Chapter 1043 - Jamie lanister SI

The sun had not yet fully revealed its light, but the sky above King's Landing had transformed into a mesmerizing canvas. Deep purple slowly faded, mingling with soft sweeps of orange in the east, signaling a shy dawn. The morning air bit at the skin, cold and damp, carrying the salty scent of the sea.

Jaime Lannister walked through the Red Keep's inner garden, his footsteps light on the stone path. Around him, morning dew still sat on every leaf of the vines and the petals of unbloomed roses, glittering like fragile little jewels. He touched one of the leaves as he passed, feeling the cold water on his fingertip, a tangible sensation that helped him banish the remnants of sleep.

His eyes still felt heavy, his eyelids fighting against drowsiness. His body, though young and strong, protested at being woken before its time. However, Steven's mind within him knew that discipline was key. He could not let himself be lulled by the luxury of a featherbed, not when the world around him was in the midst of great change.

Though dawn was just breaking, the Red Keep was already awake. This castle never truly slept, especially now, approaching the King's funeral and the coronation of his successor.

Jaime passed through the busy stone corridors. Servants hurried here and there like hardworking ants. They carried stacks of linen sheets that looked soft and pure white, thick velvet blankets to replace dirty ones, as well as silver trays containing breakfast, warm bread with steam rising in the cold air, slices of fresh fruit, and pitchers of watered-down wine.

They walked with practiced caution, their eyes fixed on the floor or straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with any nobles who might pass. However, Jaime could see the exhaustion clearly etched on their faces. Dark circles under the eyes, shoulders slightly hunched, and dragging steps. The death of a King meant not only grief for the kingdom, but also endless hard work for those who served behind the scenes. Black mourning cloth had to be installed in every window, dust had to be cleaned doubly so, and food had to be prepared for the hundreds of highborn guests flooding the capital.

Jaime gave way to a serving girl carrying a stack of towels, who looked startled and almost dropped her load upon seeing a Lannister step aside for her. Jaime just gave her a thin smile and continued his stride.

He arrived at the training yard. The place was still quiet, there were only a few guards changing shifts in the distance, yawning widely. The ground in the yard was packed and sandy, the perfect place to spill sweat.

Jaime ignored the bone-chilling cold of the air. He walked towards the weapon rack, taking a heavy wooden practice sword. The wood was old, full of scratches from thousands of previous blows, yet the hilt felt familiar and comfortable in his palm.

He began to warm up. Movements rotating his shoulders, stretching his arms, feeling his stiff muscles start to loosen. Jaime Lannister's body was a biological miracle, Steven thought. In his old life, he had to struggle hard just to stay fit. Here, this body responded to every exercise with rapid muscle growth and sharp reflexes. This was a body created for war.

He stepped closer to the straw dummy standing mute in the center of the yard.

Hup.

He swung his sword. Wood clashed with dense straw.

Jaime struck again. And again. He did not do it with complex technique or full speed. He was not trying to show off his skills to the morning ghosts. This was just morning exercise, a ritual to wake his blood. A horizontal strike to the ribs. An upward parry. A thrust to the neck.

His movements were fluid, repetitive, and meditative.

His final blow was hard, making the straw dummy spin on its axis.

Jaime took a step back, his breath hitching slightly. A thin sweat began to coat his forehead and neck, a warm layer protecting him from the morning air. He wiped his face with his sleeve, feeling his strong pulse in his neck. His energy was drained a little, but his mind was clear.

He put the practice sword back on the rack. Then he walked again, this time towards the inside of the castle. Then he saw someone.

Arthur Dayne.

The Sword of the Morning looked... fine, at least physically. His body was sturdy, his posture perfect like an illustration of a knight in a storybook. An aura of quiet confidence radiated from him, a natural charisma that made people want to follow him into battle. However, Jaime, who had learned to read people better than reading books, saw fine cracks there.

Arthur's face had become more serious than the last time they met. There was a slight furrow in the center of his forehead, parallel to his brows, the sign of someone who frowned too much or thought too much. His eyes, though sharp, looked tired.

He wore white armor that gleamed clean, polished to brilliance, and a white cloak that fell neatly on his shoulders. Arthur was walking, seemingly about to enter the castle, perhaps to start his watch shift or having just finished it.

Jaime did not call him. He just stood there, leaning casually against a pillar. Waiting for the person to realize his presence.

A few seconds later, Arthur's eyes shifted. His gaze swept the yard, then stopped on Jaime's figure.

There was a moment of recognition. The tension in Arthur's shoulders lowered slightly. The corners of his stiff lips slowly formed an upward curve, a smile that was genuine though small. He changed the direction of his steps, walking faster towards Jaime.

"You look like a child lost in a crowd, standing alone here," Arthur greeted, his voice deep and warm. "When did you arrive?"

"A week ago," Jaime replied with a light joking tone. "I am disappointed that you guys did not notice. Joking. I just arrived yesterday. I spent more time in the bedchamber, passing out from exhaustion due to the journey."

Arthur nodded, accepting the explanation. He then took a step back, looking Jaime up and down with the assessing gaze of a veteran soldier.

"You are growing quite fast, apparently," Arthur commented, there was a tone of admiration in his voice. "What have you been eating these years at Casterly Rock? Gold?"

Jaime chuckled. "Maybe a cow every day? Who knows? The cooks at Casterly Rock are very enthusiastic." He straightened his body, trying to stand as tall as possible. "What is clear, I might surpass your current height in another year. And when that happens, I will call you 'Short Arthur'."

"Daydreaming is not good, Lad," Arthur snorted with amusement, shaking his head. "Height does not guarantee victory. But even if that happens, I will still kick your arse in the training yard anytime. Technique beats size."

"Well, about that I have no doubt," Jaime admitted with a laugh. "Dawn has a cheating reach."

Their laughter subsided, leaving a comfortable silence between two people who respected each other. Arthur gestured with his head.

"Come with me. We cannot talk in the middle of an open field."

They began walking side by side, towards the interior of the castle. They passed several servants and courtiers who bowed respectfully upon seeing the white cloak of the Kingsguard. Arthur's armor jingled softly, a constant metallic rhythm.

As they entered a quieter area, Arthur asked with a tone that sounded light but Jaime knew was serious. "Have you met Rhaegar?"

"No," Jaime answered honestly. "Besides my family, my father who is busy arranging the kingdom, you are the only one I know whom I have just met this morning." He turned to the side, looking at Arthur's face. "How is he?"

Arthur's pace did not slow, but his shoulders tensed. He let out a long sigh, a sound that sounded heavy.

"Physically healthy," Arthur replied. "He was not injured in Duskendale. But mentally?" Arthur shook his head slowly. "He is a mess, Jaime. A real mess."

Jaime was silent, letting Arthur continue.

"He has not smiled for these few months. Not once," Arthur continued, his voice lowering. "Since that incident... since he saw his father's corpse... he withdrew. He does his duty, yes. He signs documents, he plans the funeral, he meets the Small Council. But his eyes are empty. His mourning period has not passed, and I doubt it will happen anytime soon. Guilt is eating him alive."

"Losing someone precious would make anyone like that," Jaime said quietly.

His mind drifted for a moment. Jaime, or rather Steven, remembered the original memories of this body. The memory of Joanna Lannister. His mother's death. The memory of a small child losing his world was still imprinted on Jaime's brain, sharp and painful, even though Steven himself did not feel the same emotional grief because he never really knew the woman. But he remembered the emptiness little Jaime felt. He remembered how Tywin turned to stone.

"I have experienced it too," added Jaime. "Grief is like a fog. You can get lost inside it."

"True," Arthur agreed. "But Rhaegar is not just a son who lost a father. He is the King who will be crowned. And the kingdom... the kingdom cannot wait for him continuously like this."

They began to climb the wide stone stairs.

"The Lords have gathered," Arthur said, a tone of frustration starting to leak into his voice. "They are like vultures. They smell blood and weakness. They will not care whether Rhaegar is still mourning or not, they demand attention, decisions, and favoritism. Rhaegar must do his duty, or they will start eating each other."

Jaime looked at the hall they entered. On the walls hung portraits of past kings, oil-painted eyes staring at them arrogantly.

"Therefore," Jaime said, formulating his thoughts, "I think he must voice his thoughts more. He cannot keep everything to himself. He must ask for other people's opinions, discuss, argue. About kingdom matters, of course, but also about what he feels. Isolation is the worst enemy for a grieving person."

Arthur snorted roughly. "Many people have tried. Even Lord Commander Gerold tried giving him military advice to distract him."

Then Arthur turned to Jaime with a serious look.

"But as you probably know, and as you see yourself in this court... there are many people who care more about themselves. They do not want to help Rhaegar; they want to control Rhaegar. They want to be the voice in the new King's ear. Rhaegar knows that. That is why he closed himself off. He does not trust anyone."

"Except you," Jaime said.

"Except me," Arthur admitted. "And maybe Jon Connington. But we are soldiers, Jaime. We can protect him from swords, but we cannot protect him from his own thoughts. We do not understand his music, his books, or his complicated sadness."

They arrived at a long, heavily guarded corridor. At the end of the corridor was a large double wooden door. The Prince's room. Or now, the King's room.

Arthur stopped in front of the door. He turned to face Jaime fully.

"That is why I am glad you are here," Arthur said, his voice sincere. "You are different, Jaime. You understand that side of him. The artistic side, the feeling side. He needs a friend who can talk about things other than taxes and war. He needs someone who can remind him that there is still beauty in this world."

Jaime felt the burden of that responsibility. He was not a psychiatrist, but he had been a teacher. He knew how to handle children, and a few troubled adults.

"I will try, Arthur," Jaime said. "I do not promise miracles, but I will try to make him talk."

"That is already more than enough."

Arthur turned to face the door. Ignoring the other guards. He raised his hand encased in a steel gauntlet, then knocked on the thick wood with his knuckles.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound of the knock echoed in the silent corridor, a request to enter the fortress of grief.

The two of them entered the room which smelled of fragrant flowers, inside it was very tidy, and the faintly shimmering morning light, making it suitable to be a moment for a painting that would hang on the wall. Arthur walked first preceding Jaime, they walked a few steps before finding Rhaegar sitting on a sofa, on the table, there was a lot of food and also fragrant tea.

The Prince raised an eyebrow upon seeing Jaime, then smiled, although his eyes were a little tired, he stood up, opened his arms and embraced Jaime. Jaime was certainly a little surprised, but returned it and patted the Prince's shoulder gently a few times. When they separated, there, Rhaegar smiled.

"You've grown quite tall."

…

JAIME | ROBERT​

"You've grown quite tall." Rhaegar grinned, a glint dancing in his eyes.

Jaime shrugged, a gesture perhaps lacking in courtesy before a Crown Prince, or rather, the new King. Yet in this moment, within these lavender-scented chambers, they were but old friends long parted.

"Arthur said much the same. You too look older, Your Grace."

The words slipped out easily enough, yet Jaime's mind outpaced his tongue. Of course he looks older, Jaime thought. The weight of the Iron Throne had scarce just fallen upon his brow. The Rhaegar before him was no longer merely the melancholy Dragon Prince with his silver harp; he was the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

Laughing, a sound melodious yet weary, Rhaegar patted Jaime upon the shoulder. "You have a glib tongue. With your height and your bearing, one might mistake you for something other than a lad of ten-and-one name days."

Rhaegar's touch was warm, human. He released him, glancing at Arthur who stood rigid as a statue by the window. "Come, sit. I feel a discourteous host for not offering it sooner."

They moved towards the velvet settees that circled a low table. The chamber was bathed in soft sunlight, a stark contrast to the shadow of death that hung over the Red Keep.

"How do you fare?" Rhaegar asked as they took their seats.

With a graceful wave of his hand, he bade a serving girl, young and nervous, to pour for them. The scent of soothing herbal tea wafted up, displacing the smell of steel and road dust that seemed to cling to Jaime still.

"Well. Hale and hearty." Jaime smiled, a smile practised to seem sincere whilst maintaining a respectful distance. "As you know, I squire for Ser Tygett now. He is a fine knight, and teaches me much."

Jaime sipped his tea. Hot, and bitter. Tygett Lannister was a hard uncle, a man who believed pain to be the best teacher. Yet for Jaime, the lessons were potent; he had felt the proof of them already.

"Like scouring armour and grooming horses?" Rhaegar chuckled, the clink of his teacup mingling with his soft laughter. There was a touch of nostalgia there, as if Rhaegar yearned for days when his heaviest burden was but rust upon a breastplate.

"Like scouring armour and grooming horses," Jaime confirmed with a feigned flatness, then lowered his voice, allowing the air to grow grave. He set down his cup slowly. Drawing a breath, he looked directly into Rhaegar's indigo eyes. "I... I grieve for what has passed, Your Grace."

Silence.

The chamber grew still, as if the very air held its breath. The song of birds beyond the window seemed distant. Arthur, cup in hand, paused, his sharp eyes fixing upon Jaime for a heartbeat before returning to Rhaegar.

Rhaegar smiled, a brittle thing. It was the smile of a man seeking to convince himself that all was well. Then the corners of his lips lifted further, though his eyes remained shadowed.

"Such events are unforeseen, are they not? So sudden. Though we suspected something amiss with Darklyn and his insolence in refusing the taxes, yet what came to pass... Father's death... that was beyond all reckoning."

Jaime nodded slowly, tapping a finger against the back of his left hand.

Aye, beyond all reckoning indeed, Jaime thought. In the true course of time, Aerys should have survived the Defiance of Duskendale. He should have been rescued by Barristan Selmy, returned to King's Landing, to grow madder, paranoid, and finally to burn men alive with wildfire.

"Aye, the King is gone. That cannot be undone." Jaime looked at him, ensuring his voice was firm and filled with empathy. "But we can make the days to come better. His legacy rests with you now, Your Grace."

It is the realm I speak of, Jaime thought loudly in his head, praying that Rhaegar had not inherited the taint. Please, be a sane Rhaegar. Be the King the people have yearned for.

Jaime watched Rhaegar, searching for signs of the taint. But all he saw was the sorrow of a son.

Sighing long, Rhaegar leaned back against the settee. He seemed younger as the burden lifted a trifle through plain speaking. He laughed softly, a sound brittle yet resolved.

"Aye, I shall honour my father in my own fashion. I shall ensure that what comes from him, what comes from this throne henceforth, is good. I cannot let the shadow of his death haunt me for all time."

Rhaegar's fingers drummed absently upon the table, as if plucking the strings of an unseen harp.

"That is the spirit," Arthur said suddenly from beside them, smiling. The voice of the Sword of the Morning was deep and soothing, an anchor for Rhaegar's tumultuous emotions. Arthur set down his cup and gazed at his friend and King with a look of unwavering loyalty. "And you have us, Rhaegar. You shall not build that future alone."

"The realm has need of healing," Jaime added, emboldened. "And I deem the smallfolk would sooner see their King smile than see him mourn the past within these stone walls."

Rhaegar looked at Jaime, his gaze softening. "You speak true, Jaime. You speak true." ...

...

Robert Baratheon slumped on the too-soft velvet sofa in the parlor of the House Arryn guest residence. He swirled his silver goblet in frustration. He was a simple man, with simple desires: abundant good food, sweet wine that could make him forget his own name, and most important of all, beautiful women with crisp laughter.

But at this moment, in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, he could enjoy none of those pleasures.

Jon Arryn, that dull old man, had delivered a lengthy sermon this morning. "It would be highly disrespectful to visit a brothel while the realm is still in mourning, Robert," he had said in a fatherly tone that made Robert's ears ring. "We are here to attend the King's funeral, not to sate your lusts."

Robert could only roll his eyes inwardly at it all. He didn't even want to be here! By the Seven, the air in this city was thick with sticky despair and a suffocating gloom, exceeding even the long face of Ned Stark, who currently sat silently beside him like an ice statue from the North.

He did not know the king. He had certainly met him when he was very small, when his father, Lord Steffon, brought him to court. But Robert remembered nothing but the shadow of a silver-haired man laughing too loudly. He knew the stories, of course. Robert knew that his father had been best friends with King Aerys and Tywin Lannister when the three of them were still cute little boys. An inseparable trio.

But the friendships of the past did not make the boredom of the present any more bearable. It was still infuriating to know that he could not do what he wanted, even though the brothels were only a few feet away, calling his name with promises of warmth.

Robert sighed, a sound more like the grunt of a hungry bear. He downed his wine once more, letting the acidic liquid burn his throat.

In the room, Jon Arryn was reading a scroll with a furrowed brow. Eddard Stark sat upright, his hands folded, his eyes staring blankly at the unlit fireplace. Elbert Arryn, Jon's nephew, was not there. The poor lad had been languishing in the privy since morning because he had eaten stale clams or some such thing at the harbor. His stomach had been rumbling all day like a toad in mating season. Pity him, having such a weak stomach. Robert could eat iron and drink poison without issue.

"How long are we going to sit still like this? It's stifling!" Robert slammed his goblet onto the table furiously, making the wine splash a little.

"You just have to be patient, Robert," Ned said quietly. On his gloomy face, Robert could see a hint of amusement, an expression that made him want to punch this Stark boy. "Besides, this is good for you. You can use this time to train with the knights in the yard."

"I've done that," Robert grumbled, ignoring the awkwardness. "They are embarrassing. Claiming to be knights, yet possessing not a shred of strength. Yesterday, I recall I used only a little force when swinging a blunt sword, and one of them was pushed back several steps and fell into the mud. Annoying. They fight like dancers, not warriors."

"Do not cause unnecessary trouble, Robert. Control yourself when in public territory," Jon Arryn warned without lifting his face from the letter, his voice calm but firm as if he were speaking to a naughty child.

"Trouble would be better than watching the mutes out there..." Robert muttered softly, staring out the window.

Aye, mutes. In the streets, in the corridors, in the markets. They whispered from ear to ear about Duskendale, yet no one dared say it aloud.

The King is dead. Rhaegar is too soft.

That is what they said. Indeed, if one thought about it, why did Rhaegar only hang the people who killed his father? Denys Darklyn and his mad wife died quickly. Too quickly. If it were Robert... if it were Robert whose father was mutilated and left to die in such an unforgivable way, he would not have given them a clean death. He would have mutilated them finger by finger, burned them slowly, and ensured their screams were heard all the way to Storm's End!

The Darklyn family was finished. The children of the House associated with the rebellion had been sent to the Wall or handed over to the Silent Sisters. This was actually something Robert wouldn't even be angry about. He was hard, but he wasn't a monster. Killing children who understood nothing was a very cruel act, even for him. No need to add useless fuel to the fire of hatred any further.

"People are whispering outside, you know?" Robert frowned, twirling his empty goblet. "Rhaegar this, Rhaegar that. They all seem to have nothing more important to talk about than how sad Rhaegar is."

"It is natural," Jon said finally, putting down his letter. He looked at Robert and Ned with the gaze of a weary man. "A situation like this is very shaking for the realm. The final result was very unexpected. When the initial news that the King was held by Darklyn reached my ears, I was very sure that the King would remain alive. Because there was no way Darklyn would dare kill him."

"Darklyn indeed didn't kill him in the end," Robert chuckled cynically. "Barristan the Fool did it. The foolish hero who wanted to be a legend."

"And that resulted in the total destruction of the Dun Fort," Ned nodded in agreement. "Duskendale now has no Lord. The land is scorched."

"Who would want to lead a destroyed and cursed land?" snorted Robert.

"The Dun Fort is indeed in ruins, but the town of Duskendale isn't quite destroyed. The harbor is still intact, the outskirts of the town still remain and are populated. That is what I heard," Ned corrected. Of course, he always corrected. Starks and their cold facts. Damn it.

"That is why Prince Rhaegar is said to be too soft by some," Jon sighed, leaning his back. "He destroyed his Lord's family, but he let the town live. And you know what happens if we have a king who is considered too soft at the start of his reign?"

"It means the King will be weak," Robert answered quickly, refilling his own goblet. "And the lords will try to bite him."

"Aye. And a weak King will always be consumed by whispers entering through his ears," Jon explained. "There are many now doing just that. They try to speak with Rhaegar, slipping in false sympathy. Especially when they all know that Rhaegar is unmarried. They try to offer their daughters." Jon laughed lightly, a dry laugh. "Also, Queen Rhaella. She cannot be overlooked of course. The Dowager Queen will have great influence."

Ned scratched his dull brown hair, looking deep in thought. "But everything they do will be in vain, will it not? People here must already be aware. The Hand of the King... Tywin Lannister must have offered his own daughter to the Prince long ago. And now that King Aerys is gone, who can stop him?"

"But there is no harm in trying." Jon tapped his finger on the wooden table. "Everyone has a chance in this matter. Those whispers will play their part even if only a little, perhaps able to influence the Prince if done continuously. People have feared House Lannister growing too strong lately. They see Tywin as a shadow too large for the new King. They will try to stop him; they already know what Tywin Lannister's reputation is like."

"I heard that the Lannisters made a 'school' for children in Lannisport," Ned added, his face full of curiosity. "It raised many eyebrows, though they quite didn't care. Except maybe the Citadel. The Citadel does not like it if they are not the only place of learning in existence."

"It's just for children, Ned. Learning to count coins. They need not worry," Robert shrugged, not understanding why people made a fuss about trivial things like schools. What mattered were swords and courage, not books.

Jon shook his head, his face serious. "Do not underestimate it, Robert. Right now it is indeed just for children. But later? It is not impossible they will create something the same as the Citadel. The Lannisters have unlimited resources. Their gold can buy teachers, books, and buildings. Whether it be a few years, or decades from now, it will happen. A new center of knowledge in the West."

"Aye," Ned agreed again. "Jaime Lannister is the one behind all this. I heard he started it. The Gods know where a child our age got the idea about making paper and that printing press. It is not impossible that in the future he will create something else, something never thought of by the Maesters for thousands of years. It creates cracks in the people's belief who have all this time thought that the Citadel is the only source of truth."

"He got it from the Seven," Robert whispered dramatically, mimicking the gossip he heard in the taverns. Then realizing Jon and Ned were looking at him with a 'you fool' look, he coughed. "I mean, the people here say that! The smallfolk! Did you not see that the first thing printed by him was The Seven-Pointed Star?! The holy book!"

Jon shook his head again. "That is the most probable action to be taken by anyone intelligent who first created such a tool. Jaime Lannister... he is no prophet. He is strategic. He aims for support from the Faith. It will increase the support he receives and become a shield if he is rejected or attacked by the Citadel. Who would dare forbid the one printing the words of the Gods?"

"Still, it doesn't stop some people from calling him a 'prodigy'," Robert snorted, feeling a bit envious. People talked more about that Lannister boy than about him.

Damn, he was dizzy with this conversation. Politics, schools, printing presses, marriage strategies. It all made him sick. He came here to see the world, not to sit inside a room and argue like old maesters.

Robert drank more of his wine in several large gulps. One. Two. Three.

Warmth spread through his belly, blurring his boredom slightly. He felt refreshed again. He filled his goblet more, until it almost spilled, and drank it in one draft.

"I want to go out," Robert said flatly.

He stood up, his muscles stretching under his thick tunic. He felt a bit stiff in his back and legs from sitting too long on that too-soft sofa. The sofa might be comfortable for Jon Arryn's old arse or Ned Stark's skinny arse, but for Robert, it was like a trap slowly swallowing him.

"When will your family arrive, Ned?" asked Robert while cracking his neck until it popped. "They will miss the funeral. Even though we will only be burying ashes. But still, it is the main event."

Ned lifted his face, his expression calm like a frozen lake. "The North is very far, Robert. The roads are hard to pass during the rainy season. What is certain is they will be here when the coronation ceremony begins. My father would not miss swearing fealty to the new King."

"Good," muttered Robert. "At least there will be more faces that don't look like they've just swallowed a lemon."

He stepped towards the door, his hands already itching to hold something real, horse reins, a sword hilt, or at least a door handle.

"Where are you going?" asked Ned.

"To see my brother," Robert answered, half-lying. "I prefer listening to Stannis grumble about duty and obligation than talking about marriage politics and these children's schools. At least Stannis is consistent."

He snorted softly. Thinking about it again, Stannis never really rambled. He was as serious as Eddard Stark, perhaps even worse because he didn't have the brotherly warmth Ned had. Stannis was old, rusted iron, hard and stiff. But at least, if both their parents were here, Stannis wouldn't dare talk about things that made Robert's head hurt. He would just stand there and grind his teeth. That was better than in this room.

Robert didn't wait for their answer. He immediately went out of the room, slamming the door softly behind him.

The corridors of the Red Keep were crowded as usual, but Robert walked with wide strides, making the servants and lowly guards step aside quickly. He was bored of looking at stone walls. He needed air. He needed the smell of horse dung and sweat.

His feet carried him to the outer yard, near the royal stables.

The sun had started to descend, yet the heat still felt like it was baking the dust in the yard. There, activity never stopped. Dozens of horses belonging to guest lords were being tended to. Some were brushed, some fed, some had their shoes changed.

Robert stood at the edge, observing with arms crossed.

Then his eyes caught something else.

There, standing near the wooden fence, was a boy with golden blonde hair. He wore a deep red tunic that was stitched very well, brown leather breeches, and boots that looked expensive yet functional. A small gold lion pin was pinned on his chest, glittering, reflecting the sunlight.

Lannister. That was certain. That hair, those clothes, that quiet arrogance. And if Robert's guess was right, that might be Jaime Lannister, whom Jon and Ned had just discussed.

The boy stood still, completely still, amidst the hustle and bustle of the yard. He wasn't playing at swords with other squires. He wasn't flirting with serving girls. He just stood, his eyes fixed on the scene before him.

Robert frowned. What was he looking at? Horses? Robert followed the direction of the boy's gaze.

In front there, an old horse was being brushed by a scrawny stable boy. The horse was rickety, its coat dull, and one of its legs looked lame. Nothing special.

Robert forgot his intention to look for Stannis. His curiosity, and a bit of annoyance at the Lannister boy's stillness, took over. He strode over to the boy who was shorter than him. His large shadow covered the boy.

"As far as I know, old horses aren't interesting to look at," Robert's voice boomed, deliberately made loud to startle. "Why are you so serious, lad? You look like a Maester examining dragon dung."

Jaime Lannister did not jump. He was not startled. He just turned his head slowly, his face calm, as if he had known Robert was there all along. His green eyes were clear, showing not a shred of fear at Robert's large frame.

"I wasn't looking at the horses," the boy replied calmly, his voice polite but not submissive.

Robert snorted, folding his arms across his chest. "Then what are you doing here? Are you mad? Standing in the middle of the smell of horse shit while daydreaming?"

The boy chuckled. A small laugh that sounded genuine, not a polite, made-up laugh. He looked at Robert again.

"No, I just have a lot on my mind, and sometimes I like to look at simple things to clear my head."

"Clearing your head by staring at rickety horses and tired people?" Robert shook his head, feeling amused and confused at the same time. "You are truly odd. If I wanted to clear my head, I would hit something or drink something. That is more effective."

Jaime smiled thinly. He looked back ahead, pointing with his chin towards the stable boy who was brushing the old horse. The boy was sweating profusely, his face dirty, yet his hands moved with a steady and patient rhythm.

"No, I wasn't watching the horses, My Lord," Jaime said. "I was watching the people. The people taking care of those horses."

Jaime pointed in another direction, where a blacksmith was fitting a horseshoe with a loud clanging hammer.

"Look at them," Jaime continued. "They must be exhausted. Guests have been arriving ceaselessly since a week ago. Thousands of horses, thousands of requests. They work from dawn till night. Their backs ache, their hands blister. But they keep trying. They do not stop. They scrub, they hammer, they feed."

"That is their job," Robert answered flatly, not understanding the point. "They are paid for it. If they stop, they don't eat."

"Exactly," Jaime nodded. He turned to Robert, extending his hand politely. "What is your name? I am Jaime Lannister."

Robert shook the boy's hand. His grip was strong for a child his age, and there were calluses on his palms, a sign that he held a sword, not just a quill. That made Robert respect him a little more.

"Robert Baratheon."

"Well, Lord Robert," said Jaime, releasing their handshake. "That is indeed their job. But do they want it? Not necessarily, right? That boy might want to be a knight. That blacksmith might want to be a sailor."

Jaime sighed softly, his eyes sweeping the busy yard again.

"But the circumstances of the world force their hand. They have no choice. A hungry belly is a cruel master. And seeing them work hard just to survive... it makes me realize."

"Realize what?" asked Robert, starting to feel like he was listening to a sermon at the sept, but strangely, he didn't feel like leaving.

"That I am lucky enough," Jaime said, his voice lowering, without a hint of arrogance. "Very lucky. I was born at Casterly Rock. You were born at Storm's End. We can do whatever we want right now. We can stand here, chatting, while they work until their bones crush. We need not worry about what to eat tomorrow. We have a choice."

Robert fell silent. He looked at the stable boy again. He had never thought of it like that. To him, commoners were... commoners. They were there, like trees or stones.

"You talk like an old man," Robert said finally, grinning lopsidedly. "Or like Jon Arryn after he's drunk too much herbal tea."

Jaime laughed again. "Maybe. Uncle Gerion says I swallowed an old book when I was a baby."

"So, you feel guilty for being rich?" asked Robert challenging.

"Not guilty," corrected Jaime. "Aware. Guilt is useless. Awareness... that is useful. If we know we are lucky, we should use that luck to do something useful, not just complain about being bored."

Those words stung Robert a little. He had just complained about being bored five minutes ago.

"And what are you doing that is 'useful', Lannister?" asked Robert, turning his discomfort into a challenge. "Making paper?"

"That is one of them," Jaime shrugged casually. "And also ensuring that if one day that stable boy has a brilliant idea, he has the chance to make it happen, not die buried in a pile of hay."

This boy... he was odd. Truly odd. He talked about the fate of commoners as if it were his business. He saw the world in a complicated way, full of layers that made Robert's head spin.

But on the other hand, there was honesty in his eyes. He wasn't trying to impress Robert. He was just... thinking.

"You're odd, Lannister," Robert said frankly, then he patted Jaime's shoulder hard enough to make the boy stumble a little. "But you're not boring. That is at least entertaining."

Jaime just smiled, rubbing his shoulder.

"Come," Robert invited suddenly, feeling thirsty again. "You talk too much. Your mouth must be dry. Accompany me to find a drink. I bet you won't refuse a glass of wine, right? Or do you only drink milk?"

ROBERT | RHAEGAR​

The Great Sept of Baelor towered atop Visenya's Hill like a giant crown hewn from holiness itself. Its walls of pure white marble gleamed brilliantly under the scorching midday sun of King's Landing, reflecting a light so blinding it seemed to challenge the darkness shrouding the hearts of its inhabitants. The crystal and gold dome at its peak caught the sunlight, refracting it into an ironic rainbow amidst the atmosphere of mourning.

Beneath that architectural grandeur, a sea of people moved slowly like a river of ink. Thousands, from high lords to household knights, wore all black or somber dark colors. Black velvet, charcoal grey wool, and midnight blue silk dominated the view, creating a sharp and painful contrast against the white marble floor of the holy sept. Black and white. Life and death.

Robert Baratheon stood among them, feeling like a giant trapped in clothes that constrained him. He wore his finest black tunic, embroidered with gold thread forming the Baratheon stag. The fabric was thick and hot, yet he dared not loosen his collar.

Beside him stood Stannis, his younger brother. Stannis's face was calm, his eyes staring straight ahead without blinking. On the other side, his mother, Lady Cassana, stood gracefully with a black lace veil covering part of her face, while his father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, stood as a pillar of family strength. Little Renly, only a few months old and unable to understand the meaning of death, had been left at the Red Keep with wet nurses, for fear his cries would stain the silence of this ceremony.

This was the seventh day. The end of the official period of mourning.

In the center of the vast chamber beneath the main dome, a golden urn carved with the three-headed dragon was placed upon a marble podium surrounded by hundreds of burning candles. The ashes of King Aerys II Targaryen rested there. For seven days, that urn had been the center of the world, prayed over ceaselessly by Septons, surrounded by thick incense smoke and holy chants that echoed up to the ceiling.

People walked quietly in long lines, taking their turn to pay their final respects. Their footsteps were muffled by thick tapestries, creating a soft, hypnotic rhythm.

Robert shifted his gaze to the side, looking at his father's face. Lord Steffon was observing the ash urn with heartbreaking intensity. His father's blue eyes, usually warm and full of laughter, were now dark and very serious. There was a deep sorrow there, the grief of a man who had lost a childhood friend, a grief that transcended politics and titles. Robert knew, for his father, what was inside that urn was not just a King, but Aerys, the boy who used to play with him and Tywin Lannister, then fought alongside him in the Stepstones.

Seeing the depth of his father's grief, Robert suddenly felt a sharp pang of guilt in his chest. The feeling was cold and uncomfortable.

Just a few days ago, his mind had been filled with the desire to escape and find a whore to forget the boredom of this city. He wanted to get drunk. He wanted to laugh. While his father bore the burden of losing a best friend, Robert had only thought of ways to sate his own lusts.

Self-loathing crept up his throat. That was his greatest flaw, he realized now. He always prioritized his own pleasure. He was a slave to it. He spent his days playing at war, practicing hitting people with hammers, drinking, or simply boasting with Ned Stark.

He was shallow. In the face of this real death and grief, Robert felt small and insignificant.

His breath felt heavy. Perhaps... perhaps this was the time for him to change. He was the heir to Storm's End. One day, the burden his father carried would shift to his shoulders. If he continued to act like a boy who only knew how to satisfy himself, how could he lead men as hard as stone and storm?

He promised in his heart, a silent vow he might forget tomorrow or perhaps not, that he would try to be better. He would try to listen to the Maester's prattle about history and strategy without falling asleep. He would try to understand taxes and laws, not just how to hold a sword. He had to develop his brain to see the world the way his father saw it, with responsibility.

Robert shook his head slightly, dispelling those dark thoughts, and shifted his focus forward.

In the very front row, closest to the urn, stood Rhaegar Targaryen.

The Prince stood tall like a spear planted in the earth. His black cloak fell perfectly over his broad shoulders. His face was as firm as Valyrian steel. No tears. No trembling shoulders. Not a hint of weakness.

Robert observed the figure with a growing sense of respect in his heart. Rhaegar had just lost his father in a horrific way, yet he stood there, becoming the anchor for an entire shaken realm. He bore the weight of the crown even before the object was placed on his head.

Then, the High Septon lifted the book of The Seven-Pointed Star with both hands, the ancient parchment looking fragile and yellowed by age, yet radiating an aura of holiness that made thousands in the room hold their breath.

The voice of the religious leader echoed throughout the chamber, bouncing off the cold white walls. He spoke of the inevitable cycle of life, of how the Father judges justly, the Mother loves tenderly, and how in the end, every soul, be it a ruling king or a beggar, would be collected by the Stranger to be taken to the world beyond. None were exempt from death, and no crown could bribe fate.

The narrative then shifted, flowing like a calm river remembering the figure lying in ash before them. The High Septon painted the youth of Aerys Targaryen, not as a king who ended tragically, but as a gallant young prince in the Stepstones. He spoke of friendship, of visions of building, and of long years of peace under his reign. The words were woven beautifully, wrapping the memory of the King in a silk cloth of pure honor.

Silence then descended to blanket the giant room, heavy and pressing.

At a silent signal, everyone bowed their heads. Thousands of pairs of eyes closed in unison, creating a rare moment of unity in the capital.

Robert bowed his large head. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness behind his eyelids give him a brief respite from the blinding grandeur around him. The scent of sweet and heavy incense filled his nose, a scent identical to holiness and farewells.

In silence, Robert offered his own prayer. He was not the most pious man, but his heart was sincere in that moment. He hoped Aerys's soul found the peace he did not get in his final days at Duskendale. He thanked the figure, not as a king, but as a keeper of the peace.

The realm had run peacefully while he lived. Robert realized that now. He had grown up in a long summer, without knowing the horrors of civil war, without seeing villages burned or fields pillaged by foreign armies. His childhood had been spent in laughter and safe sword practice, not life-and-death battles. That was the gift given by the stability of Aerys's rule, despite all his flaws. People were happy, or at least, they were safe.

Robert took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that smelled of wax, then exhaled slowly.

When he opened his eyes again, the atmosphere had shifted.

The Knights of the Kingsguard, in their brilliant white cloaks, stepped forward with trained, synchronized movements. Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, and their other brothers surrounded the podium. Their faces were hidden behind helms, expressionless, like living statues of guardians.

With a gentleness that contrasted with their strength, the knights lifted the gold-plated litter where the ash urn rested. There was no sound of friction, no shaking. The urn rose, glittering under the incoming sunlight, as if Aerys himself were floating for the last time above his people.

The procession began.

The Kingsguard slowly headed towards the back of the holy altar. There, a wrought iron door that was usually closed was now wide open, revealing stone stairs descending into darkness. It was the way to the crypts of the Great Sept.

They carried the burden of their king down those stairs, into the belly of the earth, away from the sunlight and the cheers of the world, towards eternal silence among his ancestors.

Behind them, Rhaegar Targaryen followed with his mother. His steps were steady yet rhythmic as he descended those stairs, disappearing into the shadows to say a private final goodbye.

Robert watched those backs, receding until swallowed by the darkness of the passage.

…

Their footsteps echoed softly on the descending stone stairs, a somber rhythm swallowed by the darkness down below.

Rhaegar walked slowly, adjusting his long strides to his mother's hesitant steps. Queen Rhaella, now the Queen Mother, was beside him, her thin hand gripping Rhaegar's arm as if it were the only anchor preventing her from falling into the abyss.

Under the light of torches flickering on the passage walls, his mother looked so fragile. The black mourning cloth wrapping her body made her skin look as pale as a dim moon, almost transparent. Her violet eyes, swollen and red, stared blankly at the steps ahead. There was a weight on her shoulders that was not just grief, but the accumulation of years of fear finally released, leaving a suffocating emptiness.

The air down here was different. Cold, still, and heavy. This was air never touched by the sun, air that had been breathed by the dead for centuries. The smell of incense from above faded, replaced by the scent of damp earth, cold stone, and bone dust.

They reached the bottom. The crypt of the Great Sept stretched before them, a hall of shadows with a low ceiling supported by thick stone pillars. Here, within the niches of the walls, rested the ashes and bones of previous Targaryen kings who chose to be buried in the manner of the Faith.

The Kingsguard carrying the urn had arrived first. They placed the golden urn with solemn gentleness into a newly prepared niche in the stone wall. A marble slab, already carved with Aerys's name and titles, waited to close it forever.

After their duty was done, Ser Gerold Hightower gave a silent signal.

The White Knights retreated. Ser Arthur Dayne, standing closest to Rhaegar, glanced at his friend for a moment. In that gaze, Rhaegar saw deep sympathy, an unspoken promise of protection, before Arthur turned and joined his brothers in the shadows near the stairs, granting privacy to the royal family.

Only the two of them remained. Rhaegar and his Mother. The living and the dead.

Rhaegar released his mother's arm slowly and stepped forward. He approached the niche.

The light of torches mounted on the walls reflected on the surface of the golden urn. It was beautiful, Rhaegar thought bitterly. Aerys had always liked gold, liked luxury, liked things that glittered. Now, he was encased in gold forever.

Rhaegar's hand reached out. His long and pale fingers, the fingers of a musician, touched the marble edge of the tomb niche.

Cold.

He brushed the carving of his father's name. Aerys II Targaryen.

Rhaegar observed the details of the stone, the rough texture not perfectly sanded at the corners. This was his father's final resting place. Just like their predecessors.

Once they lived. They had warm bodies, flowing blood, voices that could command thousands, rage that could burn cities, and laughter that could fill halls. Aerys had once been a real man, a father who held him, a king who sat on the Iron Throne.

And now? Just a handful of ash inside a metal urn.

All the anger, all the disappointment and disbelief, all of it had become silent dust.

A strange feeling crept into Rhaegar's heart. Not explosive sadness, but a calm and deep melancholia about mortality.

I will end up here too, he thought.

If everything went according to plan, if he didn't drown at sea or some such, Rhaegar would also be carried down these stairs one day. He would become part of this row of urns and statues. His body would be burned, his ashes collected, and his name carved on this cold stone.

Perhaps, decades from now, if he had children, they would stand where he stood now. Perhaps they would come to visit, bringing their own children, lighting candles, and whispering, "Here lies Grandfather Rhaegar."

He would be a ghost. He would be a memory. He would be history, just like Aegon the Conqueror or Jaehaerys the Conciliator.

Would he be remembered as a good king? Or, would he fail, then wait for the time to destroy everything?

Rhaegar did not know. He could only hope. He could only strive to be better. To be the King this realm needed.

A movement beside him broke his reverie.

His mother stepped forward. Her steps were soundless on the stone floor. Rhaella stood beside the niche, staring at her husband's urn.

Rhaegar watched his mother. He waited for tears, waited for hysterical sobbing, or perhaps curses. But there were none.

Rhaella did not cry. Her eyes were dry, staring at the glittering gold with a gaze difficult to interpret, a mixture of grief, exhaustion, and... peace. Perhaps she had cried all her tears. Perhaps she had cried in her room, when alone. Or perhaps, in the face of the death of the person who hurt her, tears felt unnecessary.

Rhaella's hand moved, not towards the urn, but towards Rhaegar.

Her cold fingers sought her son's arm, clutching the fabric of his black cloak tightly, as if ensuring that Rhaegar was still real, still warm, still alive.

Rhaegar said nothing. He covered his mother's hand with his own, offering warmth.

They just stood there, side by side in the belly of the earth.

No dramatic farewell words. No speeches. Just two survivors of a long storm, standing amidst the debris of memories, observing absolute silence.

In that silence, Rhaegar felt the weight of the crown descend upon his head, invisible yet very heavy. The past had been buried within these stone walls.

Now, it was the future's turn to begin.

ROBERT​

The giant doors of the Great Sept of Baelor opened, spewing thousands of mourners back into the real world. The funeral had ended with a deafening silence, a void of sound that felt heavier than the cheers of any war. Inside, under the gaze of the Seven Gods, no one dared to speak, no one dared to whisper. They all held their breath, trying to honor the King, or at least, trying hard not to look disrespectful before the stone-faced New King.

As they stepped out, the midday sun slammed into their faces. The sky above King's Landing was blindly bright, a flawless blue, as if mocking the grief that had just been staged beneath it. A slight heat stung the skin, worsened by the layers of black wool and thick velvet they wore.

Robert squinted, shielding his eyes from the glare. He took a long breath, filling his lungs with air that did not smell of incense and death. It felt relieving. Like stepping out of a cramped tomb.

People moved around him like a colony of ants exiting a disturbed nest, neat, orderly, yet with a hidden urgency to get away immediately.

Beside him, Stannis stood still. His younger brother did not even squint against the sun. He just stood tall, his jaw hardened, his hands folded stiffly behind his back.

Robert looked at him for a moment. Stannis was always so serious, as if he carried the weight of the entire storm on his young shoulders. Robert felt a sudden urge, an elder brother's instinct, to crack his brother's hard shell.

He patted Stannis's shoulder, perhaps a little too hard.

Stannis jerked slightly, his shoulders tensing under Robert's hand, then he turned. There was a slight smile there, very faint, barely visible, like a crack in ice.

"You hungry?" asked Robert, his voice a little too loud amidst the murmurs of other mourners.

Stannis nodded lightly, a breath that sounded weary escaping his nose. "Standing there took a lot of energy. Silence is exhausting."

"Aye," Robert agreed, squeezing his brother's shoulder before letting go. "My knees feel stiff. I hope we won't have to attend events like this too often. Funerals are boring, Stannis. Too many sad people, too little food."

Stannis did not answer immediately. His dark blue eyes, which were more like the deep sea compared to Robert's bright ones, glanced toward their parents walking a few steps ahead. Lord Steffon appeared to be speaking quietly to Lady Cassana, his face still grim.

"Hopefully," said Stannis.

…

Night had fallen over the Red Keep, bringing with it a cool breeze that swept away the heat of the day. On one of the stone terraces facing the city, Robert Baratheon stood with his back to the railing, one elbow resting casually on the cold stone.

Torches and candles had been lit everywhere, creating islands of light amidst the darkness of the fortress. The sound of night insects chirped from the gardens below, a constant, soothing rhythm. The wind rustled through the tree leaves, adding a coolness Robert sorely needed after a day confined in formal wear.

He held a goblet of wine in his right hand, of course.

"So what do you do at Storm's End, Stan?" asked Robert casually, breaking the silence between them. He genuinely wanted to know. Since he was sent to The Eyrie to be fostered by Jon Arryn, he rarely heard detailed news about his brother's daily life.

Stannis stood beside him, but did not turn his back to the railing. He faced outward, both arms propping up his body as he leaned forward, staring at the dark sky scattered with stars and the expanse of King's Landing's city lights in the distance.

"Studying," answered Stannis briefly. "With Maester Cressen. I memorize every Sigil and words of the noble houses, the history of the conquest, tax laws, family genealogies, border politics."

Robert grimaced softly into his goblet. That sounded boring as hell. "And you, how is it?" Stannis asked back.

"Me?" Robert grinned, sipping his wine. "I like traveling with Lord Arryn. We ride across the mountains of the Vale. The scenery is magnificent, Stan. You must see it one day. And sometimes... sometimes we even beat back the wild clans when we get bored."

"Wildlings?"

"Aye, the mountain clans. They come down to steal sheep or women. We drive them off." Robert chuckled. In truth, it wasn't out of boredom, but Lord Arryn's duty to protect his people, but Robert preferred to tell it as an adventure.

"Sometimes I go with Father too," Stannis added, his voice rising slightly, as if not wanting to lose in terms of experience, even if his experience was of a different kind. "Not fighting wild men of course. But negotiating. With vassal Lords disputing land, or merchants trying to cheat taxes. I... I just watch from a distance, observing how Father speaks."

Robert laughed crisply, shaking his head. "Ah, you really fit that sort of thing. You, and your musty-smelling books. You have the patience to listen to old men argue about fence borders."

Stannis frowned, his shoulders tensing. Robert immediately realized that his words might have sounded like a mockery, though he hadn't meant them that way. Stannis was always sensitive about things like this.

Robert straightened his body, placing his goblet on the stone railing. He hurriedly added.

"You've been very smart since long ago, you know? When we studied with Maester Cressen... you remember? You were the one who could memorize everything first. You could name the Targaryen Kings in order without error, while I forgot who Aegon V's father was."

Robert looked at his brother with an appraising gaze. "You answer with logic and facts. I'm not bad, I admit that, I'm not stupid. But I have patience as thin as Lannister paper. I can't stand sitting still and reading dusty parchments. So I always felt unfit to be there, in that study room."

Stannis looked down at his hands gripping the stone railing. Praise from Robert was a rare thing, and he seemed not to know how to receive it.

"You just have to try harder, Robert," said Stannis finally, his voice awkward yet firm. He turned, looking at his older brother. "In the future, you will inherit the land. Storm's End will be yours. You will lead many people, from lords to farmers."

Stannis straightened up, his 'little teacher' mode coming out. "Everyone will make you a role model. They will look to you for justice, not just for protection. So every lesson is important for a Lord. Not just swords and warhammers. You must know the law. You must know how to count grain."

Robert sighed heavily, looking up at the stars. That burden again. Expectations.

"I know," muttered Robert. "Sometimes... sometimes I also imagine what I will be like in the future, if my interest lies only in things like fighting and hunting. Will I be a bad Lord? Will Storm's End crumble in my hands?"

"I will not comfort you with nonsense," said Stannis with his characteristic brutal honesty. "If you are lazy, you will fail."

Robert snorted. "Thank you for the support, Brother."

"But," continued Stannis, "to make you feel better... a Lord who is great at fighting is also very necessary. Westeros respects strength, Robert. People respect your warhammer. That ability of yours will save you when words fail. At least, to remain respected and feared by enemies."

Stannis paused for a moment, then added in a flat tone, "Though perhaps some Lords will curse your incompetence for letting the bookkeeping get messy."

Robert laughed out loud, his voice breaking the silence of the night. He patted Stannis's shoulder again.

"You're right, you're right. I'll need a very smart treasurer later," said Robert while wiping the corner of his eye. He looked at Stannis, suddenly a thought crossing his mind. A thought that often appeared when he felt burdened by the pile of duties waiting in the future.

"You know, Stan," said Robert lightly, "Maybe you should be the Lord of Storm's End in the future, replacing Father. You fit all those parchments and rules better than I do."

It was a joke. A light complaint about responsibility.

But its effect on Stannis was immediate and frightening.

"Don't say that."

Stannis's voice was hard, sharp, and cold as a whip.

Robert was slightly startled, his smile fading. He saw his brother turn fully to face him. Stannis's face under the torchlight looked tense, his jaw hardening until the veins in his neck bulged. His blue eyes stared at Robert with a burning intensity, a mixture of deep sadness and fear.

"Never..." hissed Stannis, his voice trembling with held-back emotion. "Never say that."

Robert's breath hitched.

…

That expression was still embedded in Robert's mind, carved as clearly as a statue on the walls of Storm's End.

Hours had passed since that conversation on the stone terrace. The two of them had parted ways after a few awkward exchanges about the weather, yet the image of his brother's burning blue eyes still haunted him as he walked down the silent corridors of the Red Keep.

Robert kicked the empty air in frustration. He didn't understand. Truly, by the Seven Hells, he didn't understand why Stannis had reacted so harshly.

"I was just joking," he muttered to his own shadow lengthening on the stone floor. "Just a stupid joke."

But the joke seemed to touch a raw nerve inside the boy. Something hidden deep beneath Stannis's hard shell. Robert sighed heavily, rubbing his face roughly. Damn, he really didn't understand feelings much. Ned had once said politely that Robert 'sometimes often missed emotional details', which in common speak meant he sucked at reading other people's moods. And tonight, that was proven decisively.

The night grew later. The torches on the walls began to dim, leaving glowing red embers.

Robert returned to the guest chambers provided for the Baratheon family. The room was quiet. No one was there; his family had likely gone to their respective rooms.

Robert threw himself onto the sofa in the common room. He was bored. Wine was no longer appealing tonight; it tasted sour on his tongue after the incident with Stannis. He needed a distraction. Something to silence the voices in his head telling him he was a bad brother.

His eyes swept the room, and fell upon a wooden bookshelf in the corner. The shelf was full of scrolls of parchment and thick leather-bound books that looked boring. Usually, Robert would rather be beaten than read voluntarily. But tonight... his head was spinning, and he needed an escape.

With a little force on his lazy legs, he got up and approached the shelf. His fingers traced the dusty spines of the books. History of Westeros. The Tribes of the North. Lineage of House Tyrell.

"Rubbish," he muttered.

Then his finger stopped on a small book tucked between two giants. The book was thin, its cover simple brown leather without gold ornamentation. The title was faded but still legible: "Journey to the East".

Robert wanted to snort in disdain, but he held back. Adventure. That sounded better than House Tyrell.

He took the book, returned to the sofa, and plopped down. The candle light on the side table flickered as he opened the first page.

The preface was written by a Maester named Killian, dated to the year 121 AC, a time when dragons still danced in the skies of Westeros. The Maester wrote that this story was based on the oral tales of a hedge knight named William. No House name was mentioned, or at least the author intentionally hid it. William was only said to be from the Reach, a second or third son who had no land to inherit.

Robert began to read. Initially with skepticism, but slowly, his furrowed brow began to relax.

William was a curious child from a young age. He was described as a restless youth, whose hands always itched to hold a sword or axe, trying to chop wood, hunt, do anything other than sit still.

Robert smiled faintly. I know that feeling.

But all of that was so monotonous in William's life. He seemed to have no future other than just training, entering tournaments, winning ribbons from maidens, and getting drunk. Especially when the people around him, the Reach nobles, only feasted continuously, talking about complicated court politics and who married whom. William felt so alienated in the crowd. He felt like a wolf forced to sit at a dinner table with politely bleating sheep.

So, rather than socialize and force a fake smile, William chose to disappear. He read map books when his mood was grim. From there, he could see much of the world through mere writings. He didn't know if it was true, and if what was in his imagination was the same as how the author described it. But he kept reading because in his mind, the world out there was so alive, so wild, and so free.

Then, the first chapter began. William started collecting gold piece by gold piece. He won tournament prizes, he saved, he sold his spare horse. And when enough was gathered, only then did his journey begin.

From the Reach he continued east, riding alone through various regions. He slept under the stars, ate what he hunted. He met various walks of life, from arrogant Lords at the borders to common folk who gave him a ride in hay carts. He arrived at the port of Storm's End, Robert's ancestral land, and from there he stared at the sea. His destination this time was Braavos…

"What are you reading?"

The deep voice broke Robert's concentration instantly.

Robert jumped in surprise. His heart leapt in his chest. He closed the book reflexively with a slam, as if he had just been caught peeking up a woman's skirt instead of reading literature.

He turned and saw his father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, standing in the doorway connecting the common room to the master bedroom. His father was still wearing his mourning clothes, though his outer cloak had been removed. He stared at Robert while raising one thick eyebrow, an expression of amusement clearly printed on his tired face.

"You… you, you startled me, Father!" exclaimed Robert, his chest still pounding hard. He hid the book behind his back, then realized how ridiculous that was and placed it back on his lap. "By the Seven Hells, don't sneak up like a cat!"

His father fell silent for a moment, and instead of apologizing, a low and warm laugh escaped his throat.

"You, you, Robert," repeated Steffon shaking his head, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Reading a book? At night? Without being forced by Maester Cressen? Do you have a fever? Or has the ghost of the Red Keep library possessed you?"

Steffon stepped forward, placing the back of his hand on Robert's forehead in a joking fatherly gesture.

Robert immediately swatted the hand away, his face reddening with embarrassment. "Don't do that. I'm not sick."

"Alright, alright," Steffon chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. He then dropped himself onto the sofa beside Robert, sighing heavily as his back touched the soft backrest.

Steffon's eyes glanced at the thin book on Robert's lap. "So? What is the title? Strategies of War? History of Man?"

Robert hesitated for a moment, then turned the book so his father could see the title. "Journey to the East. An adventure story."

Steffon read the title, and the smile on his face changed. Becoming softer, more nostalgic. "Ah. The tale of Ser William the Wanderer."

"You know this book?" asked Robert, surprised.

"Of course," answered Steffon. "I read it when I was your age. Maybe a little younger."

"You were interested in adventure?" he continued.

With the book on his lap, Robert felt the need to be honest. The night atmosphere and fatigue made his defenses drop. "I... I have indeed always been interested in adventuring, Father. It feels boring to constantly be in the castle, listening to rules, learning etiquette. William... he was free. But I'm reading this only because I'm bored tonight, really. I just grabbed the thinnest book on the shelf."

Chuckling softly, Steffon's tone turned low and serious. He stared at the flickering candle flame.

"I was also always interested in adventuring, Robert. Before, when I was young, before I became Lord, before the burden of Storm's End fell onto my shoulders."

Steffon leaned back, his eyes distant. "Back then, I, Aerys, and Tywin... we often talked about it. Well, more like Aerys and I. We thought about running away for a while. Going on a grand journey to the Free Cities. Maybe becoming sellswords for a year, touring Braavos, drinking wine in Lys. Just the three of us, our swords, and the world."

Robert gaped. Imagining his father, the King, and the cold Tywin Lannister wandering around as young adventurers felt very unreal.

"But you didn't do it," said Robert quietly.

"No," Steffon shook his head, the shadow fading from his eyes. "Because I realized that I couldn't run from my responsibilities. Your grandfather wouldn't live forever, Storm's End needed its heir. Tywin... well, Tywin was always too serious to truly leave his duties as a Lannister. And Aerys was the Prince."

Steffon looked Robert right in the eye. "Many people needed me here, Son. My people, my bannermen. If I left chasing the sunrise, Storm's End would be in chaos. That is the point. Freedom is tempting, but duty... duty is what defines us. And honestly, I wasn't too confident in passing my responsibility to someone else. No one can guard your home as well as yourself."

His father then reached out, holding Robert's shoulder with a strong and warm squeeze.

"And now, the reasons why I stayed have increased," said Steffon softly. "I have your mother. I have you, Stannis, and Renly."

Steffon's smile widened, sincere and full of affection rarely shown by a Lord in public. "If I had chased my daydreams back then, becoming a hedge knight who died in a ditch, you might not exist. And who would finish all the food supplies if not you?" he joked at the end of his sentence.

Robert laughed small, but his throat felt choked. He felt a strange warmth in his chest, something he rarely felt amidst the harsh upbringing of an heir.

"You don't regret it?" asked Robert suddenly, his question more serious than he intended. "Giving up that freedom?"

Steffon raised his eyebrows, as if the question was strange.

"Regret?" repeated Steffon quietly. He shook his head firmly.

"No, Robert. Not for a second. Having you all... watching you grow, even though you often give me a headache and make me want to pull my own hair out... is the greatest adventure I have ever had. It is one of the best things for me. You know that, right?"

Robert fell silent. He didn't know how to answer. He only nodded stiffly, trying to hold back emotions that suddenly urged to rise.

Outside the window, the night wind blew, bringing promises of an uncertain tomorrow. But inside that room, under the warm candlelight, Robert closed his eyes for a moment, trying to digest those words.

RHAEGAR​

That morn in King's Landing, the sun rose with a splendour that seemed intent on erasing the grey memories of the weeks prior. Golden light spilled from the eastern sky, gilding the rooftops of the city, turning Blackwater Bay into a sheet of glimmering hammered gold, and warming the stones of the castle walls that were wont to be cold.

Rhaegar Targaryen sat upon a carved wooden bench on the private balcony of his mother's chambers. Resting upon his lap was a silver harp, reflecting the blinding sunlight. His long, slender fingers danced slowly over the strings, plucking notes that were soft and melancholic, yet possessed an undercurrent of hopeful rhythm.

On the round table nearby, a sumptuous morning meal lay untouched. Fresh fruits, warm bread, honey, and soft cheese. Yet, Rhaegar's appetite had not fully returned. His only sustenance in this moment was the vista before him.

Queen Rhaella, or now the Queen Mother, sat in a comfortable chair, her back to the view of the city. In her arms, Prince Viserys squirmed with delight. The babe was in high spirits, gurgling quietly as his mother tickled his plump belly.

Rhaegar watched them with an intensity that bordered on painful.

He watched as Rhaella extended her slender forefinger, allowing Viserys's tiny hand to fumble and grasp it with a surprising strength for a babe. Then, Rhaella laughed. It was not the polite court laughter Rhaegar so often heard, but a laugh that was crisp, sincere, and free. The woman leaned down, rubbing her nose softly against Viserys's small button nose, causing the babe to squeal in joy.

A smile widened on Rhaella's face, erasing years of suffering from her lines. Her violet eyes shone, no longer shadowed by the fear of heavy footsteps in the corridor or angry shouts in the night.

It was a sight Rhaegar had not beheld in a long age. There was a tranquility there that he had yearned for, a domestic peace that felt alien to House Targaryen. His mother looked ten years younger. She looked... alive.

Yet, beneath the beauty of the moment, Rhaegar felt a cold prick in his heart. Guilt.

This was one of those moments they could never have possessed had his father still lived. If Aerys were here, this balcony would be thick with tension. Rhaella would be wary, her eyes wild, searching for signs of her husband's wrath. Viserys might be weeping, sensing his mother's fear.

His father's death was the price paid for his mother's laughter this morning.

Rhaegar felt wretched for relishing this joy. He felt unclean for enjoying the warmth of the sun and a quiet mind, whilst his father's ashes were scarce cold in the urn within the crypts below. Was he a cruel son for feeling relieved? Was he a monster for being grateful for the death of the man who gave him life?

His fingers moved of their own accord, following a train of thought trying to seek light amidst the darkness. The melody he played shifted, becoming something he had learned from Jaime Lannister in one of their secret musical sessions. A strange song, a song of hope after a long winter.

"Here comes the sun," Rhaegar crooned the notes with his voice soft, nigh on a whisper. "Doo-doo-doo..."

Rhaella turned her head slightly, her ears catching the new tune, yet she did not cease rocking Viserys.

"Here comes the sun," Rhaegar repeated, plucking the strings with more resolve, trying to convince himself. "And I say... It's all right."

Is it truly? whispered a doubt in his mind. Is it truly all right?

His eyes shifted from the view of the city to the face of his brother. Viserys. His heir for the nonce.

"Little darlin'," Rhaegar sang to his brother, his tone softening with affection. Viserys turned towards the sound of his brother's voice, his large purple eyes blinking in curiosity.

Rhaella gazed at her eldest son. The smile on her face changed into something sorrowful, yet full of love. She understood the song, though she may not have fully grasped the tongue. She understood the feeling.

"It's been a long, cold, lonely winter," Rhaegar continued.

Aye, a winter long and harsh indeed. The reign of Aerys in his latter years was a blizzard that froze all around him in fear.

"Little darlin', it feels like years since it's been here..."

"Here comes the sun, doo-doo-doo..."

"Here comes the sun..."

"And I say... It's all right."

Rhaegar stopped.

His hand ceased its plucking, hanging in the air as if he had just touched hot iron. The echo of the final note faded, swallowed by the sound of the wind and the gulls.

Silence descended once more, but this time it was heavier.

Will all truly be well?

The question haunted him. He was King now. The crown was not yet physically upon his brow, yet its weight already crushed his neck. Many lives now depended upon him. Millions of souls in Westeros, looking towards him, waiting. He was their leader, their protector.

He had many plans. In sleepless nights, he had written sheet after sheet of parchment. Tax reforms, the mending of roads, to build something new. He dreamed of what the realm would be in the future, a new golden age.

He hoped they would all come to pass. Yet he was practical enough to know that the world is not built upon hopes. If but half could be realized, it would be accounted a mercy.

His thoughts, as ever, were dragged back to the darkness. Back to Duskendale.

The town had yielded. Lord Darklyn was dead. But Rhaegar knew the ghosts of Duskendale would not be silent. There were many left there, smallfolk whose homes were burnt, servants who lost their masters, distant kin who lost their names. They had surely lost their purpose to live, or worse, they harboured a new purpose: hatred.

Hatred for the Dragons. Hatred for Rhaegar who had taken those they held dear, even if it was the punishment for treason.

And that decision... the decision regarding the children.

Rhaegar had commanded that the children of House Darklyn and their allies be spared the headsman's sword. He could not bear the blood of babes on his hands at the dawn of his reign. He sent them to the Wall or to the Silent Sisters, letting them live in exile.

But the Lords... Tywin Lannister, and many others... they were not satisfied. Rhaegar saw it in Tywin's cold eyes. They desired nothingness. They desired total annihilation. They believed that to let a traitor's seed live is to plant a storm for the future.

Am I weak? Rhaegar asked himself. Is my mercy a mistake that shall doom my descendants?

The wind rustled, blowing his silver hair, making it dance about his sombre face.

He knew not the fate of those people now. He only hoped, perhaps, with that mercy, the cycle of violence could be broken. That they might have a better future, however limited, that perhaps they would find peace.

His eyes returned to Viserys. The babe was now chewing on his own fist, spittle dripping down his chin. So innocent. So fragile.

If Rhaegar did something foolish like Darklyn... His brother might suffer the same fate as the children of the Darklyn kin. Or worse.

The vision of Viserys being dragged from his bed in the dead of night, or forced to live in eternal winter, made Rhaegar's stomach churn. He must be strong. He must be wise. He must not become like that.

"Rhaegar?"

His mother's soft voice scattered the dark mist in his mind.

Rhaegar started slightly, then turned. Rhaella was gazing at him. The smile on his mother's face had changed. No longer merely a merry laugh for a babe, but a smile full of understanding, the smile of a woman who had walked through the seven hells and emerged on the other side.

Rhaella reached out, touching Rhaegar's cheek gently.

"Do not shoulder the burden of on the morrow before the sun sets on this day, my Son," she whispered.

Her eyes looked upon Rhaegar with a conviction that Rhaegar himself did not possess.

"All shall be well," said Rhaella. "We are safe. We are here. And you... you are my son. You are better than him. You shall be a great King."

Rhaegar looked at his mother, searching for a lie, but found only hope. He let out a long breath, letting a little of the tension in his shoulders melt away.

He took his mother's hand, kissing it softly.

...

Rhaegar placed his silver harp back into its velvet case with the care of a father putting a child to sleep. He closed the lid slowly; the music had ceased. Now, duty called.

He left the balcony bathed in sunlight, stepping into a room more gloom and cold, the King's Solar.

The chamber was vast, dominated by heavy wooden furniture and tapestries. Yet, what was most striking was not the luxury of the room, but the mountains of parchment piling upon the giant worktable in the centre.

Rhaegar sat in the chair his father once occupied. The chair felt a shade too large, or perhaps he felt too small to fill it. He looked upon the stack of papers with a sudden dizziness. Tax reports, petitions from minor lords, complaints regarding the price of goods, inventories of the armouries, reports of damages... all demanded his attention.

He pulled a sheet of parchment at random, dipped a quill into the ink, and began his toil.

Whilst his hand moved to sign the routine documents, his mind drifted to matters far more pressing than the price of wool.

The Kingsguard.

They had lost two members in Duskendale. Ser Gwayne Gaunt, who fell by the hand of rebels during the initial riots, and Ser Barristan Selmy, who perished in the failed rescue attempt.

Two white cloaks empty. Two positions that must be filled.

Rhaegar knew he could not appoint men lightly. The Kingsguard were not merely physical protectors; they were symbols of the strength and legitimacy of the throne. He needed men who were not only skilled with the sword, but who possessed unwavering integrity, something increasingly rare in King's Landing.

And not only the Kingsguard. A greater rot festered at the heart of his reign: The Small Council.

Rhaegar paused his writing, staring at the wet ink. He thought of the faces that sat at the council table. Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships who cared more for sycophancy than tending to the fleet. The sluggish Master of Coin, and the Master of Laws likewise.

His father had gathered these men not for their competence, but for their willingness to nod at his every whim. Aerys needed mirrors that reflected his greatness, not counsellors who challenged his wisdom. They were a gathering of men who fed the King's vanity whilst enriching themselves in the shadows.

Rhaegar shook his head in frustration. He could not rule with such blunt tools.

He needed sharp steel. He needed someone competent. Someone who dared say, "No, Your Grace, that is a folly," if Rhaegar began to stray. He needed advisors who could present options, not merely blind agreement. Someone who saw the realm as something complex, not a cash cow to be milked.

Yet, how was he to seek them?

All this time, Rhaegar had lived in the isolation forced by his father. He had friends, like Arthur and Jon Connington, but his circle was limited. He did not know many Lords out there personally. He knew not who was truly lack-witted and who was merely glib of tongue.

It seems this time I must rely on reputation and instinct, he thought.

The moment was ripe. His father's death, tragic as it was, had brought all the nobility of Westeros to King's Landing. They were here, under his roof, or encamped outside the walls. He could use the time before and after the coronation to speak with them. Not formal discourses in the throne room, but casual conversations, testing their wits subtly, seeing who possessed a vision aligned with his own.

Knock. Knock.

A firm knock on the wooden door broke his reverie. The rhythm was regular, confident, and demanding. There was but one man who knocked on the King's door in such a manner.

"Enter," Rhaegar commanded.

The door opened, and Tywin Lannister strode in.

The Hand of the King wore a tunic of black velvet. His face, as ever, was a mask of impenetrable calm.

"Your Grace," Tywin greeted, bowing his body slightly.

"Lord Hand," Rhaegar replied, setting down his quill. He gestured to the chair across his desk. "Sit."

"My thanks."

Tywin took the seat, his back rigid, his eyes immediately sweeping the stack of documents on Rhaegar's desk as if calculating how much work remained unfinished.

"I wish to report on the progress of the coronation preparations," Tywin began without preamble. "The High Septon has agreed to the simplified matters as per your request, though he complains of the lack of pomp. The feast for the Lords has been arranged; certain Lords with a history of disharmony shall sit opposite one another to avoid old conflicts. And the repair of the city gates proceeds according to schedule."

Rhaegar nodded, listening to the report. Tywin Lannister was a brilliant administrator, none could deny it. The realm ran like the quill in his hand.

They spoke for some time. Tywin reported that customs revenues at the harbour had risen. Rhaegar gave his assent to most matters, posing sharp questions on others that made Tywin raise an eyebrow slightly in a mark of appreciation.

Then, there was a pause. Tywin did not rise immediately to depart.

The Hand's hands were clasped in his lap. His pale green eyes stared at Rhaegar with a new intensity.

"Have you considered my counsel, Your Grace?" asked Tywin suddenly, his voice flat yet heavy.

Rhaegar fell silent for a moment. He remembered the conversation two days past, amidst the chaos following the funeral.

Tywin had come to him with a list. It was not a vast list. Merely the changing of a few 'minor' offices. The Gaoler of the Red Keep. The Captain of the City Gates. Several positions at the harbour. Tywin suggested that the old men, whom he deemed corrupt or inefficient, be replaced with new men who were 'more capable'.

Men who, after Rhaegar investigated slightly, all hailed from the Westerlands or possessed ties of marriage to Lannister bannermen.

It was Tywin's classic move. The quiet accumulation of power. Filling positions with his own men.

"I have considered it, Lord Tywin," Rhaegar answered, his voice calm yet firm. He met the Lion's gaze without blinking.

"And?"

"And the answer is no."

Tywin's brows furrowed slightly, a rare sign of displeasure. The furrow was very faint, but on Tywin's face, it was akin to another man screaming in rage.

"May I know the reason?" asked Tywin, his tone cooling. "The men I proposed are proven veterans. Ser Erik Broom for the City Watch would bring much-needed discipline to the city."

"I do not doubt Ser Erik's competence," said Rhaegar. "However, I do not wish to conduct a shuffling of personnel in this sensitive time of transition. Replacing key officials in the capital with men from a single specific region... that would send the wrong message to the Lords of the Reach, Dorne, and the North. They would think that King's Landing has become an extension of Casterly Rock."

Rhaegar leaned his body forward slightly.

"I wish for my reign to be seen as an inclusive one, Lord Hand. Unity. Not the domination of one House above the others. I shall seek candidates for those offices, certainly. But I shall seek them from all across the realm."

Tywin fell silent. His jaw hardened. He understood the unspoken message: 'I know what you are trying to do, and I shall not allow it.'

Rhaegar did not reject competence; he rejected a Lannister monopoly.

"A realm requires stability, Your Grace," said Tywin finally, his voice as sharp as a dagger. "Experiments with 'balance' often end in inefficiency."

"And domination often ends in chaos," replied Rhaegar softly.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, a war of wills in the silence of the solar. Rhaegar felt the pressure of Tywin's aura, a force that had subdued many a king and lord. But Rhaegar did not waver. He was the King now.

Finally, it was Tywin who broke the eye contact. He stood, a movement stiff and formal.

"As you command, Your Grace," said Tywin. There was no note of submission in his voice, only strategic acceptance. He knew when to retreat to strike another day.

"Thank you, Lord Tywin. That will be all for today," said Rhaegar, taking up his quill once more, signalling a clear dismissal.

Tywin bowed once more, then turned and walked out, his footsteps sounding heavy on the stone floor.

The door closed.

Rhaegar let out a long breath, leaning his back against the chair. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the rush of blood. Refusing Tywin Lannister was no mall matter.