danced wildly. Tongues of fire licked the night sky, spewing thick black smoke that began to cover the stars. The source was the main stables, a large wooden building full of dry hay and valuable livestock.

Denys's breath hitched. Not just the stables. The granary was right next to it.

His mind raced wildly, faster than the fire itself. How could it be? Tonight was calm. There was no lightning storm.

'Did Tywin Lannister manage to send infiltrators?' The thought exploded in his mind. 'Is this an attack? Are they burning us alive?'

"My Lord? D-Denys? What is it?!" Serala was already by his side, clutching her husband's arm. She looked out, and her eyes widened in horror. Her hand covered her mouth to stifle a scream. "Oh Gods..."

"I will check it," Denys said, his voice hard and sharp. He turned, grabbing his robe and the sword that was always beside the bed.

He left the room quickly, his footsteps thumping on the stone floor. Serala followed him, her face deathly pale.

They passed corridors now starting to fill with thin smoke smelling acrid. In the main hall, they crossed paths with Maester Reggan running with a limp, his face full of soot.

"My Lord!" Reggan exclaimed, his breath ragged. "The fire... the fire is spreading fast! The sea wind is blowing it towards the storage sheds!"

"We must extinguish it immediately! Mobilize everyone!" Denys barked, continuing to walk fast down the stairs.

When Denys and Serala burst through the main doors of the fortress and stepped out into the courtyard, the heat slapped their faces instantly.

It was total chaos.

Soldiers ran without clear direction, some still in their undergarments, carrying buckets of water that looked pitiful compared to the fire giant raging in front of them. Horses that managed to escape ran in panic, neighing in terror, adding to the confusion.

The starry night sky was now covered by smoke and sparks flying like hellish fireflies. The cold wind that whispered earlier now roared, feeding the fire, making it grow taller, hungrier.

Denys stood frozen for a moment. He watched the fire devour the old wood of the stables with a terrifying sound. The heat was felt even from this distance, drying his skin.

And within the dancing flames, reflected in his widened eyes, Denys did not see an accident. He saw the end.

…

Deep beneath the foundation of the Dun Fort, where sunlight never touched and the sound of waves only sounded like the earth's weak heartbeat, the air felt heavy and still.

Denys Darklyn stepped down the narrow stone corridor, followed by two of his loyal guards carrying torches. The flickering firelight cast long shadows dancing on the mossy walls, as if the ghosts of Darklyn ancestors were watching in silence.

Denys could still smell the smoke on his clothes, remnants of the stable fire that had just been extinguished. The charred scent stuck to his skin, a constant reminder that time was burning away his chances. Tywin Lannister was not just sitting idly out there; he sent fire. He sent a message.

And now, Denys had to reply to that message.

He stopped in front of a heavy iron cell door. The guard on duty there immediately straightened up, his face pale under his iron helm. Without a word, Denys nodded, and the guard turned the large key in silence.

Denys stepped inside.

The room was damp and cold, smelling of rotting straw and human waste not properly cleaned. In the corner of the room, on a pile of dirty straw, sat the figure who held the fate of all Duskendale in his hands.

Aerys Targaryen.

The sight was pathetic. The King, once known for his looks and charm, now looked like a mad beggar. His long silver hair was matted, greasy and filled with filth. His beard grew wild, covering part of his face. His nails, nails that should hold a scepter, had grown long like animal claws, yellow and dirty.

On the floor, a tray containing hard bread and cold meat lay barely touched.

'How dare he,' Denys thought, cold anger creeping into his veins. 'My people out there are starting to starve, rationing their food, while he wastes food at times like these?'

"Your Grace," Denys greeted, his voice flat, emotionless, echoing in the narrow space.

Aerys, who seemed to be asleep or daydreaming in the darkness of his own mind, jerked. His violet eyes widened, pupils shrinking upon seeing the torchlight. He crawled back until his back hit the stone wall, like a cornered animal.

Then, recognition came.

Aerys lunged forward, gripping the iron bars with his thin hands, shaking them with the strength of a madman.

"You!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and broken. "You will die! You will burn! I see my dragons coming! They will burn you alive until your flesh melts from your bones!"

Denys did not flinch. He stood tall, staring at the king with a gaze he hoped looked stronger than he actually felt.

"No dragons are coming, Your Grace," Denys said coldly. "There is only Tywin Lannister out there. And he does not care about you."

"Liar! He is my friend! He is my Hand!" Aerys spat, saliva dripping from his dirty chin.

"If he is your friend, why does he let you rot here for a month?" Denys pressed. "I only ask for a condition, Aerys. A simple condition. A city charter for Duskendale. Freedom from strangling taxes. It is a thing you could easily do with words. Is it so hard? Just one signature, and you can return to the Red Keep, sleep in a silk bed, and eat warm food."

Aerys laughed, a high-pitched sound that hurt the ears.

"You think I am a fool?" he hissed, bringing his face close to the bars until Denys could smell his foul breath. "You lowly bastard! You traitor! Your blood is dirty! You are sick if you think you can command a dragon! I will give you nothing but fire and blood!"

Denys felt his patience, already as thin as paper, finally snap. The fire earlier, the fear in Serala's eyes, the looming starvation... everything peaked into a boiling point. He had no time for this. He had no time to listen to the ravings of the man before him while his city burned.

Without warning, Denys stepped forward. His large, rough hand reached through the gap in the bars, gripping Aerys's jaw tightly. He squeezed the king's face, forcing him to silence.

Aerys struggled, his eyes wild. He gathered saliva in his mouth and spat right into Denys's face.

The warm, filthy liquid hit Denys's cheek and eye.

The world seemed to stop spinning for a moment.

Denys released his grip slowly. He took a step back, closing his eyes for a second. He took a deep breath, trying to control the rumble in his chest, then wiped the spit away with his sleeve. The action was slow, methodical, and terrifying.

When he opened his eyes again, there was no more respect or hesitation there.

"Bring him out," Denys ordered the two guards. His voice was calm, too calm. "Do not let him struggle."

The guards hesitated for a moment, after all, this was the King, but Denys's glare made them move. The key turned. The cell door opened.

They dragged Aerys out. The King raged, kicking and scratching, shouting curses and threats of burning. His weak body was no match for two trained soldiers.

Denys watched them struggle. He thought of the fire that had just been extinguished up there. He thought of the smoke still billowing. He needed momentum. He needed something to silence the besiegers outside, something to prove he was serious. If Tywin Lannister wanted to play with fire, then Denys would show that he was not afraid to burn himself.

"Make him kneel!" Denys raised his voice, his tone cracking like a whip.

The guards kicked the back of Aerys's knees, forcing him to fall onto the cold, dirty stone floor. The King shouted in protest, but strong hands held him there.

"Hold his right hand," Denys ordered again. "Spread it on the floor. Before me."

One of the guards looked pale, his eyes widening in horror at what was about to happen, but he did not argue. He gripped Aerys's thin wrist, forcing the king's palm open on the damp stone. Aerys tried to pull it back, but his strength was far inferior.

Denys stepped forward. His hand moved to his waist, drawing a sharp hunting dagger. The metal glinted gloomily under the torchlight.

This had to be done. This was the only language understood by men in this world.

He crouched in front of his King. He said nothing more. No threats, no negotiations.

With a swift movement, Denys drove the dagger downward.

The steel blade embedded itself between Aerys's fingers, cutting the thin skin between the ring finger and the middle finger, and then Denys sliced it upward.

Aerys screamed.

As always. Thank you for reading. You can read chapters early on Patreon! Award ReplyReport350DaarioSunday at 2:24 PMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Rhaegar IX View contentDaarioWednesday at 7:01 AMNewAdd bookmark#1,224RHAEGAR​

The waves slapped against the hull of the command ship with a monotonous rhythm, a restless lullaby for the troops who had been stalled there for over a month. Morning came with a deceptive brightness; a pale blue sky stretched out cloudless, and the sea breeze blew fresh, carrying the sharp, slightly fishy scent of salt.

Inside the ship's main cabin, the air felt far heavier than outside.

Rhaegar Targaryen sat on one side of a long wooden table bolted to the floor to keep it from shifting when the waves struck. Before him lay a breakfast simple yet well-cooked, considering the kitchen's limitations.

"Let me go in, Lord Hand."

Ser Barristan Selmy's voice broke the silence, firm and urgent. The knight stood, his food untouched. His usually calm face was now filled with deep lines of frustration. The fresh morning air seemed to fan the flames of his impatience rather than cool them.

"I can sneak in," Barristan continued, his eyes staring sharply at Tywin Lannister who sat at the head of the table. "I can disguise myself as a beggar or a lost merchant. I know cracks in the Dun Fort walls that may not be guarded. I can get in, find where the King is held, and bring him out of there before Darklyn realizes what happened."

Tywin Lannister did not answer immediately. He was cutting a sausage on his plate. His face, as always, was a mask devoid of emotion.

"Too risky," Tywin said finally, without lifting his face from his plate. His voice was flat, killing every argument before it could bloom.

"Risk is part of my duty, Lord Tywin," Barristan retorted, his hand clenching the hilt of his sword.

"There is a difference between bravery and folly, Ser Barristan," Tywin looked at him now, a gaze of pale green eyes that made many lords in Westeros tremble. "Even if you could get in, a very large assumption considering Darklyn must have doubled the guard, then what? You are alone. You are just one sword against a full garrison. You would die before you could touch the door of the King's cell, let alone bring him out."

Barristan fell silent for a moment, his jaw hardening. Rhaegar could see the inner conflict in the old knight's eyes, between Tywin's irrefutable logic and the sacred vows that bound his soul.

Rhaegar turned his attention to his own plate. A piece of grilled fish lay there, its white, tender flesh still steaming faintly. Atop it, the ship's cook had sprinkled bright red tomato chunks and slices of onion sautéed until caramelized.

He cut the fish, bringing it to his mouth. The flavor exploded on his tongue, the savoriness of fresh fish, the fresh acidity of tomato, and the sweetness of onion. It was fragrant, delicious, and ironically, the only good thing here right now. Amidst this boring and uncertain siege, this simple breakfast felt like an inappropriate luxury.

He chewed slowly, letting the taste distract his mind for a moment from the image of his father who might be starving in a cold stone cell.

"At least that means I would have tried," Barristan said again, his voice quieter but no less intense. "As a Kingsguard, my honor demands action. I cannot just sit here all day, eating and drinking on this comfortable ship, while my King... my King is not far from here, perhaps being tortured, and is in mortal danger every second."

Tywin placed his knife down gently. He looked at Barristan, a long and heavy gaze. To Rhaegar, that look had the power to break the spirit of a common man, crushing their resolve into dust. But Barristan Selmy was no common man. He was Barristan the Bold. He was the capable knight who had cut through enemy lines alone in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He returned Tywin's gaze with the same fire.

The situation had reached a stalemate. The tension in the room thickened, suffocating.

Then, Tywin's gaze shifted slowly, sliding from Barristan and landing on Rhaegar.

Rhaegar knew the meaning of that look. It was a signal. Tywin had said his part. Now it was Rhaegar's turn to say the emotional part, the part that could be accepted by a knight's heart.

Rhaegar swallowed his food, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, and looked at Barristan. He, too, actually wanted to do something. He felt the same urge to storm the gates, to end this nightmare. However, logic held him back.

"We still need you here, Ser Barristan," Rhaegar said softly, his voice calm yet authoritative.

Barristan turned to him, his brows furrowed. "Prince?"

"The soldiers," Rhaegar continued, gesturing toward the cabin window, toward the thousands of tents spread across the shore. "They are tired. They are bored. This month has made some of them waver. They whisper around the campfires, wondering if we will ever go home, if the King is dead, if Darklyn possesses magic. They are unsure of the future."

Rhaegar stood, walking closer to Barristan. "They need a symbol. They need a respected man, a living legend, to walk among them and raise their spirits. If Ser Barristan Selmy stands tall, then they too will stand tall. If you go and die foolishly in there... the morale of this army will shatter instantly."

Barristan seemed shaken by those words.

"The Prince is right," Tywin added, picking up a glass and sipping the water within. "This war is no longer about swords, Ser. It is about endurance. Who blinks first."

Tywin leaned his body slightly forward. "If it wavers here, it is no different in there. Our spy reports say their supplies are running low. If our morale is strong, it will pressure them. It means Darklyn's forces will diminish one by one due to desertion or despair, and we won't even have to do anything but wait."

Tywin placed his glass back down. "When that happens, when hunger starts to bite and hope fades, and if Darklyn indeed still has even a little brain in that hard head of his, he will soon realize his position. He will surrender."

Barristan sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of his armor had suddenly increased. He knew he had lost the argument. Rhaegar's logic about troop morale was something he could not refute as a commander.

"Very well," Barristan said finally, his voice heavy. "I will remain here. I will check the guard posts and ensure discipline is maintained."

"Thank you, Ser," Rhaegar said sincerely.

"But," Barristan added, his finger pointing toward the Dun Fort visible faintly from the window, "if there is a chance... however small... I want to take it, Lord Hand."

Tywin did not answer, only returning to cut his sausage. It was a silent agreement, or perhaps indifference.

The conversation continued for a while longer, discussing the logistics of food shipments from King's Landing and the rotation of blockade ships, but the main tension had subsided. Rhaegar went back to finishing his fish, though it no longer tasted as delicious as before.

Meal finished, the servants began clearing the table. Rhaegar rose. He needed a conversation that did not involve siege strategies or his father's grim fate.

"I will step out," said Rhaegar.

Tywin only nodded without looking.

Rhaegar stepped out of the cabin onto the ship's deck. The sea wind immediately hit his face, fluttering his silver hair. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with clean salty air. Around him, naval activity was running well. Sailors shouted, rigging was pulled, and seagulls circled looking for scraps.

He walked toward the gangplank that would take him to land. He had another destination. Arthur.

…

Rhaegar walked along the main thoroughfare, his simple cloak hiding his princely raiment, yet his stride still carried an elegance difficult to conceal. He walked deeper into civilization.

He found Ser Arthur Dayne speaking with a captain of the guard. The knight looked striking amidst the crowd, his pure white armor reflecting the sunlight like a mirror.

Arthur saw him approaching, gave a brief nod to the captain to dismiss him, then approached Rhaegar.

"Prince," greeted Ser Arthur, his voice calm as always. "Bored of being on the ship?"

'I am bored of being here. I am bored with this uncertainty,' Rhaegar thought.

He opened his mouth, letting a thin, weary smile appear on his lips. "You could say that. The ship is starting to feel like a swaying prison. And my father..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Arthur knew. Everyone knew.

"A siege is a boring business, Prince," Arthur said, his eyes scanning the passing crowd with vigilance. "Waiting is the hardest part of war. It is easier to fight against an enemy you can see than against time."

"And Tywin seems to enjoy this time," Rhaegar murmured.

"He wants to ensure victory without much spilled blood," Arthur commented. "It is efficient."

They walked side by side, two of the most respected figures in the realm, yet currently feeling the most powerless. Their conversation flowed from siege strategies to lighter things like Rhaegar's songs, sword practice, or archery. It was a rare normal moment, a pause in the middle of the storm.

However, that peace shattered instantly.

SWOOSH!

The sound was sharp and distinct, the sound of a bowstring released at full force. Followed by the hiss of splitting air.

Rhaegar and Arthur reacted instinctively. Arthur was halfway to drawing Dawn, his body spinning to find the threat. Rhaegar looked up.

In the blue sky above them, a black crow fell, spiraling down. The bird did not fly; it dropped like a stone, an arrow piercing its chest.

Thud.

The carcass of the bird landed on the dusty ground, just a few steps from them, kicking up a small puff of dust. Its black wings lay broken and spread.

People around them screamed in surprise and backed away, creating an empty circle around the bird's carcass.

Arthur and Rhaegar looked at each other, then gave a brief nod. They stepped forward, approaching the poor bird.

"A messenger raven," Arthur said, pointing to something small tied to the bird's leg.

He knelt beside the raven. Usually, this was a desperate attempt by Darklyn to ask for help, a letter begging to other lords, or perhaps another empty negotiation. Rhaegar had seen dozens of such letters intercepted.

However, there was something strange about this raven.

Its beak was tied with rough twine, preventing it from making a sound. And on its leg, it was not the usual scroll of parchment tied neatly.

It was a bundle. A small bundle made of dirty linen cloth tied with a leather cord. The cloth was stained dark.

And the smell...

The wind carried the scent to Rhaegar's nose. The sharp smell of metal. The smell of copper. The fishy scent he recognized so well from the training grounds and hunts.

An archer approached, breathing heavily, bow in hand. "Forgive me, Prince! I saw it flying low from the castle, I thought..."

"Quiet," Arthur ordered sharply.

Rhaegar reached out, his slender, pale fingers hesitating for a moment over the bundle. He had a bad feeling. A cold feeling creeping up his spine like an ice snake.

He untied the leather cord slowly. The linen cloth was wet and sticky.

The folds of the cloth opened.

Rhaegar's eyes widened. His breath hitched in his throat, caught on a lump of horror that suddenly appeared. His chest pounded hard, beating against his ribs with a painful rhythm.

The world around him seemed to tilt. The sound of the crowd became a distant hum.

There, lying on the blood-soaked cloth that was beginning to dry, was a small object. Long, pale, with a long, yellow nail curving at the tip.

It was a finger.

As always. Thank you for reading. You can read chapters early on Patreon! Award ReplyReport343DaarioWednesday at 7:01 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Tywin XI | Barristan I View contentDaarioWednesday at 8:12 PMNewAdd bookmark#1,240TYWIN | BARRISTAN​

Tonight, the air upon the Duskendale docks carried not only the scent of salt and woodsmoke, but a far more perilous reek: the smell of blood and panic.

The sky above was pitch black, but down here, in the midst of a camp that had turned into a hive of angry hornets, torches burned with a terrifying intensity. Flickering orange light cast long, distorted shadows across the faces of the gathered lords and knights.

Fury. The night was filled with a fury pure and unstoppable.

Shouts were hurled everywhere, shattering the silence of the night usually filled only by the lapping of waves. Insults, slurs, curses, all merged to form a tumult as hot as a blacksmith's forge.

"We need his head!"

The scream came from Lord Rosby, a man who usually trembled at a gentle breeze, yet now his face was flushed red with wrath. Spittle flew from his mouth as he pointed a shaking finger toward the dark silhouette of the Dun Fort.

"Behead him!" cried Lord Coldwater, his sword half-drawn, the steel blade gleaming under the torchlight.

"Flay him alive! Let him feel the pain he gave the King!"

Tywin Lannister stood in the eye of this storm, silent and immovable as a rock amidst crashing waves. He wore a crimson doublet embroidered with a golden lion on the chest, his pale green eyes sweeping over the hysterical crowd of lords with a boredom that was nearly unbearable.

They were at the docks as usual, the place where strategy was typically discussed in hushed, calculating tones. Only tonight, this place was alive—too alive—because of something Darklyn had done. Something so unexpected, so mad, that it shook the foundations of logic Tywin had built.

Tywin had not expected the man to do this.

On the rough wooden table in the center of the circle lay the opened bundle of dirty cloth. And upon it, a pale finger rested.

A King's finger. Severed just like that, as a butcher cuts a sausage, and sent via raven simply so his demands would be heard.

'Desperate,' Tywin thought. 'He is truly desperate.'

Was it because of the fire? Reports said Darklyn's stables had burned down just last night. Did Darklyn think it was Tywin who ordered the arson?

Truthfully, Tywin had done nothing. Not yet. He was still enjoying the silence from before, enjoying the game of stalling, letting hunger and fear grow naturally like mold in a damp place. His plan was slow strangulation, not brutal mutilation.

But in the letter they found along with the finger, Darklyn indeed accused them of it. The rough handwriting, stained with blood, screamed of 'Lannister fire'.

A joke. Tywin was accused of something he had not actually done.

"Enough!"

The voice of Ser Barristan Selmy cut through the commotion like a sharp blade. The Kingsguard stepped forward, his face pale as death but his eyes burning with holy fire.

"If we continue this debate any longer, the King will truly be gone!" Barristan gritted his teeth, his hands clenched at his sides. "He cut off a finger today. What will he cut off tomorrow if we do not act?"

"The more time passes, the greater the risk," Lord Lucerys Velaryon agreed quickly, his voice trembling. The Master of Ships looked as if he wanted to vomit at the sight of the finger on the table. "If today it is a finger, what is it tomorrow? A hand? A foot? A head? Darklyn is confirmed mad. We cannot speak to a madman with logic!"

"And what is your suggestion, Lord Velaryon?" Tywin asked, his voice instantly silencing the murmurs around him. "Storm it now? In the dead of night? With the King in the hands of a madman holding a knife?"

"Better than letting him rot piece by piece!" Rhaegar exclaimed. The young Prince stood beside Gerold Hightower, his face looking ten years older tonight. His violet eyes were dark with sorrow and suppressed rage. "We must do something, Lord Hand. We cannot just... wait."

"A direct assault is suicide for the hostage," Tywin countered. "Darklyn will kill him the moment the first battering ram hits the gate."

"Then let us die trying to save him!" Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, bellowed, his voice booming. "The honor of the Kingsguard is at stake! Better the King dies in a noble rescue attempt than be mutilated like cattle in a slaughterhouse while his knights watch from afar!"

"Honor does not raise the dead, Ser Gerold," Tywin replied flatly. "I need a living King."

"I would rather die than let him end like this!" Barristan snapped.

The Lords behind began to shout again, supporting violence. "Attack! Burn the fort!" someone yelled. "Blood pays for blood!"

The Lords screamed demanding Darklyn's blood, no matter the method.

Tywin listened to it all without expression. Inside his head, his thoughts spun fast. This situation... it was messy. Darklyn's chaos had accelerated his schedule. He wanted Aerys dead. Now, with the situation shifting so drastically, he might actually survive.

He tried to delay this longer. He raised arguments about preparation, about the risk of traps, about the need for final negotiations. But he could see it in the eyes of the men around him. Fear had turned into panic. And panic demanded immediate action.

If he continued to delay, they would start suspecting his motives. They would start wondering if the Hand indeed wanted his King dead.

Tywin looked toward Rhaegar. The Prince stared at him, a silent plea in his eyes. 'Do something. End this.'

Tywin exhaled a long breath, very slowly, barely audible. He knew he had lost this game of time. He had to give something to these howling dogs before they bit his own hand.

"Two days," Tywin said finally.

His voice was not loud, but it held the weight of absolute authority. All eyes turned to him.

"Two days?" repeated Barristan, in disbelief. "You ask us to wait two more days while the King bleeds?"

"We give a final warning to Darklyn," Tywin continued, ignoring Barristan's tone of protest. "A final action. Unconditional surrender within two days, or we raze the Dun Fort to the ground and not a single soul will be left alive, including babes in the cradle."

"That is absurd!" Barristan stepped forward, his courage fueled by desperation. "Now is the time! Every hour is precious! Do you... do you not care for the King?"

Tywin's eyes narrowed. The temperature on the docks seemed to drop rapidly.

"Aerys is the King," Tywin said coldly, every word spoken with lethal precision. "And he is also my childhood friend. Do you, Ser Barristan Selmy, dare to say before these Lords that I wish him dead?"

The question hung in the air heavily.

Barristan fell silent, his face flushing red, then turning pale. Accusing the Hand of the King of treason in public was a death sentence, even for a Kingsguard. He lowered his head, taking a step back. "No, My Lord. Forgive my insolence."

The atmosphere was total silence. Only the sound of waves and the crackling of torch fire could be heard. Tywin had asserted his dominance once again.

"It is decided," Tywin said. "Two days. We prepare the siege engines. We prepare the army. And if in two days Darklyn is still stubborn... we will storm."

He turned, his crimson cloak swirling, leaving the lords still muttering in dissatisfaction and fear.

Tywin walked back to his command tent. His face remained flat, but in his heart, he felt disappointment. His plan for a long, exhausting siege had failed. Now, he had to prepare himself for a messy bloodbath.

But two days... two days was a long time in war. Many things could happen in two days. Perhaps a miracle would happen, but, unfortunately, he did not believe in miracles themselves.

…

The night wind outside the tent blew hard, shaking the thick canvas fabric with a rhythmic sound, like the heartbeat of a dying giant. Inside, Ser Barristan Selmy stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the torch flame dancing wildly in the intruding draft. His shadow stretched long on the tent wall, distorted and swaying, as if mocking his hesitation.

'A joke,' Barristan thought, his jaw tightening until his teeth ground together. 'Tywin calls this strategy? Yes, the strategy of a coward.'

The Lord Hand's words echoed in his ears, cold and emotionless: "We will wait."

Wait? The King was surely dying in that accursed pit right now. The King was wounded, and that man said they must wait two days? Two days staying here longer was tantamount to letting infection climb, gnawing at the blood until only a rotting corpse remained. Such a wound, in a filthy place like the Dun Fort, was an open invitation for death to come collecting.

The King needed a Maester. Not just some village healer or a quack doctor, but someone most capable, who could cure even the deadliest poison or clean a wound already festering.

And certainly, Aerys did not need a Maester who was on Darklyn's side.

Barristan turned from the torch, his steps heavy on the worn rug covering the ground. He stared at his armor arranged neatly on the stand; it gleamed holy, a symbol of the vow he had sworn. To protect the King. To give my life for him.

Honor. It was a heavy word. Tonight, that honor felt like a noose wrapping around his neck. If Aerys died while he sat quietly here polishing his sword, Barristan knew he would never be able to look at his own reflection again. He would be a failed Kingsguard. One who let his King rot.

"No," he whispered to the emptiness of the tent.

The resolve came like a tidal wave, cold and unstoppable. This had to be done. Whether with Tywin Lannister's permission or not. Damn politics. Damn the siege. This was the duty of a Knight.

He gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist. The metal felt cold, sending a piercing sensation through his bones but simultaneously steadying his racing heart.

He walked slowly toward a wooden chest in the corner of the tent, where he kept personal items rarely touched. Its hinges creaked softly as it opened. At the very bottom, buried under spare tunics, was a coarse brown cloth. A beggar's cloak, or perhaps a poor pilgrim's. Age had eaten at its fibers, making it thin and faded.

Perfect.

Snatching the cloth, Barristan put it on without hesitation. He removed his magnificent white cloak, folded it respectfully, and placed it on the bed. In its stead, the brown cloth covered his muscular frame, hiding the gleam of his sword. He pulled the hood deep, covering his graying hair and a face known throughout the realm.

Tonight, Ser Barristan the Bold dies. Tonight, there is only a nameless ghost.

He stepped out of the tent, slipping into the darkness of the night like smoke. He evaded patrols with frightening ease, moving between the shadows of tents, utilizing every second when guards looked away to fix a fire or yawn.

Duskendale loomed before him, a giant black silhouette against the moonless night sky. The Dun Fort, the fortress within the city, was his target. During this month of siege, Barristan had not just sat idle. His eyes had studied every inch of those walls. He knew where the stones had crumbled, where the moss grew thickest making it slippery, and where the forgotten cracks lay.

The night chill pierced through his thin cloak, but cold sweat soaked his back. He reached the base of the wall on the eastern side, the part facing the sea, where steep cliffs made the guard looser. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below became his sound camouflage.

Barristan looked up. The wall was high, black, and unforgiving. Up there, points of torchlight signaled the positions of guards.

'Now or never.'

He began to climb.

His fingers, accustomed to holding a sword hilt, now gripped rough wet stone. His muscles screamed in protest as he pulled his body up inch by inch. The sea wind slapped his face, trying to pry his grip loose, but Barristan clung like a spider. His breathing was steady, his focus narrowed until there was only the next stone, the next crevice.

He reached the top after what felt like an eternity. Carefully, he peeked over. A guard was leaning on his spear, looking bored toward the sea.

Barristan waited. One heartbeat. Two. The guard turned, walking away.

In one motion, Barristan vaulted over and descended slowly, landing soundlessly on the stone walkway. He moved fast, merging with the shadows of the tower.

His knowledge of the Dun Fort led him through cold stone corridors. He avoided two patrols, holding his breath in dark alcoves as heavy boots stomped past him. His destination was the dungeon. Rumors, and logic, placed the King there.

He found the entrance to the dungeon. A heavy ironwood door, guarded by an oppressive silence. He slipped inside.

The smell down there was terrible, a mixture of human filth, rotting straw, and dried blood. Torches on the walls burned dimly, casting long, eerie shadows.

Barristan held his breath as he turned a corner. There.

At the end of the corridor, in front of a large iron cell, were four guards. They sat on a wooden bench, their spears leaning against the wall. They were relaxed, too confident inside their own fortress.

Barristan knew he could not sneak past them. This had to be quick. And bloody.

He picked up a small stone from the floor and kicked it toward a dark corner.

One guard looked up, frowning. "What was that? Rats again?" He stood, walking lazily toward the sound.

As he moved away from his friends, Barristan charged.

He moved like a storm unleashed. His sword left its scabbard with a lethal hiss. The standing guard died before he could scream, his throat opened in one precise slash.

The other three jumped in shock, fumbling for their weapons. Too late. Barristan was already among them. He parried a clumsy spear thrust, spun his body, and buried his sword into the second guard's chest. He pulled it out, spun, and cut the third guard's thigh, then finished him with a thrust to the heart.

The last guard managed to draw his sword, eyes wide with terror. "You—"

Barristan did not let him speak. He lunged forward, knocking aside the opponent's sword, and smashed his sword pommel into the man's temple. Bone cracked. The man fell like a sack of grain.

Silence returned to cloak the dungeon, broken only by Barristan's slightly labored breathing and the dripping of blood from his blade.

He searched the bodies, his bloody hands finding a heavy iron key ring. With hands trembling from adrenaline, he unlocked the cell door.

The hinges screamed in protest. Barristan stepped inside.

The sight before him made his blood boil.

Aerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, lay upon a pile of filthy straw. He looked like a skeleton wrapped in pale skin. His clothes were in tatters, and there was a dirty bandage binding his hand.

And beside him stood a man in grey robes, a Maester, with a chain clinking softly. There was a bowl of murky liquid in his hand. The Maester turned, eyes widening in shock at the sight of the figure in a brown cloak with a bloody sword.

"Who are you?" the Maester's voice was hoarse, trembling. "What are you—"

Barristan's eyes widened, his instincts taking over. No questions. No hesitation. This man was a threat.

Barristan stepped forward and thrust his sword.

It was a quick and brutal stab, piercing right through the Maester's chest. The man gasped, the bowl in his hand falling, shattering on the stone floor. He opened his mouth to scream, but only bloody froth came out. Barristan pulled his sword, and the body collapsed beside Aerys.

"Your Grace?" whispered Barristan, kneeling beside his King.

Aerys opened his eyes. Those violet eyes were clouded with fever and pain, wild with fear. At first, he flinched away, as if ready to thrash, perhaps thinking Barristan was someone else.

"Keep that dagger away! Keep it away!" Aerys shrieked weakly.

"It is me, Your Grace. Barristan," he said softly, lowering his hood.

Recognition slowly dawned on Aerys's face. Tears welled in the corners of his sunken eyes. His thin hand, missing a finger and wrapped in cloth, clutched Barristan's arm with the strength of a desperate man. "You... you. Barristan. You came." His voice cracked. "Get me out. Quick! They... they want to cut me again. Take me away!"

"I will take you home, Your Grace," Barristan promised.

He sheathed his sword and carefully lifted Aerys's body. The King was very light, too light, as if part of his soul had been eroded along with his flesh. Barristan carried him on his back, feeling Aerys's hot, feverish breath on his neck.

Barristan exited the cell, his steps quick. He had to get out before the guards' bodies were discovered.

He managed to reach the stairs. However, as he opened the door leading to the upper floor, bad luck greeted him.

A serving woman was passing by, carrying a tray of food. Her eyes met Barristan's, then dropped to the dead guards visible behind the open door, and then to the limp figure of the King on his back.

She screamed.

The scream was shrill, high, and echoed through the stone corridors, shattering the night's silence like breaking glass.

"INTRUDERS! THEY'RE STEALING THE KING! GUARDS!"

"Damn," cursed Barristan.

He ran. No more sneaking. Now it was a race against death.

The hallways came alive. Shouts were heard from all directions. Footsteps stomped, approaching fast. Barristan spurred his legs, the weight of Aerys on his back feeling heavier every second.

He turned a corner, and two guards appeared before him. Barristan did not stop. He drew his sword with one hand, the other holding Aerys. He crashed into them like a bull. His sword sliced, his shoulder bashed. They fell, but more were coming.

Barristan burst through a side door, out into the cold night air of the inner courtyard. Chaos had broken out. Torches were popping up everywhere like hellish fireflies.

"There! Catch him!"

Arrows began to whiz through the air. One stuck in the ground near his feet. Another bounced off the stone wall.

Aerys had fainted some time ago, his body limp like a broken doll on Barristan's back. It made movement difficult. Barristan slashed a soldier trying to block him, blood splattering his face.

He had to reach the gate. Just a little more.

But they were too many. Dozens of Darklyn soldiers flooded the courtyard, forming a wall of steel and spears.

Barristan roared, attacking with desperation. He fought like a demon, his sword a flash of death. One man fell. Two men fell. But for every man he killed, two more took their place.

He gasped for breath, his lungs burning. His legs felt like lead.

Then, he heard it. The sound of bowstrings released.

Not one, but many.

An arrow struck his shoulder, piercing through cloth and flesh. The pain exploded, hot and stinging. He staggered, but stayed standing.

However, the second arrow did not miss.

It came from the darkness, unseen, unavoidable. The iron tip struck the side of his head, just below the temple, tearing skin and hitting bone.

Barristan's world exploded into blinding white light, then instantly turned pitch black.

The sounds of battle, the clash of steel, the shouts of rage, the stomp of boots, suddenly receded, as if he were sinking to the bottom of a deep sea. His strength vanished instantly, pulled from his body like a snuffed candle wick.

His legs gave way.

He fell forward, his knees hitting the cold courtyard stones. His grip on Aerys loosened.

In the last second of his fading consciousness, Barristan felt the weight on his back slide off. He watched, in agonizing slow motion, the thin body of his King thrown from his back, rolling on the stones with a harsh sound.

Aerys's body stopped rolling a few feet away, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, his open eyes staring blankly at the starless night sky. No breath. No movement. Only eternal stillness.

Darkness swallowed Barristan's vision completely.

The King fell. And as his consciousness was lost, Barristan Selmy's final thought was not of pain or his own death, but of his own emptiness.

If only he had waited two more days…

The king is dead, long live the king!