JAIME | RHAEGAR
"So in the end, the Prince succeeded in finding Cinderella and taking her to wife?" Catelyn asked, a soft smile blossoming upon her youthful face. Her eyes sparkled, reflecting the glint of sunlight that pierced through the leaves of the great tree sheltering them.
"It was so romantic and magical," Lysa added quickly, her hands cupping cheeks that were slightly flushed from the heat. She giggled, the sound of a young maiden full of dreams. "I was most satisfied to hear that Cinderella's stepsisters were shamed before the Prince whilst trying to force their great feet into that glass slipper. They were so wicked; they deserved their fate!"
Jaime Lannister sat at ease in a carved wooden chair within the Tully's private gardens. All around him, summer blooms were in full flower, red roses, bluebells, and towering sunflowers. The sun above shone fiercely, the azure sky stretching cloudless as far as the eye could see. The heat bit at the skin slightly, yet the breeze from the river made Jaime feel alive. He stretched his arms slightly across the back of the chair, savoring the warmth.
Nearby, Edmure sat with legs crossed, looking slightly skeptical yet listening intently. In a corner far enough away to be unobtrusive but close enough for propriety, Catelyn and Lysa's guards stood tall, their armor gleaming intermittently, watching over their young lord and ladies with quiet vigilance.
"But the Prince ought not to have wed a commoner," Edmure finally voiced his protest, his red brows furrowing in amusing disapproval. "It makes no sense, Jaime. His bannermen would be wroth. A Prince must wed a daughter of a Great House, or at the very least a powerful Lord's daughter for an alliance."
Jaime smiled in amusement. Little Edmure was already thinking like a feudal politician. Hoster Tully's nature had clearly trickled down to him, raw though it still was. 'He has a point,' Jaime admitted, nodding to Catelyn who looked ready to scold her brother.
But Lysa huffed, waving her hand as if swatting a fly. "Why does it make no sense? True love cares naught for castles or family names, Edmure. Look at history! Prince Duncan Targaryen did just that with Jenny of Oldstones. He gave up everything for love."
"And look what came to pass," Edmure retorted stubbornly, pointing a finger. "He lost his claim to the throne, and King Aegon was furious! It caused a great many troubles. Father always says we must put duty before desire."
"Even so, he wed her still. And they were happy, for a time at least," Lysa insisted, shaking her head until her hair swayed. "Besides, this is a tale of Jaime's making! Tales need not make sense! In tales, mice can turn into horses and pumpkins into carriages. Why cannot a maidservant become a princess?"
"Aye," Catelyn interjected with a soothing voice, acting as the wise eldest sister. "Tales are made to comfort, Edmure. That is why there is much magic in them. Our world may be harsh and full of rules, but in stories, we may dream of something sweeter."
Jaime chuckled softly. It felt strange to debate the logistics of a fictional Disney royal wedding in the middle of Westeros, but it was refreshing. "True," he said, then added a small white lie to maintain his image lest he seem too childish. "These stories I actually crafted only to tell Tyrion."
"You tell girls' tales to your brother?" Edmure widened his eyes in disbelief, his mouth slightly agape.
"Tyrion likes stories," Jaime replied casually, picturing his brother. A sudden pang of longing surged within him. "It matters not if it is about knights or princesses with glass slippers, so long as it entertains him and keeps him from weeping at night. He is a clever lad; he fancies the magical."
"That is truly sweet," Catelyn said, her gaze upon Jaime softening.
"We women often hear tales meant for boys about wars and dragons," Lysa defended, still unwilling to lose to Edmure. "Do not be surprised if boys also hear of such romantic tales."
"Uh, aye. Very well. I suppose you have the right of it," Edmure yielded, raising both hands in defeat. He then looked up at the sky, his expression turning slightly dreamy. "Lysa… if there were magic in this world, magic like that fairy godmother, it would be exciting indeed. I would wish for magic that could make me a master swordsman overnight."
Jaime smiled at that. "There are no shortcuts for the sword, Edmure. Only calluses and sweat."
Silence reigned for a moment, filled only by the sound of bees buzzing around the roses. Then, Edmure leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes squinting childishly as if he were sharing a state secret.
"And perhaps… hark, do you think the King will be freed?"
The question burst their bubble of fantasy sharply. The harsh political reality of Westeros came rushing back into the small garden.
"I heard," Edmure continued in a low voice, "that Lord Darklyn has gone mad. The servants say he might turn into a demon later for daring to defy the dragon. That he drinks blood for strength."
"From whence did you hear that?" Lysa was clearly astounded, her eyes round with fear. Her hands reflexively clutched her dress.
Jaime was no less surprised, though for different reasons. Demons? Drinking blood? Rumors in Westeros truly worked like an extreme game of broken telephone. The imagination of the smallfolk was always wild when it concerned things they did not understand. Yet, behind the ridiculous rumors, there was real danger. Fear created monsters.
Edmure seemed to think, trying to recall his source. "When I walked through the kitchens this morning seeking lemon cakes, I overheard the servants whispering whilst scrubbing the plates. That is what they said. That Duskendale is cursed."
Catelyn shook her head, clearly feeling both amusement and pity for her brother's naivety. She smoothed her dress gracefully. "You need not listen seriously to whisperings in the wind, Edmure, especially ones so wild. Servants love to dramatize matters to chase away boredom. Lord Darklyn is a rebel, aye, but he is a man, not a demon."
She looked at Jaime and her brother in turn with a firm yet gentle gaze. "Let us pray that the King will be freed as soon as possible and peace restored. That is the best thing we can do at this moment. Leave the matters of war for the Lords to ponder."
Jaime nodded in agreement, though his mind was in turmoil. 'Aye, let us pray he is freed,' he thought cynically. 'And let us pray that once freed, he does not decide that burning people is his new favorite hobby.' Jaime knew that prayer was likely in vain. The Aerys who walked out of Duskendale would not be the same Aerys who walked in. The Steven inside him knew this history too well. That madness was like a slow-burning fire, and Duskendale was the oil.
Heeding his sister's words, Edmure nodded, looking slightly relieved that no actual demons would be crawling out of Duskendale. Then he looked at Jaime, his spirit reigniting, forgetting politics and demons in an instant.
"Very well, enough about demons and glass slippers. 'Tis better we go fishing now! You promised, Jaime!" Edmure stood, patting his trousers which were slightly sullied by grass. "After all, you leave on the morrow, do you not? This is our last chance."
Ah, yes. That reality hit Jaime again. He had been at Riverrun for a month. Thirty days spent far from Casterly Rock. His father, Tywin, had done this with the aim of drawing him closer to Catelyn to build the foundation for a future marriage.
And it must be admitted, it worked. At least the Catelyn part. Their interactions this time were not truly awkward. They could speak as friends, not strangers forced into a match. Catelyn was no longer just a tragic character or a face on a screen; she was a real girl, intelligent, caring, and possessing a warm laugh. Jaime found himself quite enjoying this company as a friend, a peaceful feeling he rarely felt.
"Of course," Jaime said, rising from his chair and stretching. His muscles felt comfortable after resting; he spoke with a hint of wryness. "I could never break a promise to my future good-brother, could I?"
Catelyn's face reddened slightly at the title, but she did not look away. She smiled politely. "Go on. But be careful by the riverbank; the current can be swift after the rains upstream yesterday."
They walked away from the garden, passing through the sturdy stone gates toward the riverbank accompanied by a few guards. Riverrun was a unique castle, a triangular fortress built at the confluence of two great rivers: the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. Water was their natural defense, as well as the vein of life here.
The river flowed calmly, the water clear and cold; they chose a spot where willow trees dipped their branches into the water.
Jaime sat on the edge, his legs dangling over the water. In his hand was a simple fishing rod. Beside him, Edmure was busy with his hook, his face scrunched in concentration.
After several minutes of waiting in comfortable silence, filled only by the sound of rippling water and chirping birds, Edmure pointed into the distance.
"Look at that," he said, pointing to a boat moving slowly in the distance. It was heavily laden, perhaps with grain or wool. "They must be heading to Saltpans."
Jaime squinted, shielding his gaze from the sun. "A calm journey," he commented.
"Aye," Edmure complained. "Uncle Brynden says river travel is easy, but sea travel is the vexing part. He once told tales of how hard it is for ships from Lannisport to sail around past Dorne if they wish to go to King's Landing or the Free Cities. The winds in the Stepstones are perilous, and there are many pirates."
"The sea is cruel indeed," Jaime murmured. "And sailors are blind at night without stars."
"True!" Edmure exclaimed. "Uncle says if a storm comes and covers the stars, they can only guess or try to sight the coastline. Imagine being lost in the middle of the sea, seeing only water as far as the eye can see. It is terrifying."
Edmure's words, simple and innocent, suddenly triggered something inside Jaime's brain. Like a light switch flipped in a dark room.
'Guessing. Sighting the coastline.'
Steven, the modern soul inhabiting Jaime's frame, was suddenly struck by a realization most fundamental. Something that in his former world was a trifle, a child's toy, yet here... in Westeros, it could be a revolution.
Navigation in this world was still somewhat primitive. They sailed hugging the coastlines, or depended upon the stars and sun. If clouds covered the sky, or fog descended, a fleet could be crippled entirely or lost.
'A Compass.' Yes, he had thought of this once, but being too busy with papers and other matters, he had done nothing.
The principle was simple. Magnetism. He knew of lodestone—natural magnetic rock. He remembered seeing Maester Creylen at Casterly Rock possessing several stones that could attract iron. The people of Westeros knew of magnets as curiosities, toys for Maesters, but none had applied them for maritime navigation en masse.
Jaime stared at the river barge again, but his mind had already drifted far to Lannisport.
If the Lannisters possessed the compass...
Imagine the advantage. Lannister ships would no longer need to hug the treacherous coastlines. They could cut directly across the open sea, saving weeks of time. They could sail when it was overcast, during storms, during starless nights, whilst their enemies had to drop anchor and wait for the weather to clear.
In war? It was a priceless strategic advantage. The Lannisport fleet could appear from unexpected directions, maneuvering in thick fog to ambush.
In trade? It was a monopoly. They could chart new trade routes that were safer and faster to the Free Cities, perhaps even further.
A needle that points North.
Jaime began to construct the schematic in his head. He needed an iron needle, which would then be rubbed against a lodestone to magnetize it. He could ask the best smiths at Casterly Rock to forge a perfectly balanced needle, and glassblowers to enclose it so it would not be disturbed by the wind. He would add a compass rose beneath it—North, South, East, West.
"Jaime?" Edmure's call jolted him back to the present.
"Huh?" Jaime turned, blinking.
"You were dreaming. Your bait is taken," Edmure said, pointing at Jaime's rod which was bending slightly.
Jaime quickly pulled up his rod, feeling a small resistance. A medium-sized silver fish thrashed at the end of the line. He pulled it in with practiced movements, but his mind was still half-left on the design of the compass.
"A fine catch!" Edmure praised.
"Aye," Jaime muttered, unhooking the fish and tossing it into the woven basket. "A very fine catch."
He stared at the flowing water. He would try to realize this idea to distract his mind from the problems at hand. This must become another secret project of House Lannister. Something he would present to his father one day.
"You are smiling strangely," Edmure commented, looking at him suspiciously.
Jaime laughed, genuine this time.
"I was just thinking about... direction," Jaime replied. "About how we know where we are going."
Edmure frowned, not understanding. "We go downstream, of course. Or that way if you wish to go home."
"Precisely," said Jaime, casting his hook back into the water. "Sometimes it is that simple."
"Hey, Jaime," Edmure spoke again, his voice slightly hesitant. "If you leave on the morrow... will you write letters?"
Jaime turned, seeing the boy's slightly sad expression. Edmure, the youngest child in a great castle, clearly enjoyed having a new 'big brother' for this past month.
"Of course," Jaime promised. "I shall send a raven. Perhaps I shall slip a new story or two inside. About a pirate who could find his way home in the darkest storm."
Edmure's eyes lit up. "That sounds grand. Tell me later!"
"I shall."
The sun began to dip, touching the horizon, turning the river's surface into a sheet of shimmering copper. The afternoon wind began to blow colder.
Jaime packed up his fishing gear. "Come," he said, clapping Edmure on the shoulder. "Before your Lord Father scolds us for being late to supper."
…
The wharves beyond the walls of Duskendale were a living, breathing entity, wrought of wood, rope, and organized despair. The place was bustling and clamorous, a sickening contrast to the deadly silence that hung over the Dun Fort itself. Cask upon cask was stacked in every available corner; inside them lay salted fish still smelling of the sea, fruits beginning to rot under the heat, wilted vegetables, and of course, cheap wine and ale to drown the soldiers' fears.
Men moved on foot hauling these goods, their backs bowed under the burden of siege logistics. They scurried to and fro like ants whose hill had been disturbed, and every so often, their weary eyes would glance toward the royal retinue atop the deck of a great ship flying the three-headed dragon.
Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the prow of the command ship. He observed them from above with scrutiny, his violet eyes sweeping over the scene below. The atmosphere here seemed business as usual, trade continued to flow, bellies had to be filled, but there was a tension creeping through the air like the breeze before a storm.
Lord Tywin Lannister did not play games. The Hand of the King had already ordered every soldier to board the merchant vessels, inspecting every hold and crate, restricting existing supplies with brutal efficiency. Access to the Dun Fort had been severed completely. No grain went in, no messages came out. The town was being slowly strangled, and Tywin was the hand holding the rope, tightening it inch by inch without emotion. All were guarded with rigorous precision.
The royal soldiers, in armor reflecting the sunlight with a blinding glare, walked with steady steps down the gangplank. The company traveling by land had not fully arrived, hindered by mud on the Kingsroad, so there were few horses on the docks. Yet, the sound of every stomp of their boots upon the wooden wharf was loud, rhythmic, and merciless, as if they would shake the earth and bring down the city walls with their steps alone. Their faces were flat, expressionless, disciplined to show no doubt; their bodies stood rigid as pikes ready to thrust.
Firm footsteps, heavier than a common soldier's, sounded from behind Rhaegar. Without needing to look, he knew who it was. He turned to find Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, walking toward him. His white armor was stained by the dust of travel, but his white cloak still hung with undeniable authority. The old bull's face looked harder than stone.
"How stands the situation, Ser?" asked Rhaegar, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of unspoken worry.
Gerold wore a serious countenance, the only expression to be found on any face Rhaegar had seen of late, on the faces of lords, knights, and he was certain if he looked in a mirror, he would find the same shadow upon his own visage.
"It is secured, my Prince," Gerold reported, his voice gruff and low. "No man shall approach the Dun Fort within the designated perimeter. Archers have been stationed on the rooftops. Merchants have been warned with threats of asset seizure should they breach the blockade, let alone the locals. And if any rat attempts to scurry out of that castle, we shall catch it, alive or dead."
"No word of the King?" Rhaegar asked, his eyes shifting back to the grim stone fortress looming in the distance, where his father was held.
Gerold shook his head, an expression of frustration crossing his weary eyes. "None. Lord Tywin has already sent an envoy to deliver the ultimatum. We must only wait for Darklyn's response now. There is naught else we can do. Time and patience are the only path, so says the Lord Hand."
They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the shouts of ship captains barking orders. Rhaegar felt estranged. He was the Prince, the heir to the throne, yet here, in this slaughterhouse being prepared, he felt like a spectator. Tywin Lannister was the master of this siege, and Rhaegar was merely a royal ornament required to be present.
"They say Darklyn has gone mad to dare this," Rhaegar murmured, more to himself than to Gerold. "But what drives a loyal Lord to this point? Fear? Or desperation?"
"Greed and folly, my Prince," Gerold answered firmly. "There is no reason that justifies touching a King."
Suddenly, a commotion below drew their attention. They saw the figure of Lord Tywin Lannister, in armor of crimson and gold, standing amidst a throng of soldiers. He looked like a living golden statue, unaffected by the chaos around him. Then, a horse ridden hard approached him, mud splashing everywhere. It was the envoy they had sent.
The man dismounted in haste, nearly falling from exhaustion or fear. He offered a trembling salute and began to speak to Tywin. The distance was too great for Rhaegar to hear the words, but he needed not hear to understand. He saw the envoy's expression—pale as a sheet, eyes wide, cold sweat drenching his brow. And he saw Tywin's reaction, or rather, the absence of one. The Lord of Lannister's face did not change in the slightest.
"Come," said Rhaegar, urgency suddenly gripping him. He and Gerold hurried off the ship, their steps quick across the wooden planks toward the docks.
They approached the circle of commanders. The smell of horses and sweat assaulted them. Tywin turned as he saw the Prince approaching, his gaze calm and analytical.
"What is it, Lord Hand?" Rhaegar asked, his voice slightly demanding, though he already knew the answer from the aura of darkness shrouding the group.
Tywin looked straight into Rhaegar's eyes. There was no sympathy there, no fear.
"Darklyn refuses to yield," Tywin said sharply, every word cut with precision. "He refused the offer of pardon for his family should he surrender himself. His mind remains unchanged; he will only agree to hand over the King if we accede to all his demands."
"So... He threatens Father's life?" Rhaegar felt his blood run cold.
"He seems to still possess the nerve," Tywin continued, his tone flat, as if discussing the rising price of wheat.
"Then what is our plan?" Rhaegar pressed.
Tywin's pale green eyes flashed, a glint that sent a shiver down Rhaegar's spine. "We shall not retreat, my Prince. We shall wait. And if Darklyn believes he can use the King as a shield forever, he shall learn that the Lion does not treat with rebels."
Nodding, Rhaegar thought that this would be a very long day indeed...
...
What else should Jaime make besides a compass? Any ideas?
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