Sorry for the late update. It's Eid, so I've been pretty busy. Haha.
...
TYWIN | JONOTHOR
The light streaming through the arched window in Queen Cersei's chamber bathed the room in a rich golden hue. And, the most precious gold in that room was not the jewelry scattered on the vanity, or the thread embroidered on the silk curtains, but the baby being held by her daughter.
"Rhaegar is always gloomy lately, Father," complained Cersei. Her voice broke Tywin's silence.
Tywin stood tall near the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. He observed his grandson. The baby was his greatest pride so far. This baby was physical proof that he had succeeded. He had catapulted the Lannister name to a level higher than anyone in their family history.
It took patience and tireless hard work for decades to see results like this. Ensuring Aerys didn't destroy everything, educating Jaime and Cersei, building wealth. And now, the result was before his eyes.
Aegon laughed, a pure and carefree baby sound. The laugh sounded sweet in Tywin's ears, a confirmation of a bright future.
Tywin shifted his gaze to his daughter's beautiful face which looked a little annoyed.
"That is your duty as a wife, Cersei," said Tywin, his tone flat. "You should be comforting him, not complaining about his mood. Rhaegar is King. His burden is heavy. The Kingdom, especially King's Landing, is in a painful transition period."
Tywin stepped closer. "Progress is being built. New foundations are being laid. This makes the smallfolk confused and the Lords panic due to change, although they can actually enjoy this in the next few years. Rhaegar must balance all those fears."
"I have tried, Father," replied Cersei defensively. "He smiles and talks to me at dinner, but he feels distant. His eyes look at me, but his mind is elsewhere. His mind is always spinning in his own head, thinking of numbers and stones."
Cersei patted Aegon's back a little too fast.
"He is thinking of a way out for the current situation. And that is good," Tywin replied. "He accepted my advice to build more infrastructure projects to absorb labor. But still, it takes a long time to realize. He will get through this later. You just need to be his steadfast supporter, not his distraction."
Tywin respected Rhaegar. His son-in-law was a calm king, he thought rationally. He would accept what others suggested, provided it proved good for the people and the stability of the realm.
Rhaegar's rational nature made it easy for Tywin to spread his influence through Jaime's 'inventions'.
Tywin's mind shifted to those projects. For example, 'Casterly Mortar', that was the most advanced invention so far. The ability to create liquid stone, which could be shaped according to molds and harden as strong as granite, was a miracle.
Lannisport had used it extensively a few years ago. Kevan had coated defensive walls with concrete, paved main roads, and built new docks. Although it was not yet fully finished, the results were extraordinary. The city was clean and sturdy.
Now, Tywin brought that invention to the capital. Cement processing manufactories had been established on the banks of the Blackwater. It was just that, the key ingredient, certain volcanic ash that gave strength, required a long time to be brought from Dragonstone. And fortunately, it was Rhaegar who owned that island as his ancestral seat. If not, if Dragonstone were held by an enemy or an uncooperative Lord, they would struggle to find a cheap alternative.
So far, Lannisport was the most advanced city in the entire kingdom, the crown jewel of House Lannister. That progress was sparked by the brains of Maester Creylen and his son, Jaime.
It made Tywin more aware of the real power of applied knowledge. Learning and 'experimenting' were no longer just hobbies for idle people; they were strategic investments.
Even Tyrion...
Tywin frowned slightly when thinking of his youngest son. Tyrion did those experiments often now at Casterly Rock, spending his time in the library or workshop. Tywin wasn't sure yet what he was working on, and he didn't ask too much as long as the boy didn't embarrass the family name. But Kevan's reports said Tyrion had a useful sharpness in mechanics and water channel design.
Perhaps, thought Tywin, there was a use for the "University" Jaime proposed. A center of learning controlled by the Lannisters. They would have various departments: engineering, agriculture, economics. And from there, they would sponsor people smart enough to work for the advancement of House Lannister.
Of course, Tywin would also supervise it strictly. Knowledge was power, and power must be controlled. Do not let it go off track like the Maesters at the Citadel who felt they knew everything. People needed to know boundaries and who their masters were.
"Hopefully," said Cersei, breaking Tywin's reverie. "Aegon needs his father. I also need those people to calm down immediately, Father. I do not want chaos in my kingdom. It will mess up Aegon's growth."
"Aegon is a strong child, he has Lannister blood," snorted Tywin. He extended his hands. "Here. Let me hold him."
Cersei looked hesitant for a moment, her protective maternal instinct appearing. "Do not grip him too hard. He just finished nursing."
"I raised three children, Cersei. And I rule the Seven Kingdoms. I know how to hold a baby," said Tywin flatly.
Cersei handed the baby over carefully.
Tywin received the child. A little heavy. This child was healthy, solid, and warm. Too much eating, thought Tywin critically. Cersei pampered him excessively. Tywin had to ensure his daughter didn't kill this child's potential with suffocating affection and sweet food. He must not grow up spoiled.
If Aegon grew up only depending on and following Cersei's perspective, that could not be allowed. Cersei herself was still unstable in many things; she had Tywin's ambition but without his patience and self-control. Aegon had to be educated by Tywin and Jaime as soon as he could walk.
Tywin stared at his grandson's face. He stroked the child's hair with one finger, very fine silvery-blonde hair. Very Targaryen. But the face shape... there was Lannister firmness there. His purple eyes opened, staring at Tywin with bright curiosity, not crying.
Good. He was not afraid.
Someday this child would be King. And with Tywin's guidance, he would surpass all his predecessors, he would be supported by the infrastructure and wealth Tywin built today.
Aegon laughed a little as they stared at each other, his tiny hand reaching for the gold chain on Tywin's chest.
Tywin let their gaze linger longer, feeling that blood connection. It flowed through both of them.
...
The sun had set when Tywin came out of the Queen's chamber. The corridors of the Red Keep began to be lit by torches.
Afternoon was turning into night, and it was time for him to return to his solar. There were still stacks of documents to be signed, budget approvals for sewer expansion, intelligence reports on bandit movements in the Riverlands, and letters to Kevan.
His footsteps echoed on the quiet stone floor, his mind already hardened again. Then he heard other footsteps. Two pairs of footsteps, approaching from behind him at a fast tempo.
Tywin stopped and turned.
It was Jaime and Catelyn.
His eldest son was still wearing somewhat dusty clothes, although he clearly had tried to clean himself makeshiftly. His face looked tired but his eyes shone with a strange intensity. Catelyn Tully, now Lannister, walked beside him, her face flushed red and her hand clasped tightly on Jaime's arm.
They looked... agitated. But not the kind of agitation from bringing bad news.
"What is it?" asked Tywin, his voice returning to its usual commanding tone. "Jaime, why have you not changed clothes?"
"There is something we must discuss, Father," said Jaime. A wide smile blossomed on his face, a smile he couldn't hold back. "Now."
Tywin raised his eyebrows slightly. He looked at Catelyn, who smiled shyly but met his gaze with a courage he appreciated.
"Enter," said Tywin briefly, opening his solar door.
They entered. Tywin walked behind his desk, but didn't sit. He stood, waiting for the report.
"Speak."
Jaime took a deep breath, then embraced his wife's shoulder.
"Catelyn is with child," said Jaime. "We just came from Maester Baelin. He confirmed it. You will have another grandchild, Father. The heir to Casterly Rock is on the way."
The room was silent for a second.
Tywin stared at Catelyn's stomach which was still flat, then shifted to his son's face.
This news... this was the final piece he needed.
Cersei had provided an heir to the throne. And now, Jaime had ensured the continuation of the main line of House Lannister. His lineage was safe. His legacy was safe.
Tywin's lips twitched. The corners of his usually stiff mouth slowly lifted.
A rare smile, a sincere smile, without cynicism, without threat, was seen on the face of the Lord of Casterly Rock.
"Good," said Tywin, his voice warmer than usual. "Very good."
He walked around the desk, approaching them.
"Take good care of her, Jaime," ordered Tywin.
...
Rain fell heavily. The wind howled between the ruins of the remaining stone houses, creating a ghostly whistle that made hairs stand on end. Around the makeshift camp set up in the mud of the destroyed village, warhorses neighed restlessly, stomping their feet on the muddy ground, their reins straining against wooden stakes.
Ser Jonothor Darry sat alone under the shelter of a leather tarp stretched between two collapsed house walls. He sat on a cold and wet large stone, staring at the wooden cup in his hand with a blank gaze.
He was tired. Fatigue that penetrated to the marrow, the kind of fatigue that couldn't be removed just by sleeping one night.
His eyes, stinging from lack of sleep, looked around. Under the pouring rain, his soldiers looked pitiful. They were fighting against the elements, trying to fix tent pegs that kept coming loose from the soft ground, calming horses panicked by lightning, and keeping that pathetic campfire from dying completely. No one spoke. Their voices were swallowed by the roar of the rain.
This was the twenty-fifth day since they left King's Landing.
Twenty-five days of chasing shadows.
Since their first failure in the previous village, they had spurred horses across half the Riverlands. Yet those ghosts were always one step ahead. They had passed another destroyed village a week ago, the same sight: ashes, corpses, and empty granaries. They were late again. Always late a few hours, or half a day.
Impossible to catch the wind, thought Jonothor bitterly.
The direct pursuit strategy had failed totally. Their horses were exhausted, and enemy tracks were always lost in rivers or rocky roads. So, Jonothor changed his tactics. Instead of moving this entire slow large force, he decided to send small units first.
He had chosen his thirty best men, hunters, trackers, and fastest riders. He spread them like a spider web in all directions, with a simple order: Do not attack. Find the nest. And return.
Meanwhile, the rest of his troops were stuck here, in this nameless village, helping residents bury bodies and set up makeshift shelters. It was a noble duty, a knight's duty, but Jonothor felt like he was wasting precious time.
Jonothor exhaled a long breath, white steam coming out of his mouth. He lifted his wooden cup and gulped its contents.
Water. Cold, tasteless, and tasting of earth.
Lighting a fire big enough to cook or warm wine was impossible in the middle of this storm. Firewood was soaked. So he had to be content with rainwater and cold rations.
He opened his provision bag with stiff hands. Inside was a piece of dried smoked meat and leftover hard bread that had started to get damp. He took the meat, its surface rough and greasy.
He bit into it.
The meat was tough, like chewing boot leather. He had to pull it hard, using his molars to tear the hard meat fibers. It tasted excessively salty, savory, and smelled strongly of wood smoke. Not delicious, but it was food. It was energy.
Jonothor chewed in silence, his jaw working hard.
His mind drifted back to King's Landing, to the warm Red Keep. He thought of his brothers in the Kingsguard. If he couldn't solve a thing like this quickly, his pride would be tarnished forever. He didn't want to be remembered as a Kingsguard competent only in tournaments but useless in the field. Jonothor the Slow. Jonothor the Shadow Chaser.
His jaw hardened, teeth clashing.
He cursed those people. Those bastard bandits. They were not just thieves; they were monsters. The kingdom was experiencing a critical time. Food was gold. People killed for a piece of bread. And here, those bastards dared to burn the barns that grew it? They destroyed farming tools that could double the harvest?
Did they have brains? Or were they just mad dogs wanting to see the world burn?
Damn it.
Suddenly, faint footsteps were heard amidst the roar of the rain. The sound of mud being stepped on hurriedly.
Jonothor stopped chewing. His right hand instinctively moved to his sword hilt resting on the stone. He turned, squinting through the curtain of water.
Figures emerged from the darkness. Three men.
Jonothor frowned, then recognized the posture of one of them.
It was Duran. One of his best trackers. He was accompanied by two other soldiers. They were soaked, mud covering them from head to toe, and they looked like they had just risen from the grave. Their breath heaved, steam billowing from their hot bodies.
They were part of the thirty soldiers he sent north.
Jonothor stood up instantly, ignoring the stiffness in his knees. His wooden cup fell to the ground.
"You got news?" he asked directly, his voice sharp cutting through the sound of rain.
Duran stopped in front of him, bending slightly while resting on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His face was pale from exhaustion, but his eyes... his eyes lit up with victory.
"Yes... Yes, Ser," answered Duran panting. He wiped rain water from his eyes. "Our horses... we pushed them to the limit... but we managed to get ahead of them through forest shortcuts."
Duran swallowed, then straightened his body.
"We found a cave, Ser. Not far north from around here. In the hills near Acorn Hall."
Duran pointed north, into the darkness.
"We sneaked closer. We took a look. The cave is large, its mouth covered by bushes. But inside... there were many goods. Stacks of crates. Sacks of wheat. Swords, stolen armor... also mountains of food. We saw them going in and out, carrying loot."
Duran took another breath. "Then we retreated, observing for a few hours from the top of the hill. They didn't leave. They lit fires inside. They ate, drank, laughed. There are many of them, Ser. Hundreds. It is their base."
Jonothor's heart beat faster. Adrenaline flooded his system, erasing the cold and fatigue in an instant. Finally.
"Are you sure it is not their temporary hideout?" asked Jonothor urgently. He had to be sure. He didn't want to raid an empty cave tomorrow.
Duran looked thoughtful for a moment, recalling the details of his observation.
"I think not, Ser," he answered confidently. "Those goods... the amount is so large. Heavy crates, ale barrels. Those are not goods carried by a fast-moving force. Those are supplies. It is a permanent base, or at least their main warehouse."
Jonothor nodded slowly. He thought fast. What other choice did they have? The men he sent in other directions hadn't returned, and might not find anything. This was the best lead, the only real lead he had in twenty-five days.
He stared at the pitch-black sky. Rain was still falling heavily.
His instinct screamed to attack now. To mount horses and slaughter them while they slept drunk. But his rationality held him back.
Attacking tonight, in the middle of a storm like this, on unfamiliar terrain... that was suicide. Horses would slip. Arrows wouldn't fly straight. Torches wouldn't light. His troops would be exhausted and freezing before getting there, while the enemy was dry and warm inside the cave.
The risk was too great.
Jonothor made a decision.
"Tell the others," ordered Jonothor, his voice firm and authoritative, leaving no room for argument. "Wake the lieutenant captains. Check weapons. Feed horses with the best remaining grain we have. We move tomorrow morning, exactly one hour before sunrise."
He looked at Duran. "You and your men, rest. You have saved this mission."
"And leave two men here," added Jonothor. "To inform other tracking soldiers still out there if they return, so they follow us north."
...
Dawn came reluctantly that day. The sun seemed hesitant to show its face behind the blanket of thick grey clouds hanging low over the Riverlands hills. The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving a wet silence broken only by water dripping from tree leaves.
Ser Jonothor Darry stood behind the tree line, his eyes fixed on the cave opening on the opposite hillside, about two hundred yards from their position. Thin mist blanketed the small valley between them, providing natural cover but also adding a chest-tightening tension.
The bushes rustled softly beside him. Duran appeared from the tree shadows.
"They are still there, Ser," whispered Duran, his breath forming white steam in the cold morning air. "Their guards are asleep. I can hear their snoring from fifty paces. Ale cups scattered everywhere."
Jonothor gripped his sword hilt, his leather glove creaking softly when squeezed. A wave of immense relief washed away the fatigue that had haunted him for weeks.
This journey was not in vain. Twenty-five days of chasing amidst mud and rain finally led to this moment. "Good," hissed Jonothor.
He turned to face his troops, waiting in silence. They had led their horses carefully to avoid making noise, wrapping horse hooves with cloth. Their faces hard, their eyes cold. They were also tired of being played by these bandits. They were bloodthirsty.
Jonothor raised his hand, giving the agreed hand signal.
Archers, to the left and right flanks. Close the exit. Heavy cavalry, prepare in the center.
"Remember my orders," Jonothor whispered to his second-in-command, Ser Ryman. "The leader must be alive. The rest... if they surrender, bind them. If they hold weapons, kill them. Show no mercy to anyone who resists."
Ser Ryman nodded grimly, then passed the order to the back of the line with silent signals.
Jonothor took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cold air. He calmed himself, letting his heartbeat slow into a focused war rhythm. He drew his sword slowly. Metal clashing with leather, a hiss heard softly.
He raised his sword high.
Then, he swung it forward.
"CHARGE!"
His shout broke the morning silence like thunder.
Three hundred men shouted in unison, a terrifying sound designed to freeze enemy blood. The earth trembled as horses were released. They spurred out of the tree line, crossing the open valley at full speed.
At the cave mouth, panic occurred instantly.
Two sleeping guards jumped awake, but before they could reach their spears lying on the ground, arrows from the left flank were already lodged in their chests. They fell back without having a chance to scream.
Jonothor's troops reached the makeshift camp in front of the cave in seconds. Canvas tents were trampled by warhorses. Men just waking up, still dizzy from last night's alcohol, crawled out with wide eyes, only to be greeted by spear tips and the flat sides of swords.
Those people seemed mostly heavily drunk or still fast asleep due to their victory party last night. Their reactions were slow, their movements clumsy. Some tried to run into the forest, but were shot or chased by horsemen already waiting on the hillside. Some tried to fight with daggers or stolen swords, but they were no match for trained soldiers wearing full armor.
"Hold them! Do not kill if unnecessary!" shouted Jonothor as he jumped down from his horse in front of the cave mouth.
He parried a wild attack from a thin bandit with his shield, then slammed the man's face with his sword pommel, knocking him out instantly.
Jonothor didn't stop. He stepped into the cave, followed by his five best soldiers.
Inside, the air smelled musty, a mixture of torch smoke, human sweat, horse dung, and alcohol. The cave was large, high-ceilinged, filled with loot crates stacked untidily.
At the back of the cave, near the campfire still leaving embers, a group of men were trying to organize resistance. In their midst stood a tall man with a thick messy black beard but possessing an aura of authority. He wore pieces of chainmail, and held a large woodcutting axe with both hands.
That was him. The leader. The man described by the villagers.
"Back off, royal dogs!" shouted the man, his voice booming on the cave stone walls. "You will not take us alive!"
"That is your choice," said Jonothor coldly, stepping forward. Torchlight reflected off his white cloak now stained with mud, making him look like an avenging ghost.
Two other bandits lunged at Jonothor. Jonothor parried the first attack easily, spun his sword and slashed the second attacker's leg. They fell groaning.
The bearded man roared and swung his axe with desperate strength.
The attack was strong, but crude. Just pure rage.
Jonothor stepped aside with precision trained for years, letting the axe hit empty air. Before the man could recover his balance, Jonothor kicked his knee from the side.
The man screamed in pain and fell to his knees.
With a quick movement, Jonothor pressed the tip of his sword to the man's neck, right under his dirty beard.
"Drop the weapon," ordered Jonothor.
The man stared at Jonothor. His eyes red, full of burning hatred, but also fear. He looked around. His men had been neutralized. He was alone.
The axe fell from his trembling hands, clanking on the stone floor.
"Bind him," ordered Jonothor to his soldiers. "And make sure he does not swallow his own tongue."
As his soldiers dragged the bandit leader to stand and tied his hands behind his back roughly, Jonothor finally exhaled a long breath.
...
Power Stones would be greatly appreciated, it would also keep me motivated for faster updates. If we reach 300, I will upload an extra chapter.
Also, you can read early chapters at Patreon.com/Daario_W
Thanks for reading!