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?"
...
Power Stones would be greatly appreciated, it would also keep me motivated for faster updates.
Also, you can read early chapters at Patreon.com/Daario_W
Thanks for reading!