ROBERT
Robert Baratheon strode down the cobblestone streets of the merchant district, far from the suffocating shadows of the Red Keep. This time, he had his own intentions. Not to seek out brothels or cheap wine sinks that were usually his main destinations when visiting the big city, he was looking for other things. Things that were 'interesting'. Places where you could laugh without burden, see life pulsating, and forget that a dead king had just been buried.
Beside him, Eddard Stark walked with a quieter, more measured pace. Ned wore a simple grey tunic without decoration.
"You walk too fast, Robert," Ned commented quietly, avoiding a fishmonger carrying a smelly basket.
"You are the one walking too slow, Ned. Your Northern legs aren't used to the capital's stones, eh?" Robert laughed, his voice cutting through the market's hustle and bustle.
They passed through crowds of people still jostling about. Even in the somewhat secluded alleys, activity did not cease. News of the king's coronation which would be held soon had drawn people from all corners of Westeros like flies to food. And the funeral... it was still warm like an apple pie fresh out of the oven, becoming the topic of conversation on every street corner.
The sky above them was clear, a deep blue rarely seen in this city. Clumps of white clouds drifted lazily, adding their own charm. Seagulls flew low, flapping their wings here and there looking for scraps of food, their cries answering the shouts of the merchants.
On the roof of a leaning building, a fat black cat walked casually along the edge, tail held high, as if this whole place belonged to him alone and the humans below were merely his servants.
Robert smiled seeing it. "Look at that, Ned. That cat has a walk more confident than half the Lords in the court."
Ned snorted with amusement. "And probably smarter too."
Robert glanced at shop signs while scanning the surroundings. His eyes caught something in a small square between two tall buildings.
There was a simple wooden stage set up there. A group of people dressed in colorful, though somewhat shabby, clothes were practicing. A stage play. Robert could see some of them holding white sheets in their hands. Paper.
They performed dramatic movements, a man in a fake cloak kneeling while spreading his arms to the sky, while others practiced their voices.
"Oh, poor Prince! Your destiny awaits there!" cried one of the actors with a voice made to tremble artificially.
Robert stopped for a moment, grinning broadly. He nudged Ned's arm.
"You want to try doing that, Ned?" asked Robert, pointing towards the stage. "I can imagine you up there. 'Winter is Coming!' with that famous flat face of yours. The audience would love it."
Ned smiled thinly, shaking his head. "Me? Impossible for me to do that, Robert. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do it well. My tongue is stiff for poetry and drama. For one of us, you are the one who should be up there. You have a voice that can reach the back row without shouting."
"True," Robert laughed, puffing out his broad chest. "You don't have much emotion for stage performances, Ned. No offense, but you are like a walking ice statue."
"And you are suited to play a skilled fighter," Ned chuckled, this time his laughter more loose. "A tragic hero who swings a hammer and wins the princess's heart, then dies from drinking too much wine. You would be more immersive in that regard."
"Damn you," Robert grinned. "I would ask for a real warhammer if they made me the lead. I don't want those wooden toys. I want to feel a real impact when smashing the villain."
"Sheesh," Ned pretended to grimace in horror. "In that case, make sure you prepare gold dragons to pay the Maester fees for your co-stars. No actor wants their head cracked for a few coppers."
"No. I would have surely spent it buying food before the show started," Robert joked, patting his flat yet solid stomach.
They laughed together, a rare light moment amidst the tension of the last weeks. They continued walking again, leaving the actors with their drama.
Footsteps took them to a more organized part of the market. The stalls here were more permanent, built from polished wood, not cloth tents.
Robert stopped in front of a stall that caught his attention. The stall displayed many fine handcrafted goods. There were detailed wooden ship carvings, brightly painted masks, soft wool scarves, tunics, and also several pairs of leather gloves. And of course, in one corner, there was a stack of books.
This stall looked neat, no glass windows like many fancy buildings on the main street, but because the front door was wide open, sunlight entered well, illuminating the merchandise warmly.
"Let's have a look," Robert invited.
Entering inside, Robert was greeted by the scent of wood and new leather. He greeted a middle-aged man standing behind the table with his signature wide grin, a smile that could radiate light and make strangers feel like old friends.
Robert picked up a carving shaped like a sailing ship. The ship looked small, the size of his palm, but the details were extraordinary. The sails were made of thin linen, and the hull was carved with precision. On other shelves were carvings of horses, lions, stags, and dogs.
"You made this yourself, Old Man?" asked Robert, holding the ship carving high to see the bottom.
The shopkeeper, who had a friendly face with laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, laughed softly and approached him.
"Beautiful, isn't it? Looks like the real thing. No, My Lord, I do not have hands that steady. This is made by my neighbor, a young man of only twenty namedays! He consigned it here to be sold. Very talented, his hands blessed by the Smith."
"Yes, my brother might like it," muttered Robert, his smile softening. The image of little Renly left behind at Storm's End flashed in his mind. The baby always cried, but maybe a toy would keep him quiet. "He is still a baby, so I'm not really sure he understands what this is. But babies like everything they can hold, right?"
"If it is for a baby..." The man said hesitantly, his tone full of ethical consideration rarely possessed by King's Landing merchants. "I think most of these carvings would be dangerous, My Lord. There are some small parts that could be swallowed, or corners that would hit his skin. Indeed not too sharp, but still..."
Robert stared at the toy boat. He twirled it in his large fingers.
"No matter," said Robert firmly. "I will keep it. I will give it when he knows enough to play and not try to eat the sails. As a big brother, I want to give his first gift now, even before he can speak. So that in the future, when he sees this ship in his room, he will know that I loved him since he was still snot-nosed."
"Very kind," The man smiled sincerely. "What is your name, young man? Rarely do I see young nobles thinking of their siblings like that."
"Robert," he answered briefly. He reached into the leather pouch at his waist. "How much for this thing?"
The man patted Robert's shoulder familiarly, forgetting caste etiquette for a moment because he was impressed. "Three. Three silver stags. I give you a discount for touching this old heart of mine. Isn't that good?"
Robert snorted, but kept smiling. He knew that was probably the normal price or even slightly inflated, but he didn't care. "I am currently rich, and my mood is currently good. So I will still buy it. Here you go, Old Man."
He placed three silver coins on the table.
"Thank you, Young Lord!" The man stared at the silver with sparkling eyes. "You are like a prince sent by the Seven, who will bless this shop to soon be crowded by other visitors."
The man deftly wrapped the ship in cloth. Then, his eyes glinted with merchant instinct. He took a book from a nearby shelf. The book wasn't thick, the cover simple.
"And because of that... would you like to buy this Seven-Pointed Star?" offered the man. "This is new, printed directly by that famous Lannister family in Lannisport. Look, it is made of paper, very smooth, the ink clear. The price is far cheaper than handwritten parchment, and perhaps... perhaps it will bring you more luck and blessings."
Robert wanted to roll his eyes. Another book. He had just escaped the library yesterday.
He looked towards Ned, who was busy staring at a display of gloves in another corner, pretending not to hear.
"You have a silver tongue, Old Man," said Robert, taking the book. It felt light. The paper was indeed smooth, far thinner and neater than the old books at Storm's End. "Honestly, I am not that interested in books. Reading them makes my head hurt."
But then Robert remembered. Lannister. Jaime Lannister. The boy he met in the stables. The boy who started all this. And the conversation with Jon and Ned about how this paper was changing the world.
Maybe he should see what everyone was making a fuss about.
"But yes, I'll take this," said Robert suddenly, surprising himself. "I am already too bored being in this city without entertainment. Maybe I will pray to the Seven to give me something interesting through this book." Or at least I can use it to swat flies. He didn't say the last sentence.
Robert paid the extra silver. The object was now officially his.
They exited the shop, returning to the busy streets.
"I cannot believe you actually bought a book, Robert," Ned Stark raised his eyebrows high, staring at the book in Robert's hand as if it were a dragon's head. "Do you have a fever? Or has the air of King's Landing finally softened your brain?"
Robert snorted, tucking the book behind his belt. "Don't start, Ned. I met Jaime Lannister weeks ago. He is a strange boy, but he seemed decent enough. So I decided to support his family business with a few silvers. Consider it me giving him pocket money."
Ned laughed softly. "Lannisters don't need your pocket money, Robert."
"Also," added Robert, his voice a little more serious, "You and Jon talked about the Citadel and the Faith, about paper and that school as if it were a profound problem. You two sounded very smart and worried. I want to try to understand a little of what's inside here. Who knows if there is something interesting in it."
"Well," said Ned, patting his best friend's shoulder. "Hopefully you don't fall asleep after the first few paragraphs."
"Hopefully," Robert nodded, staring at the road ahead. "Or at least, hopefully the paper is soft enough to be made into a pillow."
...
They arrived at the front courtyard of the Red Keep when the sun began to dip to the west, turning the sky's color from bright blue to a slight gold. Robert's legs felt a little sore after walking far from the city, but his heart was light. He had managed to avoid trouble, mostly at least, got a 'souvenir' for his brother, and even bought a book without being forced. A productive day, he thought.
As they approached the entrance to the guest wing, one of Jon Arryn's household guards, a man named Adam, approached them with steady steps.
"Is there a problem?" asked Ned first.
Adam bowed slightly. "No problem, My Lord. Just news. Your family from the North... Lord Stark's party has been sighted passing through the main gate a few moments ago. They should be arriving here shortly."
"Oh," Ned smiled, a rare and soft smile that softened his long face. "Good. Very good. I will welcome them out front."
Robert's heart also suddenly bloomed, beating with a rhythm faster than usual.
The Stark family was arriving. That meant Lord Rickard, Brandon, Benjen... and her.
Lyanna Stark. His betrothed.
Robert had never met her. Their betrothal was arranged through letters between Lord Rickard and Lord Steffon, strengthened by Robert's friendship with Ned. But Robert had imagined her face a thousand times. Ned rarely spoke of his sister, but when he did speak, he painted a picture of a girl who was wild and full of spirit. And if she was as beautiful as her mother, as people said, then Robert was a lucky man.
This was Robert's lucky day! This strange book seemed not bad; it had brought good news only minutes after Robert bought it. Robert decided he would kiss the book later in his room, of course when no one was looking, so he wouldn't be thought mad.
But before that, there were more important things.
"Adam!" Robert handed over the cloth-wrapped toy ship and the Seven-Pointed Star book a bit hurriedly. "Hold this for a moment!"
He brushed the street dust from his clothes, tidying his thick black hair with his fingers. He wanted to look clean, or at least neat, when they first met. He wanted Lyanna to see Robert Baratheon her handsome betrothed, not Robert the Vagrant.
They walked towards the gate. This time, Ned walked faster than him. His steps were long and eager, an enthusiasm he rarely showed. Robert had to lengthen his stride to match his best friend.
When they reached the middle of the courtyard, the sound of galloping horses and carriage wheels was heard. The party from the North entered the gate.
They were not as luxurious as the Lannister or Tyrell entourages. No glittering gold or colorful silks. The Northerners wore grey and white wool, thick furs, and sturdy leather. The Direwolf banner fluttered gallantly above their heads.
Ned immediately stepped forward, welcoming his father, Lord Rickard Stark, who dismounted from his warhorse with dignity. They embraced briefly, a Northern men's hug that was stiff yet full of respect. Then Brandon, who laughed loudly and patted Ned's back. Then little Benjen.
But Robert, standing a few steps behind, did not look at them.
His eyes were fixed only on one person.
A girl had just stepped down from the carriage, refusing a servant's helping hand. She wore a simple pale blue dress.
She turned.
And Robert's world stopped turning.
She was beautiful. No, that word was too weak. She was... alive.
Her hair was dark brown, long and slightly messy from the travel wind, framing a heart-shaped face. Her skin was pale typical of a Northerner, but her cheeks flushed red slightly. And her eyes...
Those eyes were grey, like Ned's eyes, but in there was a fire Ned did not possess. Those eyes were full of life, full of challenge, and a little wild. Her expression was a bit cold, assessing her new surroundings with a sharp intelligent gaze, unlike Southern girls who usually looked down shyly.
She laughed at something Brandon said, and that laugh sounded to Robert's ears like music.
Lyanna Stark.
Robert knew it without needing to be told.
...
The atmosphere inside the guest solar felt stiff, as if the air had been replaced with politeness.
"The Kingsroad must be repaired, Lord Arryn," Lord Rickard Stark's voice was heavy and serious, like grinding stones. He raised his goblet of wine, yet his eyes saw no enjoyment in it. "We kept passing roads covered in mud or rockslides. That is all what made the travel time two weeks longer than it should have been."
"Indeed," Jon Arryn replied with a polite sympathetic nod. "The Kingsroad is the most decent road we have right now, the kingdom's main road, and that alone is that bad. Doing maintenance is indeed difficult, it seems, especially in these chaotic times."
They continued talking about road taxes, stone quality, and bandits, topics that were boring to death. Robert didn't care what that was. His ears rang hearing the word 'infrastructure'.
His gaze, however, had a focus that was far more interesting. His eyes always returned to Lyanna Stark.
They had been introduced politely before, a stiff exchange of names and titles under supervision. But Robert hadn't had the chance to speak further. He wanted to hear her voice again, the laughter he heard in the yard earlier. But the conversation between the two old men currently happening was like a fortress wall blocking him. Annoying. He was bored listening to their chatter continuously. He wanted to act.
Suddenly, Lyanna stood up. Her movement was graceful yet firm, like a wolf rising from a sitting position.
"Father, Lord Arryn," she said, her voice clear cutting through the discussion about mud. "I think I want to go out and see the scenery outside..."
Good! Robert's mind cheered. Hah! The girl had courage! She didn't wait for permission, she informed. Robert liked that.
Without waiting for a long answer from the two parents who were chatting, Lyanna turned and went out.
Robert cleared his throat loudly, drawing the attention of Lord Stark, Jon, Brandon, Ned, and Benjen who stared at him.
"I want to get some fresh air," said Robert while standing, trying to sound casual even though his legs were already itching to run. "This wine is making my head dizzy."
A stupid excuse, considering he could drink a barrel without getting dizzy, but who cared? Robert left the room with wide strides.
He went out into the corridor just in time to see the hem of Lyanna's dress disappearing around the corner towards the garden. Robert grinned and quickened his pace.
"My Lady!" shouted Robert, his voice echoing in the stone hallway.
Lyanna stopped. She turned slowly. Under the corridor torchlight, her face looked calm, almost expressionless. She glanced at Robert, her gaze softly soothing.
"Yes, My Lord?" she asked politely.
Robert caught up to her, his breath slightly hurried not from fatigue, but from enthusiasm.
"You want to see the scenery?" asked Robert confidently. "Don't just look at these boring castle walls. Come, I'll show you the great ones. I have been here a long time, well, a few weeks, I know interesting places! Places unknown to the boring old people in there."
Robert smiled broadly, showing off his rows of white teeth. He knew this smile. This was the smile that made serving girls in the Eyrie giggle shyly.
Looking hesitant, Lyanna fell silent for a moment. Her grey eyes scanned Robert's face, as if searching for something. "Would that not trouble you, My Lord? I am sure you have important business."
"Why would it be a trouble?" Robert laughed lightly, waving his hand. "I will be accompanying a beautiful woman, who happens to be my betrothed. There is no business more important than that."
He saw Lyanna's cheeks redden slightly. Of course she blushed, thought Robert with satisfaction. Robert Baratheon's charm never missed.
"Come," invited Robert, offering his arm.
Lyanna hesitated for a moment, then accepted the offer with a light touch.
Thus began Robert Baratheon's grand tour.
He took her to the outer defensive wall overlooking the city.
"Look at that," said Robert, pointing to the expanse of shabby roofs of Flea Bottom visible in the distance. "That is the lower city. The place smells, but down there are taverns selling the best brown soup. One day, I will take you there, if you dare."
Lyanna nodded, her eyes staring into the distance. She didn't ask what brown soup was.
Robert took her near the Kingsguard training ground, hoping to see sword practice. Empty. But he told stories anyway.
"Here usually Ser Arthur Dayne trains. I fought him once. He is great, but I managed to hit him," bragged Robert, exaggerating a little. "You like strong men, right? Northerners like strength."
Lyanna only nodded again. "Certainly, My Lord."
Robert continued walking, feeling more and more confident. He took her to the gardens, pointing out flowers whose names he didn't know, making up funny names for them. He took her looking around the fortress.
All the while, Robert talked. He told jokes about Eddard Stark snoring. He told how he won a drinking contest against a merchant. He told how great Storm's End was compared to this place.
Lyanna listened. She nodded at the right moments. She smiled thinly when Robert laughed. She didn't speak much. Always like that.
She was charmed, thought Robert. She was a quiet woman. A good listener type. Perfect. His charm must be working. This wild girl from the North was being tamed by his charisma.
Finally, they stopped at a quiet terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay. The sun began to set, coloring the sea with blood red and gold. The view was beautiful.
Robert leaned on the stone railing, feeling very satisfied with himself. He stared at Lyanna who was gazing at the sea. The sea breeze blew her brown hair. She looked beautiful. And she would be his.
"You know, My Lady," Robert chuckled, his voice low and intimate. "You can talk much in front of me, you know? No need to be shy or reluctant. I am not the stiff Ned. Just let out all your thoughts. I want to know my future wife."
Lyanna turned to him. The thin smile was still fixed on her lips, but her grey eyes looked different. Sharper. Colder.
"I worry if I let out all my thoughts, you would be surprised, My Lord," she said softly.
"Surprised?" Robert raised an eyebrow, laughing dismissively. "I am Robert Baratheon. I have seen many things. Storms, battles, madmen. Nothing can surprise me, let alone the thoughts of a sweet girl."
Robert leaned in a little, encouraging her. "Come on. Tell me. What do you think about our little tour? About me? Don't be afraid."
Lyanna stared at him. That polite smile slowly faded from her face, like a melting wax mask. Her expression changed, from soft to flat. Flat and hard like ice at the Wall.
"You want to know my thoughts while you were babbling?" asked Lyanna. Her voice was no longer soft. It was sharp.
Robert blinked, his smile wavering slightly. "Yes?"
"It was boring," said Lyanna.
The word hung in the air.
"And too noisy," she continued mercilessly. "Honestly, I don't even care about most of what you showed. Dirty roofs? Empty training grounds? Stories about you getting drunk? It was all ugly. Nothing interesting."
Robert's mouth opened slightly. He had never, in his life, heard a woman speak like that to him.
Lyanna stepped forward one step, looking up to meet Robert's eyes.
"And you, My Lord," she said, her index finger pointing at Robert's chest without touching it. "You try too hard. You try to look gallant, look funny, look charming. It looks... pathetic."
Robert froze. Pathetic?
"I am tired of wearing this dress!" Lyanna suddenly yanked her blue silk skirt roughly, frustration exploding. "It's tight! It's heavy! It restricts movement! I cannot step wide, I cannot breathe freely. And I was forced to use it by Father just because you would definitely be here!"
Her eyes lit up with a fire that made Robert take a step back instinctively.
"It is annoying, you know?!" cried Lyanna. "Walking around in a suffocating dress, listening to the bragging of a man who thinks he is the Gods' greatest gift to women, while pretending to smile? It is torture!"
Lyanna looked away towards the sea, her breath heaving with the anger finally released.
Robert Baratheon, Heir to Storm's End, stood transfixed on that terrace. His mouth was still slightly open. His brain, usually quick to respond with laughter or anger, was now totally jammed.
He had been insulted. He had been rejected. He had been called pathetic and boring.
And strangely, as he stared at the angry girl's face, with cheeks flushed from genuine emotion and eyes flashing sharply, the only thing Robert could think was how extraordinary this girl was.
She was not a sheep. She was not a wolf.
She was a storm.
RHAEGAR
The Great Hall of the Red Keep, which had been gloomy and cold for these past few months, had transformed. Thousands of candles burned in every sconce, in every niche, and atop the long tables, creating a sea of warm golden light. The light reflected off silver goblets, polished armor, and the jewelry of noblewomen, making the entire room sparkle as if sprinkled with stars.
Music floated softly from the musicians' gallery above, a melody of harp and flute that was polite, loud enough to fill the silence yet quiet enough to allow conversation.
Rhaegar Targaryen stood near the main dais, holding a goblet of wine that was barely touched. He wore a tunic of black velvet, simple yet regal. His purple eyes swept around the room, observing the collection of humans who called themselves the rulers of Westeros.
Tonight was an important night. This was a welcoming night, an informal evening before the official oaths of fealty that would be conducted in a week. Here, amidst wine and smiles, alliances were formed and whispered.
In the right corner, he saw Tywin Lannister. The Hand of the King stood tall like a statue, speaking with Hoster Tully of Riverrun. Tywin dominated the conversation without saying much, while Hoster nodded with cautious enthusiasm. The West and River alliance, thought Rhaegar. Something he had to watch.
At another table, Princess Martell sat with her son, Prince Doran. They looked calm, observing the room with dark eyes, speaking in laughs and whispers only they understood.
Rhaegar shifted his gaze when he realized there was movement towards him.
A middle-aged husband and wife were parting the crowd. The man was slightly stout and had a friendly face, Luthor Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden. Beside him walked a woman who was much smaller yet radiated an aura of authority far greater, Olenna Tyrell.
They stopped before him and bowed respectfully.
"Your Grace," greeted Olenna, her smile sharp yet sweet like a rose with thorns. "You look radiant tonight. Even in a time of mourning, seeing a strong King is a good thing for the realm and the smallfolk. It gives them hope that the sun will still rise."
Luthor added with a quick nod, "Quite right. You will be a strong king, Your Grace. The Seven bless you."
Rhaegar returned their smiles with a light, practiced smile. He knew they said it only for mere pleasantries, sweet diplomacy. Yet it could not be denied that the praise soothed a few nerves that throbbed lightly in his head due to the party's noise.
"Thank you, Lord Luthor, Lady Olenna," said Rhaegar politely. "It is time we sweep away the grief and face the future, is it not? The Kingdom cannot stop just because one man is gone. You both also look lovely tonight. A couple truly suited for one another, like the fertile soil of the Reach and the sun that shines upon it."
Olenna laughed softly, a sound that sounded like dry paper being crumpled.
"You are too kind, Your Grace. And too skilled at flattery for a man known to be quiet," said Olenna wittily. "We are both old, Your Grace. Look, wrinkles here and there. A few grey hairs appear occasionally, and if before they could be plucked or disguised with dye, now we can hide them no longer. We are flowers beginning to wilt."
"That makes you look wiser, My Lady," Rhaegar chuckled softly. "Wisdom is a crown more precious than gold."
"Ah, if only all young men thought like that," Olenna snorted with amusement. "Most only look at tight skin and heaving bosoms."
The conversation continued lightly for a few moments. They talked about the Reach harvest which was bountiful this year, about the quality of the Arbor wine being served, and about their long yet comfortable journey.
However, Rhaegar knew, like other nobles, the Tyrells would not waste time just to talk about wine. She was heading towards something.
Then, the awaited moment arrived.
Olenna smiled, her eyes glinting full of calculation.
"Speaking of beauty and the future, Your Grace," Olenna began, her tone changing slightly lower, more conspiratorial. "Have you thought about a prospective Queen to accompany you? The Iron Throne is a cold place without a woman to keep you company."
Rhaegar held his breath so as not to sigh visibly.
"We have a daughter named Janna," continued Olenna, not giving Rhaegar a chance to interrupt. "She is a sweet girl, far more beautiful than her mother in her youth. And she is good at singing, Your Grace. I hear you like music. Her voice is very melodious, able to calm a restless heart. She is also good at reading and managing a household. Perfect for the Red Keep."
Rhaegar's mood, which had started to improve earlier, instantly fell. This was the umpteenth time he had heard a variation of this sentence tonight. Prince Doran had subtly alluded to Elia. And then many other Lords.
Everyone wanted to sell their daughters for the crown of a Queen.
Rhaegar swirled his wine glass slowly. He had not revealed to anyone, except his mother, that he would be betrothed to Cersei Lannister. It felt not right yet to announce a betrothal when his father's ashes were just cold inside the urn. He also did not want to speak before everything was formalized in a legal contract and announced.
Honestly, Rhaegar was also not too excited about all this. Marriage, to him, should be about love, or at least about a soul connection like in the songs. But he was King. And as a king, he had to find a position that was stable and unshakable. Allies had to be made. Foundations had to be strengthened.
Tywin Lannister brought gold, armies, and administrative competence that was unrivaled. And Rhaegar had also promised to marry Cersei before, a verbal promise he gave to Tywin in dire times. Although their initial agreement that could bind him had failed, Rhaegar felt bound by honor to fulfill it now.
So logically, Rhaegar could still look for another wife. He could choose Janna Tyrell and get the granary of the Reach. He could choose Elia Martell and get Dorne. But he was not stupid enough to let go of the power and influence Tywin brought at this critical time of power transition. He needed Tywin.
"I have heard much about Lady Janna, My Lady," replied Rhaegar, his voice polite but closed, like a locked gate. "That she is the fairest rose in Highgarden. And your offer is very interesting, an honor for House Targaryen."
Olenna leaned in slightly, hopeful.
"However," continued Rhaegar, his eyes looking at Olenna with gentle firmness, "I have more important matters to attend to than marriage for now. The Kingdom has just lost a King. The people are still mourning. Stabilizing the land and ensuring the transition runs peacefully is my top priority. Do you not agree, Lady Olenna?"
It was a rejection. Subtle, polite, yet undeniable. He used grief as a shield.
Olenna froze for a moment. Her smile did not waver, but her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing the young King before her. Luthor glanced at his wife in silence, looking confused about what to say.
But Olenna, who had been through more than thousands of social battles, recovered quickly.
"You are right, Your Grace," she replied, bowing her head slightly deeper than before. "Forgive this old woman. I was so carried away by a mother's feeling wanting to see her child happy, that I became presumptuous. Of course, the realm comes first. That shows your wisdom."
"There is nothing to forgive," said Rhaegar. "A mother's love is a noble thing."
The conversation continued briefly to safer topics about the palace gardens, before finally Olenna and Luthor excused themselves.
Rhaegar watched them go, merging back with the crowd. He raised his goblet to his lips, drinking the red wine that tasted tart. One attack successfully deflected. There were still hundreds more waiting.
The dark red liquid inside Rhaegar's goblet was finished, leaving a dark pool at the bottom. He looked at his distorted reflection on the silver metal surface, the face of a young king tired yet full of determination, before placing it back on the table with a soft sound almost inaudible amidst the party's hustle.
Heavy yet steady footsteps were heard approaching, separating from the crowd. Rhaegar turned slowly, his cloak rustling.
Before him stood Lord Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. The man was an impressive figure, with broad shoulders and a laugh that seemed always ready to explode on his lips. He brought with him an aura of natural warmth, as if he brought a hearth with him into this cold hall.
Beside him stood a boy who looked like a miniature yet harder version of his father. Stannis Baratheon. His age was perhaps only ten and three namedays, yet he stood with the stiffness of a war veteran. His body was a little thin, his shoulders tense, and on his lips was plastered a polite smile that looked clearly forced. However, Rhaegar gave him a little appreciation internally. The boy was trying to honor his king, even though clearly he would prefer to be elsewhere.
"I hope you are not drinking too much, Your Grace," greeted Steffon with a familiar joking tone, his bright blue eyes twinkling. "Because that means you will sleep too soon until you forget to welcome everyone who has come from far away to kiss your ring."
Steffon smiled brightly. Somehow, this man always brought a soothing air, contrasting with the air of King's Landing. He was a fresh breeze from the southern sea.
Rhaegar returned the smile, though his was more restrained. "I only drink enough, Lord Baratheon. Just to wet the throat so my mouth and tongue do not have a bitter taste after a day of talking. Getting drunk does not sound wise to me on the first night appearing in public."
"Yes... you are right," Steffon nodded, taking a goblet from a passing servant's tray. "Sometimes drinking is a medicine for most people to calm their hearts, to forget burdens for a moment. Is it not? I am glad you are not a person like that. We have seen enough of what wine does to good people."
Rhaegar nodded politely. He was not too close to the man in front of him personally. In the past, his late father often spoke of their childhood friendship of the three, Aerys, Tywin, and Steffon. But due to each Lord's affairs, they rarely met in recent years.
His father always spoke with a nostalgic tone that if Tywin was cold and calculating ice, then Steffon was the opposite: warm and burning fire. He was spirited, impulsive in a good way, and was the only person who ever made Tywin Lannister laugh more often.
"The last thing anyone wants is a drunkard king whose job is only drinking wine and forgetting his kingdom," Rhaegar chuckled softly, a comment that felt ironic considering the history of several Targaryen kings. "How are things at Storm's End, Lord Baratheon? Do storms still batter your walls?"
"Always, Your Grace. Storms outside, and storms inside," answered Steffon while heaving an exaggerated sigh. "Nothing interesting, other than people who like to get angry. My bannermen... they often quarrel over land borders, over rights to this and that, over who marries whom. Your Grace. Managing adults who act like children is a full-time job."
Steffon looked at Rhaegar with a gaze that suddenly became more serious and sympathetic. "And I think, you will experience things heavier than me. Westeros is a much bigger Storm's End, with storms far more deadly."
Those words echoed in Rhaegar's mind. Of course he had known that for a long time. He had seen how that burden destroyed his father. But he was now more confident. He was not Aerys. He had learned. He could overcome the problems that would come, he just had to have a clear head and mind. If not, he failed. And failure was not an option.
Clear mind, patience, and action. That was his new mantra.
"I do not doubt it, My Lord," said Rhaegar, his voice calm and full of conviction. "Managing a kingdom this big will require time, much thought, and perhaps a little luck. But it is an honor I accept with open arms. And I will not tarnish what my father and ancestors left behind. I will fix it."
"You have the spirit your father had back then," said Steffon suddenly, his eyes gazing for a moment into the past. He laughed a little, a sound that sounded warm yet sad. "Very exactly like that. Back then, King Aerys also had his own doubts before he was crowned, you know? Young Aerys... he didn't talk too much about his fears, but as his close friend I could see it in his eyes."
Steffon shook his head, smiling at the memory. "Luckily he also had Tywin Lannister by his side so he could get through it in every early year of his reign. They worked together, complementing each other, and the result was good. The Kingdom prospered."
Not too good in the end, was it? Rhaegar held himself back from saying it. You don't know what happened these few years, Steffon. You didn't see how that 'friendship' turned into poison.
Steffon Baratheon, who spent most of his time at Storm's End, probably didn't realize how deep the cracks were between the King and his Hand. He didn't know that Aerys's jealousy of Tywin's abilities had slowly rotted everything from the inside. The Lord of Storm's End was too busy with his own affairs, or perhaps he chose to remember the good times only. That was natural.
"And you, Your Grace, also have him," continued Steffon, pointing vaguely towards Tywin who was standing in the distance, looking dominant amidst the crowd. "Do not hesitate to discuss with him on many matters. He may be famous for his sour and gloomy face, he can never tell a joke correctly, but he is undeniably the most capable lord in the Seven Kingdoms. Use him, like your father used him. That is advice from an old friend."
Rhaegar nodded politely. "Your advice I accept, Lord Baratheon. Lord Tywin is a valuable asset."
An asset that must be controlled, not one that controls, he added in his heart.
They chatted for a moment longer about lighter things, about hunting in the woods, about the quality of new ships built at Storm's End, and about the improving weather. Steffon's laughter several times broke the formality around them, drawing the attention of some people who smiled seeing the familiarity of the new King with the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.
Then, Rhaegar turned his attention to the quiet figure beside Steffon.
"And how are you, Stannis?" asked Rhaegar gently.
Stannis looked a little surprised to be spoken to directly. He straightened his already upright body, as if being inspected in a line of soldiers. Rhaegar was not close to this child. They had only met face to face three times in their lives, and every time, Stannis always looked like he was swallowing a lemon.
"I am well, Your Grace," answered Stannis stiffly. His voice was flat, without intonation of pleasantries. "Thank you for asking."
"You are ten and three namedays now?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"A good age. An age to start shouldering responsibility," said Rhaegar, trying to find an opening. "Are you enjoying the capital?"
Stannis hesitated for a moment, as if weighing between honesty and politeness. "This city... is crowded, Your Grace. And the smell is strong."
Rhaegar laughed a little, a sincere laugh this time. Brutal honesty. "Yes, King's Landing does indeed have a distinctive aroma. You must get used to it, or you must learn to hold your breath."
Stannis only nodded, not joining in the laughter. He gave a thin smile again.
"Well, we will not disturb your time any longer, Your Grace," said Steffon, sensing the awkwardness. He patted his son's shoulder. "There are still many other Lords who want to curry favor in front of you. We will take our leave."
"Thank you, Lord Steffon. Stannis."
They bowed. Steffon with casual grace, Stannis with undoubted precision.
Rhaegar watched them go, merging back into the sea of smiling and whispering faces. He saw Steffon embrace Stannis's shoulder, whispering something that made the boy relax a little.
There was a feeling of envy that suddenly pierced Rhaegar's heart. A normal father and son relationship. Something he never had, and would never have.
He sighed a long sigh, driving away the existing thoughts.
TYWIN
"Catelyn and Jaime are very suitable, My Lord. Truly, I cannot think of a more matching pair in all the Seven Kingdoms."
Hoster Tully's voice sounded warm and friendly, a little too loud in Tywin's ears, full of the enthusiasm of a father who had just secured the best deal of his life, or perhaps a merchant who had just sold his wares at a high price. The man smiled broadly beneath his thick reddish-brown mustache, his eyes twinkling, reflecting the light of thousands of candles illuminating the Great Hall of the Red Keep tonight.
Tywin Lannister stood before him, his posture perfectly erect. He held a goblet of water with a steady yet relaxed grip.
"That is good," Tywin answered flatly, his voice calm, lacking the emotional intonation Hoster might have expected. "As future husband and wife, it is only proper for them to understand each other early on. Marriage is an alliance, Lord Tully, not just the union of two bodies. Their compatibility can help and complement each other in managing Casterly Rock in the future."
Hoster nodded in agreement quickly, as if afraid of losing momentum. "Exactly, Lord Tywin. Catelyn... she is a bright girl. She was educated to be a Lady since she could walk. She knows her duty. She knows how to manage a household, how to support her husband. And Jaime... ah, your son is an extraordinary young man."
Tywin listened, or at least appeared to listen, giving small nods at the right moments, but most of his mental capacity was elsewhere.
His mind was currently slightly filled with disorder, a rare and unpleasant sensation he hated. Tywin Lannister liked order. He liked control. And right now, he felt his grip on the reins of the kingdom slightly... loosening.
The cause was Rhaegar Targaryen.
His memory drifted to the recent event, inside the King's gloomy and dust-smelling solar. Rhaegar had just rejected his suggestion to replace the Commander of the City Watch and several other key officials with Lannister men.
The rejection itself was not surprising; a young King often wanted to show his authority, scratching his territorial post like a young cat. What surprised Tywin was the way Rhaegar did it.
He did not get angry or accuse like Aerys in his final days. He did not give stupid emotional reasons or hide behind poetic vagueness. Rhaegar rejected him calmly, logically, and firmly. That purple gaze did not waver.
The New King did not want the Lannisters to hold too much control in King's Landing as it would trigger rifts and jealousy among the other Lords. It was a smart argument.
But, Tywin did not expect Rhaegar to say it so blatantly. Usually, the boy, as he knew him before, a gentle figure, would only reject Tywin's advice subtly, perhaps by citing ancient history or saying that 'the time was not yet right'.
But yesterday's development was something else. There was steel behind that silk. There was something sharp behind that handsome face.
Interesting, thought Tywin, sipping his water a little to wet his lips. He is not just a puppet king who will obey everyone's wishes, it seems.
That could be an asset. A strong King could stabilize a kingdom fractured post-Duskendale, which in turn would benefit business, trade, and wealth. Stability was good for gold. But, it could also be a disaster if that 'strength' turned into stubbornness. If Rhaegar was just going to be another Aerys, who viewed wise counsel as a threat to his ego and sincere help as an attempt to seize power, then Tywin had to prepare for a long, exhausting, and dangerous game.
He could not let history repeat itself. He would not let House Lannister be sidelined again after everything he had built.
He had to quickly find a new way to control, or at least direct, the boy. If Rhaegar closed the front door to Tywin's political influence, then Tywin had to enter through the window.
Tywin's eyes shifted momentarily from Hoster's still-smiling face, searching for his son's figure in the glittering crowd. Jaime.
The boy stood near a pillar, talking with Arthur Dayne. Jaime looked relaxed, confident. He had access to Rhaegar's closed heart. Rhaegar trusted him. Rhaegar considered him a friend.
I will let him stay here, decided Tywin internally, a new strategy forming in his mind.
The initial plan was to bring Jaime home to Casterly Rock after the coronation to prepare him as heir fully and begin his marriage with Catelyn. He wanted Jaime to finish training with his uncle there, then learn to manage the mines and the port. But the situation had changed. King's Landing was the main stage now. If Tywin could not whisper reason into Rhaegar's ear directly due to political suspicion, then Jaime could do it as a 'best friend'. Jaime could be the anchor that kept Rhaegar grounded, and kept him close to Lannister interests. Jaime could be Tywin's eyes and ears in the King's inner circle, a place where even the Hand of the King was forbidden to enter.
Tywin shifted his gaze back to the party room, to the sea of fake smiling faces.
King's Landing was heating up, far different from the surface that looked full of laughter, music, and wine. Everyone here, Tyrell, Martell, Stark, Arryn, was racking their respective brains.
They were like sharks smelling blood in the water. Aerys's death and the rise of a young King who was not yet officially married had triggered their greedy lusts. They were looking for advantages they could gain in the future. Positions in the Small Council that might be vacant, port tax cuts, trading rights, and of course, the biggest prize of all: the Queen's crown.
It was sickening. They did not know their place. They thought they were equal to the Lion just because they were invited to the party. They thought they could fill the void left by Aerys. Tywin had to be able to show where they belonged. That the throne might belong to Dragons, but its foundation was built by Lannisters.
"...and Catelyn loves Riverrun very much, but I am sure she will fall in love with Lannisport," Hoster was still talking, unaware that Tywin's mind had wandered all over the political map of Westeros. "She loves the sound of water."
"That is good," replied Tywin, returning to the conversation. "As future husband and wife, it is only proper for them to understand each other. I will ensure Jaime treats her with the respect worthy of a daughter of House Tully. We Lannisters always pay our debts, and that includes our obligations to family."
"Ah, those words," Hoster chuckled. "Always soothing to hear."
Tywin swirled his cup gently, the ripples of water inside reflecting the candlelight. In the corner of his sharp eye, he detected movement near the main dais.
Rhaegar, who stood alone with a distinctive aura, as if he were the only person grieving, was just approached.
Lord Luthor Tyrell and his wife, Lady Olenna.
Tywin did not need to hear a single word to understand what was happening. Olenna's body language told everything, leaning forward aggressively yet gracefully, a smile too sweet like poisonous honey, a hand pointing vaguely towards a group of young girls in the distance.
In short, the Tyrells were selling. And their merchandise was an unmarried daughter. Janna Tyrell.
Tywin snorted softly inside, barely visible. He had once considered the girl for Jaime a few years ago, before he chose Catelyn. Janna was beautiful, had good hips for childbearing, and Highgarden was wealthy. It would have been a strong alliance.
However, at that time he thought of Aerys. Aerys would have viewed the union of Lannister and Tyrell, the two greatest wealths in the kingdom, as an existential threat to his throne. It was too risky.
Because of that consideration, the Tyrell option did not materialize. Instead, the Heir of Casterly Rock was now betrothed to the daughter of the man currently before him, Hoster Tully.
And now, Olenna was trying to sell her 'unsold' merchandise to the King. Trying to place a Tyrell rose in a dragon's bed.
Good luck, thought Tywin cynically. You will only tire your mouth.
"Yes, time will bring them closer," Hoster spoke again, breaking Tywin's analysis once more. The Lord Tully truly could not read the atmosphere or realize that his interlocutor's attention was divided. However, the next sentence caught Tywin's attention completely.
"By the way, Lord Tywin," said Hoster, his tone turning more business-like. "I have sent orders to my vassals."
Tywin turned, giving a full stare this time. His green eyes narrowed slightly. "Oh? What orders?"
"To plant hemp in large quantities," continued Hoster proudly, puffing out his chest a little. "We have all seen the benefits of your papers. The Maester at Riverrun does not stop praising it. And that seems to make the lords think about it quickly. I want the Riverlands to be the main supplier of the raw material. Our lands are fertile and wet, suitable for that fiber plant."
Tywin's lips thinned into a straight line which, to those who knew him very well, was a rare sign of approval. Almost resembling a smile.
Good, he thought. Very good.
With the Riverlands dedicating part of their farmland to supply raw materials en masse, the main obstacle to paper production in Lannisport, which was consistent raw material supply, would not slow down for now. Jaime needed raw materials in giant quantities if he wanted to meet the demand of all Westeros, and Tywin needed a stable supply chain that did not depend on imports of used rags from Essos or middlemen who took profits.
"You did well, Lord Tully," praised Tywin, and this time, the praise was sincere, though his voice remained flat. "That initiative will be very profitable for both of us. I am glad to hear it. Ensure the quality is maintained."
"Of course, of course," Hoster nodded quickly, his face beaming from being praised. "I will oversee the harvest myself."
In the distance, over Hoster's shoulder, Tywin saw Lady Olenna laughing, a laugh that looked polite but her eyes did not join in the smile. She bowed excusing herself from Rhaegar, followed by her husband who looked confused as usual. The Queen of Thorns' face looked calm, but Tywin could see a slight stiffness in her jaw. A tension in her shoulders.
Rejected.
Rhaegar did not accept her offer.
One competitor down, noted Tywin with cold satisfaction.
Rhaegar returned to being alone for a moment, drinking his wine with a distant gaze.
Then, another figure approached. A larger, warmer figure.
Steffon Baratheon.
Tywin observed his childhood friend greeting Rhaegar with a familiarity that made several other Lords hold their breath. Steffon laughed, a sound that could be heard even from this distance, and Rhaegar, for the first time tonight, looked a little relaxed. A sincere smile appeared on the King's face.
Tywin's eyes narrowed. He sipped his water again, letting the cold liquid soothe his racing mind.
He had to ensure Jaime did his job well. Rhaegar's friendship must not be obstructed by anyone.
"It seems tonight will be long," muttered Tywin, more to himself than to Hoster.
"A lively party, indeed," commented Hoster, misinterpreting Tywin's tone.
"Very," replied Tywin hollowly.
...
The 'feast' was still ongoing in the Great Hall, a noisy show of ambition where wine flowed as heavily as false praise. But for Tywin Lannister, the spectacle had lost its utility for tonight. He had seen what he needed to see, heard what he needed to hear, and made his presence felt long enough.
He excused himself without fanfare, leaving the sickening hustle of music and laughter behind.
Jaime was at his side, leaving the celebration without the slightest hesitation. His son followed with steady and silent steps, his footsteps on the stone floor sounding rhythmic, synchronized with Tywin's steps.
They passed through the long and drafty corridors of the Red Keep. Cold stone walls were illuminated by rows of candles in iron sconces embedded in the walls. The candle flames flickered slightly from the night wind sneaking in through window cracks, creating dancing shadows on their faces.
The silence in the corridor felt heavy, but it was the kind of silence Tywin liked. Silence that gave room to think, to plan, to dissect the chaos they had just left.
"You saw it, didn't you?" Tywin said in a low tone, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind, so only the two of them could hear in the empty hallway.
Jaime turned, his face calm under the dim light.
"In circumstances like this, it is inevitable, Father," answered Jaime, without a tone of surprise. "Everyone wants to see how much luck they have. The King's death is unfortunate, but it also makes people flock to reach for something."
"And that cannot be allowed," said Tywin firmly.
They arrived in front of a thick wooden door, where Tywin worked. The Lannister guards at the door straightened up and opened the door quickly upon seeing their lord.
Tywin stepped inside, followed by Jaime.
The room was familiar. Tywin walked towards the hearth where the embers were still glowing dimly. He turned, staring at his son who now stood in the middle of the room.
"The current King might look solid," continued Tywin, connecting his thoughts. "Rhaegar has good posture and a face that makes the smallfolk cry with emotion. But if he is constantly battered relentlessly by offers, flattery, and pressure from all directions, wavering will be inevitable. His foundation is not yet established. You, Jaime, must ensure he stays on the right path."
Jaime closed the door behind him, locking out the outside world. He walked closer, his face showing a hint of boredom.
"What else am I doing right now?" asked Jaime. "Rhaegar won't trust people that quickly. He is an emotional man, yes, he feels too deeply, but he is also not stupid."
Tywin stared at him for a moment, assessing. Then sat on the high-backed chair behind his desk, the position that always made him feel most in control. Jaime followed, taking the chair opposite him.
"We must accelerate our plans," said Tywin, his fingers interlocked on the table. "I will make Rhaegar announce the betrothal to Cersei as soon as possible. This can no longer be delayed. The longer he remains single, the bolder other Lords will be in offering their daughters. We must close that door permanently."
Jaime nodded, not arguing. He knew the urgency.
And after that, thought Tywin, after the blood tie was secured through marriage, he would have the freedom to focus on other things.
Tywin's eyes returned to stare at Jaime. He did not see a boy of ten and one namedays. He saw an asset. An asset that perhaps he had underutilized fully until now.
The boy and Maester Creylen who helped him, always had good ideas. Ideas that initially sounded ridiculous or trivial, but ultimately proved to yield gold and undeniable strategic advantages.
Tywin realized, with a hint of discomfort he rarely admitted, that he had never truly asked what was inside his son's mind in depth.
First because of ego. He was Tywin Lannister. He had ruled the Seven Kingdoms while Aerys played with his fantasies. He did not want to be seen as a stupid or weak person for having to ask a small child's opinion. A father dictates, not asks. A Hand gives orders, not seeks advice from a teenager.
But facts were facts. Paper. The printing press. The compass. Schools.
All of that had been proven. Paper had revolutionized administration and given Casterly Rock a new power whose value could rival their gold mines in the long run. The compass gave a naval advantage no one else possessed yet.
Perhaps, thought Tywin while staring into his son's green eyes, it was time to erode that ego slowly. Results were more important than personal pride.
The second reason was time. Serving Aerys was a full-time job that drained the soul. Guarding his own kingdom required Tywin's every attention. And Jaime was at Casterly Rock, far in the West.
But now... now the situation was different.
Aerys was dead. That burden had been lifted. Rhaegar, although needing guidance, was at least still safe.
And Jaime was here. In King's Landing. Sitting right before him.
Tywin made a decision in silence. He would let the boy stay in the capital. He would not send him home to manage Casterly Rock just yet. Kevan could manage the Rock.
Jaime was more useful here. Not just as a King tamer, but as a thinker of the future.
Tywin would start making time. He would start digging into the boy's head, mining his strange ideas like mining a new vein of gold at Casterly Rock. He wanted to know what else Jaime could create. Farming tools? New economic systems? Construction?
Or, a weapon?