RHAEGAR | JAIME
Father was gone.
Rhaegar watched from the high window of his chambers. Down below, in the dusty courtyard, the small retinue looked pitiful for a King. Only Ser Gwayne Gaunt of the Kingsguard, a few sworn swords, and King Aerys himself. No pomp, no great banners. Only the arrogance of a man convinced that his mere presence was enough to make Lord Darklyn kneel in terror.
Rhaegar said nothing. He just watched them leave in silence, his hands gripping the cold stone of the windowsill until his knuckles turned white. He saw his father's hunched back atop his horse, his tangled silver hair blowing in the wind. It was a pitiful sight, yet also terrifying.
His mind spun, returning to the brief, yet monumental conversation he had with Lord Tywin Lannister on the walk to the tower.
'A brief rest.'
The words felt heavy on his tongue, even just in thought. It was a polite word for a coup. A soft takeover of power. Treason.
They had not spoken since that day. Rhaegar had purposefully avoided him. He needed time to steady himself, to let the reality of what he had agreed to seep into his bones. This was momentous. If they failed, their heads would adorn spikes above the gates of the Red Keep before the new moon.
He turned from the window, leaving the sight of his king riding toward potential disaster. He had to move now. It was time to stop being an observer and start being a player.
Rhaegar walked out of his chambers. The corridors of the Red Keep felt quiet, as if the castle itself was holding its breath. He passed the door to his mother's chambers. He paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the polished wood. He could hear faint sounds from within, perhaps his Mother singing softly to Viserys, or perhaps she was just weeping again.
A sharp pang of guilt pierced his chest. 'What would she think if she knew?' Rhaegar asked himself. Would she see this as salvation, or as the ultimate betrayal of a son against his father? He dared not knock. He could not look his mother in the eye right now, not with such dark plans swirling in his head.
He squared his shoulders and walked on.
The Tower of the Hand loomed before him, a sturdy and efficient structure, much like its occupant. Rhaegar nodded to the Lannister guards stationed at the door; they wore crimson and gold, not the white of the Kingsguard, a reminder of who truly held power here.
He knocked on the thick oak door.
"Enter." The voice from within was calm, flat, and full of authority.
Rhaegar opened the door. Lord Tywin Lannister was seated behind his massive desk, surrounded by neat stacks of parchment and paper. He was writing a letter, his quill moving with precise, sharp strokes. He did not immediately look up when Rhaegar entered, finishing his sentence first before carefully placing the quill into its inkwell.
"Lord Hand," Rhaegar greeted, taking the chair opposite the desk without being asked.
Tywin looked at him, his pale green eyes flecked with gold showing no emotion whatsoever. "Prince Rhaegar."
"He is gone," Rhaegar said, needing no explanation of who 'he' was.
"Yes. A mistake, as I suspected. Darklyn is a stubborn and proud man. He will not respond well to empty threats."
"So how do we handle this?" Rhaegar cut straight to the point. He had no patience for word games today.
"It requires time," Tywin replied calmly, leaning back in his chair. "And many people we need to convince. We cannot just move in the shadows. We need the support, or at least, the indifference of the great Lords."
"Yes, but how?" Rhaegar pressed, frustration beginning to seep into his voice.
Tywin looked at him for a moment, assessing his impatience. "Your role here is more vital than mine, Prince. As his son, as his heir... your words carry the most weight. Your reputation, the melancholic and noble Dragon Prince, makes you far more believable than I, whom they see only as a politician."
Rhaegar gave a cynical smile, a smile that did not reach his eyes. "A dutiful and poetic son, you mean? You want me to play the role of the concerned son while we plot his downfall?"
Tywin's face did not change. He ignored the sarcasm as if it were a small, annoying fly. "First, we must wait. Let Aerys deal with Duskendale."
He leaned forward slightly. "His temper is already an open secret among the small council, but we need to provoke him further. We need to show the world, the Lords Paramount, that the King is indeed unstable. That he is dangerous to himself and the realm."
"We do not need to provoke him," Rhaegar said flatly, remembering the scene in his mother's chambers. "We just need to look at him, and he will be emotional. He sees treachery in every shadow."
"Good," Tywin said coldly. "Then our task is easy. We just need to ensure there are enough important witnesses when he next explodes. We let him make poor decisions in public." He paused for a moment, as if calculating costs in his head. "Of course, not so poor as to destroy the realm. At most a few hundred thousand gold dragons. Damage that can be repaired."
Rhaegar stared at him in disbelief. "You want to waste all that gold just for this? For a show?"
"It is worth it," Tywin replied without hesitation. "Rather than letting the kingdom slowly crumble from within due to one man's madness. Gold can be replaced. Stability cannot."
Rhaegar fell silent. He saw the logic behind it. It was ruthless, but effective. "Fine. The coins will be borne by you, I assume."
Tywin gave a small nod.
"And now," Rhaegar continued, "how are we to convince the other great Lords? The Lords Paramount will not come to King's Landing just because we ask them to. They need a reason."
"As before," Tywin said, his eyes refocusing on Rhaegar, "your brother will be the reason."
"Huh?" Rhaegar frowned, confused. "Viserys? He is still a babe. How can he..."
"He will have a name day soon," Tywin cut in. "Therefore, a great feast will occur, as befitting his birth. Aerys always demands grandeur, does he not? He wants to show his power, his wealth. This time, I will grant it. I will give him the feast he dreams of."
Tywin adjusted his seat, his tone shifting to something almost resembling the satisfaction of a thinker seeing his plans materialize. "We will hold a tourney. The most prestigious tourney this realm has seen in recent years. The prizes will be vast, enough to attract every knight from Dorne to The Wall."
He looked at Rhaegar sharply. "The feast will be so grand that it would be considered an insult if the Lords Paramount did not come. They would not dare refuse an invitation to honor the new Prince. They certainly would not want to upset the King with their absence."
Rhaegar understood now. It was brilliant. And cunning. Using Viserys's innocence as bait to draw political sharks into one pool.
"Sending ravens for business like this is foolish," Rhaegar muttered, fully realizing the plan. "But a tourney... it is the perfect excuse to gather without arousing suspicion."
"Precisely."
Rhaegar felt a fresh wave of guilt. He was using his own brother, an unwitting babe, as a pawn in this dangerous game. But he brushed it aside. 'This is the price to pay to save them all,' he thought.
He looked at Tywin Lannister, the man sitting across from him with terrifying calm. This man was willing to spend unimaginable wealth just to bring down his king.
"You seem very eager for my father to rest, yes?" Rhaegar finally voiced his deepening suspicion. "What exactly has he done to you, personally? This is more than just politics, is it not?"
For the first time, Tywin's mask cracked slightly. A flash of emotion, something dark, hot, and full of hatred, crossed his green eyes before disappearing again.
"Do not feign ignorance, Prince," he said, his voice slightly sharper than before. "I deal with his insults every day. In open court, before the council. Aerys seems intent on destroying me, degrading me at every opportunity. Perhaps he truly does want to."
He took a slow breath, steadying himself back into an efficient ice statue. "But beyond all that, I also want this realm to continue functioning in the future. I have spent too much of my time, too much of my energy, building this stability. I will not let him burn it just because he is in a foul mood."
Rhaegar knew that was true. He had seen the insults himself. But that last sentence... there was something hanging there. Tywin's ambition was never just about serving the realm. It was always about House Lannister.
"I doubt you wish to spend your precious resources just to see me ascend the Iron Throne out of the goodness of your heart," Rhaegar said, leaning forward, challenging the lion in his own den. "So, Lord Hand, tell me. What is the price? What do you want once I sit the Throne?"
Tywin stared at him. Silence stretched between them, heavy and calculating.
"It is simple," Tywin replied. His voice was heavy, full of non-negotiable certainty. "I want only one thing. When you become King... I want you to make my daughter a queen."
Rhaegar fell silent. He should have guessed. Cersei Lannister.
He thought for a moment. Marrying the daughter of the most powerful man in the realm, a beautiful and from the wealthiest family. Politically, it was the most sensible move. It would bind the Lannisters to the Throne forever.
And compared to the risks they were taking, it was a cheap price.
Rhaegar looked into Tywin's eyes, seeing the naked ambition there. "Just that?"
Tywin did not blink. "Just that."
...
It was suffocating, Jaime thought, loosening the collar of his doublet which felt a little too tight. He could feel it, that gaze. Sharp, small, and full of disproportionate hatred for someone barely chest-high.
Petyr Baelish was glaring at him from across the hall of Riverrun as if Jaime had just stolen his favorite toy and burned it in front of him. Since the first day of his arrival, since Catelyn introduced them, those sly little eyes had scrutinized Jaime a hundred times, weighing him, measuring him, and clearly finding him severely lacking, or perhaps too excessive.
Jaime knew, with his strange and cursed future knowledge, that the boy was a ticking time bomb. In that television show, Littlefinger was an architect of chaos, a man who would burn the world just to be king of the ashes. But here, now? He was just a scrawny boy from The Fingers, overly obsessed with the daughter of the Lord who fostered him.
He hadn't done anything yet. He was still innocent, technically.
Jaime sighed softly. What approach should he take? Kill him in his sleep? Too extreme, even by Westerosi standards. Lecture him? Ridiculous. He could imagine the flat, condescending look the boy would give if he tried to offer life advice. Jaime, the golden heir of Casterly Rock, trying to tell a poor boy about life? It would only add fuel to the fire of his hatred.
He shook his head, feeling dizzy. Children were harder to predict than politicians. He would think about it later. Right now, he had a more pressing problem.
Dancing.
They were in the great hall which had been converted into a makeshift ballroom. Musicians were tuning their instruments in the corner. Jaime felt ridiculous in his bright red Lannister garb, complete with flashy gold lion embroidery. His father insisted he wear it to "show the pride of our House," but Jaime just felt like a walking target.
"Are you ready?" Sherra's voice, soft yet firm, broke his reverie.
Jaime fought the strong urge to snort. 'No, I'm absolutely not ready. I would rather fight three men at once than do this.' But he smiled politely.
He faced Catelyn Tully. The girl was beautiful, with auburn hair that gleamed under the torchlight and clear blue eyes. They were nearly of a height now, making eye contact unavoidable. Jaime stiffly took her arm as instructed, feeling like a wooden doll.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Petyr paired with Lysa. Lysa's face was beaming, a stark contrast to Petyr's expression hidden behind a mask of politeness.
"Are you well, my Lord?" Catelyn's voice was soft, drawing his attention back. There was a hint of worry in her eyes.
"I was just thinking that I am likely to step on your feet," Jaime replied, deciding that honesty, or at least some of it, was the best policy.
Catelyn giggled, a light and pleasant sound. "How could someone like you do that?"
"You do not know the half of it, My Lady," Jaime said with a wry grin. "I am terrible at dancing, clumsy and awkward. I might embarrass you in front of everyone."
Catelyn laughed again, more freely this time. "Then just relax, follow me, let me lead."
"Good," Jaime said, feeling a little relieved. "That will save us all."
The music began, a slow and graceful tune designed not to be too difficult for beginners. Jaime let Catelyn guide him. He emptied his mind, focusing only on the steps, one-two-three, one-two-three. It was... not as bad as he feared. He wasn't good, far from it, but he wasn't tripping over his own feet either.
He was normal. And in this situation, normal was a major victory.
When the music stopped, Sherra offered polite praise and a few gentle corrections about his posture. Jaime nodded obediently, then quickly escaped to the refreshments table at the side of the room.
He poured himself some plain water and drank it slowly, feeling the cold sweat on his back begin to dry.
"This is exhausting," he muttered as Catelyn joined him.
"More exhausting than sword training?" Catelyn asked, taking a glass for herself.
"Yes, sword training doesn't drain your mental energy," Jaime asserted. "Must be hard doing this every day, yes?"
Catelyn looked up from her glass, slightly surprised. "No, actually I like it, dancing is easier than anything else I usually do."
"Oh? The reason?"
"With dancing," she said, her eyes sparkling slightly, "you just have to follow the rhythm of the music while maintaining the tempo."
"You certainly seem good at it," Jaime admitted. He then glanced toward the dance floor, where Petyr was talking to Lysa who looked disappointed that the dance had ended. "And him too."
Catelyn followed his gaze. Her smile faded slightly, replaced by a small frown on her forehead. "Petyr, he is good at things like this, he is also great at sums."
"You seem to know him well," Jaime said, his tone neutral.
"I suppose, he is like my own little brother."
Jaime gave a faint smile, seeing the sad irony there. "A little brother who doesn't want his big sister to leave, it seems."
Catelyn turned to him sharply, her brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean, Lord Jaime?"
Jaime drank the rest of his water again. "I see him constantly staring at you, Cat. Then at me, that look so piercing as if he wants to tear me apart."
Catelyn's face paled slightly. "Petyr doesn't mean to do it." Her voice sounded weak.
"Does he always do that?" Jaime decided to dig deeper, his voice soft but urgent.
Catelyn bit her lip gently, looking uncomfortable. "He has been strange lately, he always surprises me and appears suddenly."
"And...?" Jaime motioned for her to continue. And honestly, it did sound creepy. Petyr's obsession seemed to have already begun.
"And, and he seems to not like you. He said that, when we spoke earlier."
"Does all that bother you? I mean when he surprises you?" Jaime asked, looking directly into her eyes.
"Honestly..." Catelyn took a breath, grappling with her own feelings. "Yes. But I do not know what to do."
"We must speak of this with your father," Jaime said firmly. This was also to neutralize future problems, Petyr was still a child, he didn't deserve to be humiliated.
Catelyn looked surprised, but she nodded slowly.
....
As always. Thank you for reading. :) You can read chapters 34-52 at Patreon.com/Daario_W
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