WHISPER IN THE WIND
The sight was so grand, so large, that Gerion himself felt as if this were a dream. The ship loomed before him on the busy docks of Lannisport, its hull gleaming in the morning sun. Its size alone was astonishing, far larger than the usual merchant ships that filled the harbor. Its tall masts pierced the blue sky, its neatly furled sails promising wind and adventure.
Gerion stood among the crowd, the dockworkers, merchants, sailors, who had also paused for a moment to gaze at this newborn masterpiece. Whispers and murmurs of admiration sounded around him. They might see an impressive new ship, another symbol of the limitless wealth of the Lannisters. But Gerion saw something far more personal. He saw freedom.
For these past few months, he had felt as if he were living in a golden cage. Yes, the cage was beautiful, its walls made of the mighty stone of Casterly Rock, its bars coated in pure gold. He had a long chain, allowing him to wander the taverns of Lannisport, flirt with women, and tell his jokes. He could go wherever he wanted within the Westerlands, enjoying all the pleasures that could be bought with his name and fortune. But still, there was a limit. An invisible wall that separated him from the real world, the world of adventure he dreamed of in the quiet of the night.
But now, standing here, on this dock that smelled of salt and fish, looking at the ship that would take him across the Narrow Sea, he realized that the cage had been shattered to pieces. The chain was broken. And he, Gerion Lannister, was finally free.
A ship. Not just any ship, but one designed for long voyages, capable of holding more than fifty men, crew, guards, and of course, himself and his small retinue. This ship was fast, sturdy, and most importantly, new. He got this because of that funny, strange nephew of his, Jaime. Who would have thought a ten-year-old boy's obsession with rags and paper pulp could lead to this? Whatever invention Jaime was working on might change the world one day, but it started by changing Gerion's world. A world that was once dull and grim, now filled with the promise of new horizons.
With a step lighter than usual, Gerion climbed the wooden gangplank connecting the dock to the ship's deck. The workers bowed respectfully as he passed. He entered the ship, leaving the noise of the harbor behind. The atmosphere inside was damp, filled with the smell of freshly planed pine and oak and the sharp scent of varnish. Sunlight streamed in through the open hatches, illuminating the remaining construction chaos.
The interior was a bit of a mess. Pieces of wood were scattered on the floor, a few nails lay in the corners, coils of rope piled up like sleeping snakes. Sheets of unfolded sailcloth were folded over crates, and there were even a few used drinking glasses and leftover food from the workers left on a barrel. However, Gerion didn't mind. This chaos was the chaos of creation. In a few days, all this would be clean, replaced by crates of supplies, trade goods, a cover for his journey, and of course, the precious samples of his nephew's invention.
He walked down the narrow corridor below deck, imagining how this place would soon be filled with life, the sound of sailors' footsteps, the aroma of cooking from the galley, and perhaps occasionally, the sound of singing at night. This ship would be his home for months, maybe even years. And that thought, instead of scaring him, filled him with overflowing joy.
Tywin's order had come a few weeks after Jaime's return from King's Landing. Returning with stories of Prince Rhaegar being captivated by his ideas. Tywin immediately saw the golden potential in his son's discovery. And he also saw the potential in Gerion.
"You will go to the Free Cities," Tywin had written in the letter. "Bring samples of this paper. Show them to the merchant princes, the magisters, the scribes. Make them want it. And while you are there, keep your ears open. Listen to the gossip. Learn the trade currents. Report back anything of interest."
It was a command, but to Gerion, it felt like a gift. A mission. A purpose. And a new ship to do it on.
The paper production itself had begun in earnest since Jaime's return. The small mill established in one of the old warehouses near the river below Casterly Rock quickly expanded. The initial production was chaotic, of course. Teaching dozens of workers, mostly the sons of farmers or fishermen with no special skills, how to sort used cloth, cut it to the right size, pound it into pulp of the correct consistency, boil it, form thin sheets on molds, press them, and dry them... it was a complicated and tiring process. Gerion himself had visited a few times, and just watching it made his head spin. Cloth dust flew in the air, the strange smell of boiling pulp stung the nose, and the monotonous sound of the pounding hammers echoed relentlessly.
But Jaime, with his patience and good explanations, assisted by Jon who supervised sternly, managed to train them. And then came the waterwheel. Another idea to harness the river's power to move giant pounding hammers had revolutionized everything. Production became much faster, much more efficient.
Now, the 'mill', as people were beginning to call it, not only had twenty workers, but up to a hundred. They worked in rotating 'shifts', keeping the hammers pounding day and night, turning piles of dirty rags into clean white sheets of paper. It was strange how something that might have been born from the random thought of a curious child could create jobs for a hundred people and change the small economic landscape around Casterly Rock.
Of course, Jaime himself was rarely seen there anymore. Since returning from King's Landing, his Father had placed him as a page for Tygett. And a few months later, he was made a squire. It was part of the education of a future great Lord, learning to serve before ruling. So now, most of Jaime's time was spent in the training yard, in the stables, or following Tygett around, doing whatever his moody uncle asked of him to 'learn'. The paper production was established enough that it no longer needed his direct supervision at all times. The older workers could teach the new ones. They ran on their own now, a new living, breathing enterprise in the shadows.
And the paper itself? Very well received. The merchants in Lannisport were the first to adopt it. They never turned down something practical and cheaper. Although the initial price was still quite high, it was still far cheaper than animal skin parchment. Scribes, mapmakers, even some minor Lords began to order it. Over time, as production increased and the process became more efficient, the price stabilized, making it even more affordable. Parchment was still used for important royal documents or luxurious manuscripts, but for everyday notes, correspondence, and bookkeeping, paper quickly became the primary choice.
And then there was the 'school' idea. Another of Jaime's concepts, which he somehow managed to convince Tywin of. A school for common folk. The initial implementation began a few weeks ago in Lannisport. And who did Tywin assign to talk to the stubborn old Septons in the Sept? Gerion, of course. Gerion himself had to go to the sept, sit for hours in rooms that smelled of incense and old books, discussing and chatting with the Leader Septon of Lannisport. He had to frame it carefully, not as an attempt to disrupt the social order, but as a way to increase piety. 'Imagine', he said, 'how wonderful it would be if more children could read The Seven-Pointed Star for themselves, without needing to rely on a Septon to read it to them. Imagine how much stronger their faith would become'. The Septons, after some debate and the assurance of a generous donation to the Sept, finally agreed to provide a few rooms and some young Septons as initial teachers. It was a small step, but it was a start.
Gerion smiled to himself as he stood in the spacious captain's cabin at the ship's stern. He looked out the window at the bustling harbor, at Casterly Rock looming in the distance. He was a part of all this now. Not just a spectator, but a player. He would bring this paper to the world. He would open new markets. He would gather information for Tywin. He would help build the school.
The 'Sept' school itself, the pilot project in Lannisport, was an interesting experiment. The fee had been set: six silver stags per month for each child. A price affordable enough for the more prosperous merchants and craftsmen in the city, but significant enough to ensure they valued the opportunity. In return, each child would receive a ration of paper, the new Lannister paper, worth nine coppers each week for writing and arithmetic practice. Jaime insisted they must use real paper from the start, not just slate, to get them used to the new medium and, of course, to create demand early on.
The learning itself was quite simple. The young Septons used a blackboard, just an ordinary wooden board painted black, and white chalk to teach basic letters and numbers. The children came five days a week, usually in the morning before they were expected to help their parents in the shop or workshop. They learned to read simple words, spell their names, and add basic numbers. Practical skills designed to make them better merchants or craftsmen in the future.
Gerion felt that, even if most of these children were probably just being ordered to learn arithmetic so they could help their fathers cheat customers more efficiently later on, there was an inevitable side benefit. Learning to read in the Sept, with The Seven-Pointed Star as one of their main practice texts... They would be exposed to the faith, whether they liked it or not. They would learn about the Maiden and the Mother, about the Warrior and the Smith, even as they learned how to count copper coins.
That thought made him laugh softly. Tywin might see this school as a way to increase economic efficiency and instill Lannister loyalty or control. But the Septons... the Septons might be inadvertently gaining a small army of new followers who could read their own prayers. A delightful irony.
He, Gerion Lannister, finally had a purpose. And well. The winds of change were blowing.
…
Alan climbed the spiral stairs of the Citadel's tower with a steady pace, his breathing even despite the load in his hands. A steady pace was the key; rushing would only leave him breathless before reaching the top. In his hands, he held a stack of paper, that precious new commodity, which he had obtained with great difficulty from the morning crowd near the merchants' gate. To get this, he had to queue since before dawn, jostling with greedy people who wanted to buy as much as possible to resell at a higher price, servants sent by their masters, and of course, other Citadel acolytes as desperate as himself.
The wealthier acolytes, sons of great Lords or merchants, didn't bother with such indignities. They would just send someone, someone like Alan, who needed a few extra copper coins, to queue for them.
In his hands were a hundred sheets of clean white paper. A very large amount. Meanwhile, he himself could only afford ten sheets with the coins he had managed to scrape together. The remaining ninety sheets belonged to his friends: Bandy, Colin, and Davos. They had pooled their money and given it to Alan last night, along with a wage of a few copper coins in return for his efforts. It was profitable, of course. Extra money was always welcome, even if it meant he had to endure the elbows, shoves, and the sour smell of sweat from people who seemed to have never bathed in their lives. The smell of the crowd at the merchants' gate was something that would haunt him in his sleep.
He finally reached the top of the stairs and pushed the heavy wooden door open. The Citadel's library greeted him, a massive circular room, so vast that the far end seemed to blur in the dim light filtering through the high windows. Bookshelves soared from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, filled with thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of parchment scrolls and leather-bound books. Wheeled wooden ladders leaned against the shelves here and there, allowing access to the higher levels. This room had a distinct smell, a mixture of the fragile aroma of old parchment, melted wax, dust dancing in the beams of light, and something indescribable, the smell of knowledge itself, the accumulation of centuries of wisdom. For Alan, this smell was calming. It was the smell of his purpose.
He stepped inside, his worn shoes making no sound on the cold stone floor. At one of the long wooden tables scattered around the room, he saw his three friends already waiting, their heads bowed over thick books.
"Wow, you got a lot this time, huh?" Bandy's voice was the first to be heard as Alan approached. Bandy, the son of a fishmonger, was a nineteen-name-day-old young man with intelligent black eyes and straw-like blond hair. He was always better dressed than the other three.
"Of course," Alan replied, slightly out of breath now that he had stopped walking. He passed the three of them and carefully placed the stack of paper in the middle of the table. "I arrived there before the sun even rose. I was almost trampled by an angry lard seller."
Colin, who had fiery red hair and freckles, immediately grabbed a few sheets from the top of the pile and, to Alan's surprise, inhaled them deeply. "I love the smell," he said with a wide grin. "Don't know why. It's not perfume."
"Yes, it's very distinct," Alan agreed, taking a sheet for himself and feeling it between his fingers. Smooth yet fibrous. Far different from parchment. "Maybe that's part of its magic. Maybe it was also made as an excuse to dig more coins out of you to buy it."
Davos, the oldest among them, already losing his hair despite being only twenty-five, chuckled softly. He rubbed his finger gently on the paper's surface. "I wouldn't mind if I had a lot of money to buy this," he said. "Especially when it's more affordable than parchment. For the Seven's sake, just to buy one blank parchment scroll, I have to help Maester Moris copy notes for a whole week."
Bandy had already started flipping through the paper quickly, sorting out his share. "Mine should be thirty, right?" he asked, his eyes shining. "With this, I can write down many of my own notes on history. I have to get that chain no matter what. Borrowing books from the library is a real hassle, you have to return them too quickly. And reading here every day makes me feel cooped up."
"Take it. Mine is ten," Alan confirmed, taking his modest share. "The rest belongs to Colin and Davos." He looked at his ten sheets of clean white paper. Ten sheets of possibility. Ten sheets of knowledge he could hold. "I also need to note down which medicinal plants are good for healing internal wounds. I'm terrible at remembering those names. They all sound the same after a while. At least with this, I can look at it anytime, even when I want to go to sleep."
Alan was the youngest son of a Landed Knight in the Reach. A title that sounded good, but didn't mean much when you were the third son and their small plot of land and castle were barely enough to support his eldest brother and his family. He had no inheritance, no brilliant marriage prospects. Here, at least he had a chance. A chance to gain knowledge, to prove himself through intelligence, not bloodline. If he managed to get enough links on his chain, he could become a Maester. And then, perhaps, he could serve a higher Lord. He imagined himself in a magnificent castle, advising a wise Lord, having access to a private library, respected for his knowledge. Maybe he could even serve House Lannister in the Westerlands, the House that had created this paper.
He badly wanted to meet its creator. They said he was still a child, the heir of Casterly Rock himself. Jaime Lannister. How could a boy, who should be busy playing with wooden swords, have an idea like this? An idea that in an instant had changed the small world of the acolytes at the Citadel? This paper wasn't just a convenience; it was a small revolution. It made knowledge slightly more accessible, slightly easier to record and store. It was a powerful tool.
Alan wanted to see with his own eyes and head how that boy thought. How could he see a need and find such an elegant solution? This was interesting. This was amusing. And it was very impressive.
Because of that, ever since hearing news of the Lannister paper a few months ago, Alan had become more motivated to learn. He no longer just studied to escape his fate as a useless youngest son. He studied because he had seen what knowledge, what an idea, could do, right before his eyes. He felt as if he were witnessing history being made, history that one day might be written on the very papers he currently held.
"So, Alan," said Colin, interrupting his daydream as he carefully stacked his share of paper. "Decided which love potion you're going to write down first to impress that milkmaid at the inn?"
Alan laughed with his friends, the warmth of their camaraderie chasing away the last of the chill from the morning queue. "I'm more interested in a potion to cure your stupidity, Colin," he retorted.
He opened the thick herbal book he had borrowed from the library, its leather cover cracked with age. He took a sheet of his new paper, a quill, and a small ink bottle. He dipped the quill, and carefully, he began to note down the complicated names, the descriptions of leaves and roots, and their uses for healing.
…
Harys opened his thick leather-bound book, its thin pages rustling softly in the silence of his small study. This was the fifth day of the week, which meant tomorrow was his day off from teaching the children. He was a septon, newly ordained five years ago, thirty name days old. A simple man from a farming family in Greengrass, a small, forgotten village in the green expanses of the Westerlands.
When the Leader Septon of Lannisport first appointed him as one of the teachers for this new Lannister-funded 'school' a few months ago, Harys's first thought was that he would be very busy. Teaching dozens of restless merchant and artisan children how to read and count was no easy task. However, he accepted the duty without hesitation. Teaching, spreading the light of knowledge and, of course, the wisdom of the Seven, would surely be favored by the Gods themselves. It was a noble job.
Now, he was preparing the lesson for later: basic mathematics. Addition, subtraction, maybe a little simple multiplication if the children seemed ready. This was the foundation for those future little merchants, skills they would need to count their fathers' goods, to weigh copper coins and silver stags.
He took a sheet of paper, the new object that still felt slightly magical in his hands, and a quill. Carefully, he dipped the tip of the quill into the bottle of thick black ink and began to write practice problems on the paper with neatness and precision. His strokes were clear and legible, a skill he had painstakingly trained for years, spending so much ink and borrowed parchment when he was still a student.
Once, he was just a weak farmer's boy. Harys was born smaller than his brothers, his lungs were weak, and he never had the physical strength to work in the fields all day under the hot sun. While other children his age helped their fathers plow or sow seeds, Harys was more often found sitting under a tree, daydreaming or trying to draw the shapes of clouds on the ground with a stick. Most farmer parents might have grumbled, seeing him as a useless burden. But his father did not. His father was a quiet, kind man, who would just give him a tired smile and say, "Everyone has their own path, son." He let him be, loved him unconditionally, and Harys was grateful for that simple kindness every day.
Because of that weakness, he was first drawn to Septon Glenn. The wandering Septon had come to their village one summer, an old man with a long white beard and eyes that had seen many things. While the other children were busy playing, Harys often snuck into Septon Glenn's small tent, captivated by the leather-bound books he owned and the stories he could tell about the world beyond Greengrass. Seeing the curiosity in the pale boy's eyes, Septon Glenn began to teach him. First letters, then words, then sentences. For Harys, it was like a floodgate opening. He absorbed the knowledge like dry earth finding water after a long drought. He was so fascinated by the power of words, by the ability to capture thoughts and stories on a page, by the history of kings and the wisdom of the Seven stored within those books.
Now, years later, he was doing the same thing Septon Glenn had done for him. The old Septon was long gone, continuing his journey to who knows where, but his legacy lived on in Harys. And Harys was determined to do it earnestly, to ignite that same spark of curiosity in these Lannisport children, hoping to change someone's life for the better, just as his life had been changed. Maybe, after all this, this was his destiny. Not to swing a sword or rule lands, but to teach.
After carefully writing several pages of practice problems, double-checking every number and word several times to ensure there were no mistakes, Harys smiled with satisfaction. He cleaned the tip of his quill, closed his ink bottle, and tidied the stack of paper on his desk. He stood up, stretched his slightly stiff back, and returned the basic mathematics book to the small shelf on the wall, careful not to let it fall. His study was small, just a simple nook within the Sept, but it was his place, a place where he could prepare himself for his duty. Then, he left the room, ready to start his day.
The Sept of Lannisport was magnificent. Far more magnificent than the simple wooden sept in his village. This one was made of gleaming white marble, with high stained-glass windows that cast colorful patterns on the polished floor when the sun shone. Its large dome seemed to touch the sky, and its bells rang with a deep, melodious sound. Of course, that was to be expected. This building was right in the heart of the richest city in the Westerlands, under the shadow of House Lannister itself. A noble family whose wealth was so great it had become legend. The gold mines under Casterly Rock, people said, might never run out, and would always be the family's main weapon.
Fortunately, Harys thought as he walked down the quiet corridor, the Lannisters were now using some of their wealth for good things. Like building the school here in the Sept. All the capital came from the Lannisters. The new wooden desks for the children, the large custom-made blackboards, the white chalk, even the small additional buildings that had just been completed in the backyard to house more classes. Lord Tywin Lannister might be a hard man, but at least he understood the value of knowledge.
"You look bright as usual, Harys."
A friendly voice greeted him in the corridor. Harys turned and smiled. It was Ormund, one of the senior Septons. He wore the usual long grey robes, his face neatly shaven, although the top of his head was already beginning to show obvious baldness. His blue eyes were kind and full of quiet wisdom.
"I am grateful to the Seven for that," Harys replied. "They have given me peace during my sleep last night. I had no dreams, just slept in pleasant silence." He paused for a moment, walking side by side with Ormund. "When I woke up, my energy was restored and I didn't have a single ache in my bones. It is a small blessing to be thankful for."
Ormund chuckled softly, a warm sound. "Ah, as you get older, sleep indeed becomes the most beautiful blessing. I sometimes dream of the past," he continued, his gaze becoming slightly distant. "A past where my parents were still alive, in our lands in the Stormlands. But sometimes those dreams quickly turn into nightmares. Things we didn't want to happen, shadows from the war... it always flashes in my head when I wake up." He sighed. "So yes, indeed. I think dreamless sleep is the greatest blessing."
Ormund was ten years older than Harys, around forty. What Harys knew from their previous conversations was that he came from the Stormlands, the son of a minor noble whose name he never mentioned. His parents were killed by a group of bandits when he was young. Ormund himself had participated in the War of the Ninepenny Kings as a young soldier before he took his vows as a Septon, so it was certain that behind his peaceful robes, he was a man who had known violence and battle. That experience gave him a depth and perspective that Harys, the weak farmer's son, did not possess.
"May the Seven bless us all." Harys felt the depth behind the man's words. There was a sadness that had settled into wisdom. "I am sure you will get through it as soon as possible, Ormund."
Ormund laughed again, this time a more relaxed laugh, as if the dark cloud had passed. "Hahaha, the Seven have already given me their blessing, Harys. Now, those dreams are just like shadows in the water that I don't care about." He reassured, his blue eyes clear again. "What will you be teaching the children this time?"
"Arithmetic," Harys showed the sheets of paper with the practice problems he had prepared. "Basic addition, subtraction. Some of them really like this, maybe because they see their own fathers counting coins every night."
Ormund chuckled, stroking his smooth chin. "Who doesn't like money? When I was little, I was once given a dragon coin by my uncle. One whole dragon! It felt like I was the king of the world." He smiled at the memory. "And I spent it all within two weeks. Buying sweets, wooden toys, even tried to buy a small dagger, which of course was immediately confiscated by my father. But it was so satisfying, when every day you felt you could buy anything you wanted."
"True," Harys agreed, smiling at the thought of an enthusiastic young Ormund. "Money isn't everything, the Seven teach us that. Virtue, faith, family, those are far more valuable. However," he added with a practical tone he had learned from teaching the merchant children, "everything in this world requires money. Bread on the table, a roof over your head, even candles for prayer. That is why one must not be lazy and must keep working hard. Not just expect something to fall from the sky like rain."
"Wise words from a young teacher," said Ormund with an agreeable tone. "You know, Harys, the work you do in that school is important. More important than you might realize."
"I am only teaching them to read and count," Harys replied humbly.
"You are giving them tools," Ormund corrected. "Tools to understand the world around them. Tools to improve their lives. Maybe one of those children won't end up just as a fishmonger like his father. Maybe he will read about laws and become a scribe. Maybe he will read about the stars and become a maester." Ormund paused for a moment, his gaze becoming more intense. "Or maybe he will just become a better fishmonger, one who is more successful and not easily cheated."
"Sometimes I wonder," Harys said softly, "if we are doing the right thing. Giving them this knowledge. Will it make them dissatisfied with their lives? Wanting more than what they were fated for?" It was a doubt that sometimes surfaced in his mind at night.
Ormund placed a calming hand on Harys's shoulder. "Fate is not a narrow footpath, Harys," he said gently. "It is a vast landscape with many roads. The Seven give us choices. Knowledge is the light that helps us see those roads more clearly. It is not our job to decide which path they must take, but it is our job to give them as much light as possible." He smiled. "And if that knowledge makes them a little more pious in the process, that is an added bonus."
Harys felt the burden of his doubt lift slightly. Ormund had a way of making complicated things seem simple and right. "Thank you, Ormund. You always know what to say."
"I only say what I believe," the older Septon replied. "Now, go. The children are waiting for you. And I must prepare for morning prayers."
Harys then said goodbye to Ormund, feeling his spirits restored. He walked out of the Sept's cool corridor and onto the streets of Lannisport, which were starting to get busy. The sun was higher now, and the aroma of fresh baked bread from a nearby bakery filled the air. His stomach began to growl.
He headed to a small, simple eatery near the harbor, his favorite place for breakfast. The place was always crowded with morning workers, but the food was good and the price was affordable. He ordered a bowl of warm oat porridge with a little honey and a thick slice of bread. While eating, he observed the people around him, the fishermen just returning from the sea, their faces tired but satisfied; the small merchants discussing the price of fish; the dockworkers taking a short break before starting their heavy labor.
This was the world of his students. A world of calculations, hard work, and simple hopes. And he, Harys, a weak farmer's son, had somehow been given the chance to give them the tools to navigate this world a little better.
As he finished his porridge and felt the warmth spread in his stomach, he felt grateful. Grateful for Septon Glenn, for his father's kindness, for the opportunity given by the Lannisters, and for Ormund's wisdom.
This was a good day. And he was ready to teach.
…
"You received another letter, Cat?"
A smile touched Brynden Tully's lips as he saw his niece, Catelyn, coming out of her room. The little girl, well, not so little anymore, she was already eleven name days old, held a carefully sealed sheet of paper. Her bright auburn hair, a Tully trademark, looked like liquid fire under the flickering candlelight along the somewhat damp corridors of Riverrun.
Catelyn blushed immediately, a pink hue creeping up her cheeks, signaling that Brynden's guess was correct. The letter must be from her distant betrothed, the heir of Casterly Rock. "Jaime said that his day today was the same as a month ago," Catelyn said, her voice a little shy. "It was spent helping his uncle, Ser Tygett, wiping swords, polishing armor, and even taking care of the horses."
Brynden's smile widened. He leaned against the cold stone wall, his arms crossed. He knew his niece. Catelyn was a serious and responsible child, grown up too fast like most firstborns. She wouldn't blush just from hearing about the boring duties of a squire. "But?" Brynden prompted, it couldn't be just that in the letter.
Catelyn's face turned redder. She hugged the paper a little tighter. "He... he gave me a poem," she whispered. "It was very touching."
"A poem?" Now Brynden was truly interested. A young lion writing poetry? That was an unusual combination. He leaned in a little. "Can you tell me? I always appreciate good words."
Catelyn shook her head quickly, her blue eyes looking at him with an apologetic gaze. "No, Uncle. This is for me. He made it himself, he said as a gift."
"Ah, how romantic," Brynden chuckled, taking a step back. He respected his niece's privacy, even though his curiosity was piqued. "I am very curious, but if you refuse, who am I to force?" He shrugged with a look of mock resignation. He observed Catelyn for a moment, the way the girl held the letter as if it were a treasure. "You like the boy?"
The question was simple, but the answer was complicated. Jaime Lannister and Catelyn Tully had been betrothed for over six months. A match arranged with lightning speed between his brother, Hoster, and the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister. Brynden still remembered how bright Hoster's face was when that raven from King's Landing arrived. A request from Tywin Lannister himself, offering his son and heir for Hoster's eldest daughter. It was an offer impossible for Hoster to refuse, whose ambition to elevate House Tully was always as great as the Trident river itself. He accepted without a second thought, without much consultation, only seeing the strategic advantage and glory of such an alliance.
But Catelyn and Jaime themselves had never met. Not even once. Jaime was busy with his affairs, first as a page and now as a squire to his own uncle, Tygett Lannister, a rather strange arrangement, Brynden thought, but who could understand the workings of Tywin Lannister's mind? Besides, there were rumors of other projects taking up the boy's time. 'Paper'. That new thing had already become a sensation throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Merchants in Riverrun talked about it, maesters at court ordered it. It was cheaper than parchment, more practical, and came from the richest House in Westeros. And apparently, something even bigger was waiting. Hoster, after his visit to King's Landing to formalize the engagement, returned with other stories, something called a "Printing Press", which he said would allow books to be copied in large numbers.
The point was, this heir of Casterly Rock was no ordinary noble son. He was a very valuable asset. Handsome, as rumored, a Lannister trademark. Smart, the invention of paper and the printing press was proof. And, according to whispers, he was also very skilled with a sword, even at his young age. Everything Hoster wanted in a husband for his beloved daughter.
But all of that was just reputation, reports, and rumors. What about the boy himself? Was he kind? Would he make Cat happy? That's what Brynden worried about.
"Jaime is very nice," Catelyn finally answered, her voice quiet and considered. She looked at the letter in her hand. "He always starts his letters by asking how I am first, about Lysa and Edmure, about my lessons. Then he'll make a joke about something, about Ser Tygett being too serious, or about how bad the food he made was, to make me laugh." Her eyes shone as she spoke. "He also tells me all sorts of things. Sometimes about a book he just read, sometimes about strange people he saw. Whether it's a real story or one made up by his own mind, it's all so impressive. He has a way of storytelling that makes me feel as if I were there."
"That's good," Brynden said gently. "But the question is, do you like him?" He stressed the last word.
Catelyn seemed to think for a moment, biting her lower lip. She gazed down the corridor, as if trying to visualize the boy she only knew through written words. "He's like a man from a song," she said softly. "The golden knight from the West. Handsome, smart, brave, even writes poetry. He sounds so perfect... but seems distant at the same time, because we haven't met at all." She paused, then turned back to Brynden, and a small, sincere smile appeared on her face. "But yes. I think I like him, Uncle."
Brynden felt a wave of relief. It wasn't burning love, of course not. How could it be, when they had never even laid eyes on each other? But it was a good start. An affection, a hope. It was more than many couples had in political matches.
He nodded, placing his large, rough hand on his niece's shoulder. "That's good," he said. "He sounds like a good lad. At least, from what you've told me, he doesn't sound like the type of man who would hurt you."
"Keep your poem safe then," he said with a smile, removing his hand from her shoulder. "And maybe next time, you can read just one verse for your old, curious uncle?"
Catelyn laughed, a melodious laugh. "Maybe, Uncle. Maybe."
He watched his niece walk away down the corridor, the paper still held tightly in her hand, her step a little lighter than before. Brynden leaned back against the wall, his smile fading into a more contemplative expression.
…
Waldon was a patient man. At least, that's what he always told himself. In his fifty years of life in this world, he had learned that patience was the most valuable currency, especially for someone like him. He had experienced many ups and downs, more downs than ups, to be honest. There were faint, happy memories, his wedding day with Ellyn, the birth of his first son Mathis, then Lyra, but more often, his mind was filled with memories of struggle: harsh winters when food supplies dwindled, mounting debts to a cunning wool merchant, his father's failed harvest that almost made them lose their small plot of land. Yes, he had known hardship like he knew the palm of his own hand.
However, these past ten years had been different. These ten years were a good turmoil, a rising tide that finally lifted his rickety boat. The peak of his career in trading had risen rapidly, far beyond his wildest dreams. At first, he was just Waldon the butcher, standing on a corner of Oldtown's busy market, selling cuts of cured meat and sausages he made himself. It was honest work, but the returns were mediocre.
Then, an opportunity came in the form of an old scribe complaining about the sky-high price of parchment. That scribe, the grumpy but sharp-witted Maester Gerold, had given him an idea. Parchment. Sheepskin and calfskin painstakingly processed into a valuable writing medium. The production was complicated, requiring time and skill, but the demand was always there, especially in a city like Oldtown, home to the great Citadel.
Waldon, with his typical patience, learned the craft. He spent his savings to buy some quality skins, learned from an old craftsman who was about to retire, made costly mistakes, but kept learning. He worked tirelessly, his hands becoming calloused and smelling strange, but slowly but surely, he mastered it. His parchment was smooth, strong, and consistent in color. The scribes and acolytes of the Citadel began to recognize it. Orders started coming in.
For ten years, Waldon's parchment business flourished. He moved from a market corner to a proper little workshop. He hired two assistants. He even started getting orders from outside Oldtown, from minor Lords in the Reach who needed parchment to record genealogies or send important letters. He could finally provide a comfortable life for Ellyn and his children. Mathis was now apprenticed to a blacksmith, and Lyra helped her mother at home. They were not wealthy, but they were secure. Their bellies were full, and they had a sturdy roof over their heads. Waldon felt proud. He had built something from scratch, with his own hands and patience.
Sipping his cheap drink that tasted bitter on his tongue tonight, Waldon listened to the chatter around him in "The Melting Candle" tavern. The sound of rough laughter, clinking cups, and drunken arguments was usually a soothing backdrop for him after a hard day's work. But tonight, there was one topic that kept buzzing in his ears, annoying him like a blowfly: paper.
This paper, that paper. The new thing from the Lannisters. People talked about it as if it were the most historic invention in mankind! As if the Seven Gods themselves descended from the sky and gave it to them.
"Cheaper, you know?" said a cloth merchant at the next table. "Half the price of the best parchment, maybe less!"
"And light," chimed in a young, drunk-looking scribe. "I can carry a hundred sheets without feeling like I'm carrying a dead calf!"
"It's whiter, too," added another. "My writing looks clearer on it."
Waldon clenched his fists under the table. Disgusted. He felt disgusted. Who needed this thin, flimsy paper when you had parchment? Parchment was time-tested. Parchment was more durable, classier. It was the medium of kings and great maesters, used for thousands of years! This paper... this was just a fleeting fad, a cheap thing for people who didn't appreciate quality.
Damn it!
With a sudden movement that made a few people turn, Waldon rose from his seat. He slammed a few copper pieces onto the sticky table, enough to pay for his drink and a little more, then walked out of that gathering place of people with no future, leaving the buzz of conversation about 'paper' behind him.
The cool night air of Oldtown felt slightly calming on his face, which was hot with anger and ale. But inside, a storm still raged. This was infuriating. It was so infuriating when the business you had built with hardship over years, drop by drop of sweat, was destroyed overnight by a fancy new invention.
A few months prior, driven by his growing success, Waldon had taken a bold step. He borrowed a large sum of gold, more than he had ever held in his life, from several other wealthier merchants. He used it to expand his workshop, buy more high-quality skins, and even hire two more workers. He dreamed of becoming the main parchment supplier in the entire Reach, perhaps even competing with the producers in King's Landing.
But then, the paper came. Like an invisible plague, it spread quickly. His parchment orders began to decline. Slowly at first, just a few cancellations here and there. But then the decline became drastic. The Citadel acolytes, who used to be his regular customers, now preferred the cheaper paper for their notes. The small merchants, who counted every copper coin, switched to paper for their bookkeeping. Even some scribes, tempted by its practicality and price, began to use it for drafts and less important letters.
Now, his parchment sales had plummeted. His newly expanded workshop felt empty and quiet. His workers sat idle more often than they worked. And his debts... those debts loomed over him like a dark storm cloud. The merchants who had lent him money were starting to ask questions and look at him with cold, assessing gazes. How was he going to handle this?
The thought made him want to hit something, to punch the nearest stone wall until his knuckles bled. He had a wife and children to feed. He had promised Ellyn a better life. He had promised himself that his children would never know hunger as he once had. And now? Would they be destitute instead? Would his good name be tarnished because of his debts? Would they lose their home?
Waldon couldn't bear the thought. A cold despair began to creep into his heart.
Lannister. The name was so bitter on his tongue and in his ears right now. They had been fabulously wealthy for thousands of years, sitting on their mountain of gold. Why? Why did they have to meddle in his small business? Why did they have to create something that destroyed the livelihoods of ordinary people like him? Was their gold not enough? Were they so bored with their wealth that they had to ruin other people's lives just for entertainment?
Waldon gritted his teeth, a burning hatred searing his chest. He walked aimlessly through the dimly lit streets of Oldtown, his mind racing. He turned to his other thoughts, trying to find a way out, a glimmer of hope. He still had a little left from that loan, maybe a thousand golden dragon coins remaining. An amount that sounded large, but with workers still needing to be paid their weekly wages, raw skins still needing to be bought, though he doubted he would need them anymore, and the loan interest continuing to accrue, this money would vanish like morning dew in just a few months.
He knew he was not alone. His fellow parchment merchants in Oldtown were also feeling the impact. Old Man Harlon, whose workshop had been passed down from his grandfather. Matthew Flowers, the bastard who worked hard to prove himself. They all had the same problem. Sales down, the future grim.
They had gathered a few times, speaking in low voices in tavern corners, sharing their grievances and fears. But no solution emerged. How could you compete with a product that was cheaper, more practical, and backed by the richest House in the Seven Kingdoms?
If only... The dark thought emerged unbidden, a wicked whisper in his mind. If only those papers were ashes... If only their mill in Lannisport was put to the torch... If only their supply was choked off.....
Maybe things would go back to how they were. Maybe parchment would be valuable again. Maybe he could save his business, his family, his pride.
If only they could...
Waldon stopped in the middle of the empty street, the darkness of the night seeming to creep into his soul. The thought was terrifying, but also... tempting. He shook his head hard, trying to banish the dangerous whisper. He was Waldon, the patient man. He was an honest craftsman. He was not a criminal.
But as he continued his step towards home, towards Ellyn and his children, the whisper remained, hiding in the dark corner of his mind, waiting. Waiting for the moment when his patience finally ran out.
...
You can read chapters 25-45 early at Patreon.com/Daario_W