JAIME | TYWIN
The leaves in the gardens of Riverrun rustled softly, following the morning breeze that blew gently toward the east. The gust carried a few yellowing leaves, sending them spinning through the air in a slow dance before landing on the surface of the tranquil pond. The atmosphere was peaceful, wrapped in the warm embrace of the morning sun. It was the kind of warmth that invited one to stop and stand still, simply to feel the serenity seep into their bones.
However, that peace felt wrong, a thin facade that failed to mask the cold new reality. The atmosphere felt entirely incongruous with the news that had just arrived from King's Landing. The news had stopped the laughter in the hall, frozen conversations, and cancelled whatever joy nature and the morning flora had provided.
The King had been taken captive.
The words seemed to swirl in everyone's mind within the castle, from Lord Hoster Tully in his solar to the servants whispering in the kitchens. The words also echoed in Jaime Lannister's mind.
Jaime sat alone in his room, in a chair by the open window. In his hands, he clasped a simple porcelain cup filled with warm water. He did not look at the garden below; instead, he gazed up at the bright blue sky and the clean white clouds drifting slowly by. His green eyes, usually so sharp and lively, shimmering under the morning light, looked slightly dim, as if a shadow had passed over them.
Jaime—Steven, knew this would happen. At least, the broad strokes. In what he remembered of the original story, Duskendale was a pivotal moment. He didn't know what to do in a situation like this. He was hundreds of miles away, trapped in Riverrun, while the great events that would shape the future began to move. All of this was beyond his control.
And that was what frightened him. He feared that this was the inevitable turning point. This was the event that, in the story he remembered, truly broke Aerys's mind. The King would not just be rescued; he would return as a monster. He would become the 'Mad King' as portrayed in that TV show. This was the end of the road for the man. If that happened, when that happened, the great war he feared, the war that would destroy so many, the war that would put Robert on the throne, would have a much higher probability than before.
Moving his right finger slowly, Jaime lifted the porcelain cup. He felt the faint warmth of the cup spreading through his fingers, a strange contrast to the cold knot in his stomach. It was perfect to accompany the cool morning air. He sipped slowly, letting the soothing sensation of the warm water fill his mouth. He swallowed, feeling the water go down, falling into his throat and warming his chest.
Holding the cup in silence, he steeled his resolve. He could do nothing. Not right now. He was an eleven-year-old boy. He was not Ser Jaime the Kingsguard, he wasn't even the heir in command. At this moment, he was merely a political guest in his betrothed's castle.
His role now was what he had been in his previous life: a spectator. He would only observe, take notes, and then think of a way to prevent things from worsening in the future. His focus had to remain here.
He stared at his faint reflection in the water in the cup. The face of a boy stared back. Instantly, his thoughts shifted to another family that would soon be destroyed by the King's madness. Eddard Stark.
A good man. Too good to survive in King's Landing.
And his father and brother... if he wasn't mistaken, Eddard's father and brother, Brandon, were burned alive by the Mad King. Brandon went to King's Landing to seek Lyanna, who was 'kidnapped' by Rhaegar. Jaime didn't remember the exact details, when exactly it happened, but he knew, that was when the real war began.
Jaime felt like laughing bitterly. Before, this was all just a story on a screen, evening entertainment after a day of teaching. Now, that story was his life, his brutal reality, and he was the only one in this entire world who knew what was coming. It truly sucked. It was like someone had placed a thousand weights on his shoulders, and then left him just like that to bear it alone.
He shook his head, banishing those dark thoughts. Father. His father should be marching with his army toward Duskendale by now, leading the siege. Lord Darklyn was truly brave, or foolish. Who knew what entered the man's mind to do such a thing. Jaime mused, the line between brave and crazy seemed to lie on a very thin wire indeed.
Deciding that there was no point in dwelling on problems hundreds of miles away and completely out of his control, Jaime stood up. He was currently wearing casual black attire, a soft cotton tunic and comfortable trousers. He had to focus on what was in front of him. He would go out of his room. Perhaps practice swords with Uncle Tygett. Or maybe sit with Lord Hoster and pretend to be deeply interested in river politics. Or, most likely, he would share adventure stories with Edmure as he had always done lately.
The boy, so eager when Jaime explained the world of Middle-earth, about Hobbits and rings. Edmure even made up his own theories. That was good. Imagination was something children should have; it was something to be protected.
Walking out of his room, Jaime found the castle corridor deserted. He looked up at the high arched ceilings above him, supported by thick ancient oak beams. As Steven, a modern man, even after years in Jaime's body, he still felt a deep awe for the castle architecture he constantly encountered. They were so grand, built with hands and sweat, not machines. Every castle had its own uniqueness, all crafted with care like an artist who would not be satisfied if the result did not match their imagination.
"Jaime!"
A voice called out, full of unrestrained energy. Jaime turned just in time to see Edmure Tully running toward him down the corridor. Of course, the kid was always energetic. He ran very fast, ignoring the servants who were dusting the tapestries or carrying dirty linens to be washed. Edmure's fiery red hair looked like moving embers.
"Are you going to tell another story this time?" Edmure asked with a wide grin, his breath slightly panting as he stopped in front of Jaime.
Jaime chuckled softly, looking at the boy who was clearly the heart of Riverrun. "Maybe later, Edmure," he said. "How about we focus on the reality of this morning? And you shouldn't run indoors like that. Look, you startled that servant."
"That's easy," Edmure nodded quickly, looking not at all remorseful. "But reality is boring. Stories are much better! Except for swords! When are we going to practice swords?"
"Yes. We can go to the training yard."
"Great!" Edmure exclaimed. "And after that?"
"After that," Jaime said as he started walking side-by-side with Edmure, "you have lessons with Maester Vyman, right? About the various Houses of the Crownlands."
Edmure immediately rolled his eyes dramatically. "Ugh, yes," he groaned. "Just hearing it makes me tired. He just lists names and castles. There are so many of them they look like ants gathering in my head. Who cares about Lord Stokeworth or whoever Rosby is?"
"You should care," Jaime said. "You should be excited, you will lead Riverrun one day."
Edmure's eyes immediately lit up at the prospect. "And fight on the front lines?"
'Oh, don't be too eager for that,' Jaime thought to himself, remembering the war that might soon occur. He kept smiling on the outside. "That's one part of it. But the bigger part of leading is knowing who your neighbors are. That's why those lessons are important."
"How can a list of names be important?" Edmure asked, genuinely confused.
"Because those names own land," Jaime explained. "That land grows wheat, or raises sheep, or controls roads. You have to know who your neighbors are, what they need, and what you have to trade. Knowing that can stop a war before it starts."
Edmure seemed to ponder this for a moment, as if he had never thought of it from that perspective. "That sounds... that sounds like a lesson on managing a kitchen and a granary."
Jaime chuckled. "Exactly. Managing a region is like managing the world's biggest kitchen. You have to make sure everyone has enough food and isn't fighting over the last scrap of meat."
"Huh. I guess that makes sense," Edmure said, though he was clearly still more interested in the war part. "Alright! But we train first. I want to try that disarming move you showed me the other day! I bet I can beat you this time!"
"We shall see," Jaime said with a smile. They continued walking down the corridor, Edmure now enthusiastically explaining his strategy for their practice fight, while Jaime's mind was still divided between the spirited boy beside him and the shadows gathering in Duskendale.
As the two of them continued their steps, descending the wide spiral staircase toward the main courtyard, another boy emerged from an adjacent hallway. He walked with a calm, unhurried gait. He wore simple but neat black clothes and was carrying a stack of books clamped tightly against his chest. Petyr Baelish.
"Petyr!" Edmure called out cheerfully, waving.
The small, slender boy stopped and turned. A thin, polite smile immediately formed on his lips. "Edmure. Good morning."
His eyes then shifted to Jaime. His polite expression didn't change a bit, but Jaime felt a barely perceptible shift in the air. Something assessing, observing.
"Lord Jaime." Petyr Baelish gave a small nod, a sign of respect perfectly calculated.
"We're both going to the training yard to practice swords," Edmure said, his wide grin returning. "You want to come?" He then glanced at the books Petyr was carrying with a hint of scorn. "Come on, forget those boring books. We can spar together. Three is more fun."
Petyr chuckled softly, a laugh that sounded too mature for a child his age. He shook his head. "I cannot, Edmure. I have financial records I've been studying all week, and it's time to see if the lessons have soaked into my brain. Maester Vyman will test me by having me rewrite them."
"Bleh, you can do that anytime," Edmure urged, clearly not understanding.
"Perhaps," Petyr agreed amiably, unaffected by Edmure's insistence. "But I prefer to finish it now. Besides, you have Lord Jaime here." He glanced at Jaime again, his smile unwavering. "He is surely a far better sparring partner than I am."
Edmure pouted. "Of course I know that," he grumbled, his tone clearly deflating. "But it would be more fun with more people... fine, if that's what you want."
The Tully heir then turned and resumed walking, his steps stomping slightly in annoyance. Jaime paused for a moment, smiling at Petyr. "Good luck with your records," he said, sincere.
"You as well, Lord Jaime," Petyr replied, his eyes holding Jaime's gaze a moment longer than necessary. "I hope your sword practice is enjoyable."
The two of them parted ways. Petyr continued his journey toward the library, while Jaime caught up with Edmure, who was now walking faster down the stairs.
"He's never excited to practice swords," Edmure whispered when Jaime was beside him. "At all. How can he fight bandits if he leaves the castle later?"
Jaime chuckled softly at Edmure's simple logic. "Everyone has their own interests, Edmure. Petyr, for instance, he likes numbers and counting. That is very useful for managing many things in a castle or a kingdom. Far more useful than you think."
"But what about bandits?" Edmure insisted.
"For bandits," Jaime shrugged, "he can go with a dozen armed guards. Not too difficult, right? Some men fight with brains, others with steel."
"But still..." Edmure shook his head quickly, unconvinced. "Never mind. Come on, hurry, I want to hit the practice shield!"
Jaime laughed, freer this time. Edmure's overflowing energy was contagious.
...
The wind blew fiercely over the command ship's deck as the small fleet cut through the waves toward Duskendale. The sharp scent of salt rose from the sea, mixed with the faint smell of tar and wet rope. The air felt crisp, full of the promise of life, or death, depending on which side the sword fell. Seagulls circled above the ship's masts, their cries piercing the wind as if guiding them north.
Tywin Lannister stood at the prow, his crimson cloak billowing violently behind him, yet his body remained still as a stone statue. He watched the birds intently, not out of admiration for nature, but out of a sailor's instinct. The weather would hold; he could feel it in his bones. Their journey today would be logistically smooth. That was the only thing he cared about.
"Nature seems just as eager as we are to save the King, Lord Hand."
The voice came from beside him. Ser Barristan Selmy. The man stood tall in his brilliant white Kingsguard armor, his face glowing with holy determination. There was a fire in his eyes, the fire of a knight who believed in songs of heroism.
'Just your imagination,' Tywin commented silently, suppressing the urge to scoff at such naivety. To Tywin, nature cared for neither kings nor beggars. The wind blew where it willed.
However, he did not voice that. "Let us hope that enthusiasm is sufficient to make Darklyn surrender immediately," he said flatly, without turning. His eyes remained fixed on the hazy northern horizon.
"It still takes time to reach Duskendale, Lord Hand," Barristan said, his tone dropping slightly, realizing the reality of the situation. "Do you have another plan if Darklyn truly refuses to yield? If he uses... his hostage as a shield?"
"For now, we simply must cut off the food supply," Tywin replied. "Hungry men are more likely to lose their minds quickly. An empty belly is a poor counselor, but a master agitator."
In his mind, Tywin calculated. This was a delicate situation. A situation that could derail his plans if he wasn't careful. If Darklyn surrendered too quickly, fearing the sight of this fleet, then Aerys would return to the throne unharmed, and his madness would continue to rot within. That would destroy the golden opportunity Tywin was trying to create. He needed time. He needed pressure.
Luke, the fish merchant, had left for Duskendale the same day they met. That meant, if Tywin's calculations were correct, he should be near there by now. Luke's men would be poison in the well.
By the time Tywin's fleet cut off the sea lanes and his army besieged the land, Luke's men would begin to whisper. They would create chaos, spreading rumors that Tywin Lannister came not to negotiate, but to raze the city to the ground. That even surrendering would not save them.
Tywin wanted Darklyn to feel cornered. He wanted the Lord of Duskendale to know the risks, that he would not get out of this alive unless he did something drastic.
"He lost his mind the moment he dared to take the King captive and kill a Kingsguard," Barristan gritted his teeth as he said it. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. The death of his sworn brother, Ser Gwayne Gaunt, at the hands of Darklyn's soldiers evidently still haunted the knight. "That is a stain that must be cleansed with blood."
Tywin glanced briefly at Barristan. Honor. It was a heavy chain.
"Your vengeance will be paid, Ser Barristan. You simply must be patient," Tywin explained, his tone slightly sharper. "We do not fight to satisfy your anger. We fight to restore order."
"Justice, Lord Tywin," Barristan corrected, his eyes staring sharply. "Justice is what I shall uphold. For my King, and for my brother."
Tywin did not answer. He returned his gaze to the sea. He had no energy to entertain such nonsense. Justice was a word small men used to feel better about the cruelty of the world. Tywin knew the truth: there was only power, and those who held it.
'As you will, Barristan. As you will.'
...
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