Hi! For now, I've decided that I'll update twice a week. That's Thursday and Sunday. But of course, if the power stones reach a certain number, I'll upload an extra chapter.
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JAIME | RHAEGAR
"You are going out again, Jaime?"
Catelyn's voice broke the comfortable silence. She lifted the silver teapot covered in dew, pouring the brown liquid into Jaime's porcelain cup with graceful and practiced movements.
This was a routine that had formed over the two years of their marriage. The morning belonged to them. They would breakfast on bread and tea, sometimes with salted ham or boiled eggs. Catelyn liked sweet things, lemon cakes, bread with thick honey, or fruit jams, because she thought they felt lighter to start the day.
Jaime, on the other hand, often had to restrain himself. He knew about the dangers of excess sugar and diabetes, although in this world, the disease was only known as the "sweet sickness" that attacked rich old people. He often reminded Catelyn subtly, hiding it behind jokes about keeping her waistline to fit into her party gowns.
"Yes," answered Jaime, taking a slice of dark rye bread. He spread strawberry jam thinly, very thinly. "I have to inspect the works myself to see if everything is still running smoothly. Jon Connington will come with me."
Jaime bit into his bread, tasting the blend of yeast sourness and faint fruit sweetness. The "Casterly Mortar" works, as they called it, had been established a few months ago outside the city gates, near the swift flow of the Blackwater Rush to turn the grinding wheels. It was an ambitious project to process limestone and volcanic ash into a material that would harden the foundations of King's Landing forever.
Catelyn put down her teapot, her face showing a little worry.
"The stones there are smelly and dusty," said Catelyn, then sipped her tea gracefully. "Last time you came home from there, your tunic was grey and you were coughing. You must be careful not to inhale too much of it. Maester Pycelle says stone dust can settle in the lungs and make you short of breath in old age."
"Pycelle complains about everything, including the wind being too strong. If I listened to him, I would never leave my bed," Jaime chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "I am used to it, Cat. Besides, this is just a routine inspection, not forced labor. I will stand in a safe place, watch the workers, ensure the burning in the kiln runs at the right temperature, then go home. I won't be exposed that much, so you don't need to worry too much."
Catelyn stared at him from behind her cup. Her clear eyes sparkled, radiating a mixture of affection and annoyance only possessed by a wife who loved her stubborn husband.
"I cannot stop worrying because you are always so reckless, Jaime Lannister," she said softly, placing the cup down with a soft clink. "You jump into danger without thinking twice. And now I am stuck with you since we said our vows in the Sept. So, keeping you from dying foolishly by choking on lime dust is part of my duty."
Jaime smiled wryly, leaning his body slightly forward over the table.
"Oh, stuck? What a harsh word, My Lady. I just hope you don't get bored seeing my face every day for the rest of your life. Because I intend to live a very long time, dust or not."
"We shall see," replied Catelyn, but her smile betrayed her tone which pretended to be curt. "Now finish your bread. Jon Connington looks like a man who does not like waiting."
After finishing breakfast and kissing his wife's forehead as a goodbye, Jaime left the room with a pleasant feeling of fullness.
He walked towards the inner courtyard where the stables were, but he found Jon Connington already waiting in the main corridor connecting Maegor's Holdfast with the outer part of the castle.
The red-haired man was standing tall, talking to a guard soldier with his typical serious expression. Jon wore a grey and maroon riding tunic, with the Griffin sigil on his chest. He looked ready and a little impatient.
Seeing Jaime approach, Jon nodded to the soldier to dismiss him, then turned to Jaime with a thin smirk that was barely visible.
"Done preparing yourself?" asked Jon, his eyes sweeping over Jaime's neat yet casual appearance. "You look strong enough to face the day. Or at least, strong enough to mount a horse without help."
Jaime patted his own stomach. "My stomach is fully filled, and now still trying to digest it. I think the word 'bloated' is the most appropriate, not strong. Catelyn insisted I finish my bread ration as if there would be a famine tomorrow."
"A good wife," commented Jon briefly while starting to walk.
"Have you had breakfast?" asked Jaime.
"Bread and eggs," he answered, adjusting his long strides to Jaime. They walked down the wide stone corridor, where servants were busy cleaning the floor that morning. "Soldier's food. Enough to keep me from fainting until night. No sweet cakes."
"You are boring, Jon. Life needs a little sugar," teased Jaime.
They walked past large open windows along the corridor towards the Great Hall. Sunlight entered, creating squares of light on the newly polished stone floor.
"I can feel that outside the weather will be scorching at noon," said Jon, glancing at the blinding white sky outside the arched window. "The King's Landing sun is never friendly in summer. These stones reflect heat like a grill."
"Indeed," agreed Jaime. "But yesterday the wind blew pleasantly from the bay. I hope today we get a little remnant of that wind. If not, the works will feel like a hell kitchen."
"Well, at least it makes us look like we are trying more, not just looking around." Said Jon as they continued walking.
"Ah, Lord Jaime, Lord Jon. It seems you two will be busy today?"
A heavy and familiar voice echoed in the front courtyard, stopping Jaime and Jon's steps before they could reach the carriage.
Jaime turned and saw Lord Steffon Baratheon descending the stone stairs with steps still gallant even though his age began to show. The man now served as Master of Laws, a position given by Rhaegar a year ago shortly after his son's marriage, Robert, to Lyanna Stark, a marriage uniting the North and the Stormlands.
"Lord Baratheon," they said in unison, bowing respectfully.
Jaime smiled, a sincere smile. He liked Steffon. The man had a charisma that made boring bureaucratic work feel a little more bearable.
"We are all busy lately, are we not?" replied Jaime. "No one truly rests from doing our respective duties. I hear the City Watch is recruiting many new men under your supervision."
Jon Connington nodded, adding with his usual serious tone. "We are going to check the supply of ash and sand at the new works by the river. Soon the ditch repairs will begin, and we must be absolutely sure that all logistics are still running smoothly."
"Duty, yes, duty," Steffon chuckled, a sound that sounded a little tired. "Nothing we can do but accept it so the kingdom remains standing tall. But that is good. Oh, along the way, I saw many people continuously trying to scoop rotten mud from those sewers. It smells and is disgusting, truly, the smell almost made my horse faint. But I am glad it will be gone soon. I wish you both success. That is a word of encouragement from me to you who dare play with filth for the sake of a fragrant future."
"You yourself should not be too stuck inside that stuffy solar, My Lord. It is not good for health," joked Jaime. "Sitting too long can kill a man as fast as a sword."
Steffon waved his hand, as if shooing a fly. "I have done this for decades. And guess what? I can handle it. This is just a small matter for a Baratheon. We are made of stone and storm, remember?"
They chatted a moment longer about the weather and the latest news from Storm's End, Robert seemed to be enjoying an endless honeymoon with Lyanna, then Steffon excused himself to attend the Small Council meeting.
Jaime and Jon entered the waiting carriage. The door was closed, and the clean palace world was left behind.
The carriage began to move down the hill, towards the denser and dirtier part of the city.
Along the way, scenes of construction activity were seen everywhere. Many workers were picking up trash piling up at street corners or digging the ground.
Jaime observed them from behind the window. Most of them looked fresh, wearing uniform work tunics, Jaime's idea to give a sense of identity and discipline. There were even those joking while passing buckets of soil, their laughter heard between the clinking of shovels. That was a good sign; decent pay kept morale high.
However, Jaime also saw the other side. Some others looked sleep-deprived, their eyes sunken and their movements slow. Perhaps they took other jobs at night for extra money, or perhaps this physical work was too heavy for them who used to be just farmers or beggars.
"They work hard," commented Jon, following Jaime's gaze. "That is good for the future."
"Yes." Answered Jaime, briefly.
The carriage continued, its wooden wheels clattering over the uneven streets. They passed through market crowds, passed people, and finally exited through the Mud Gate.
After traveling further, before them, the Blackwater Rush stretched wide, flowing swiftly towards the bay. But today, the river was not just a waterway; it was an industrial highway.
There were several large barges queuing at the newly built special docks. The ships were wide-bodied and low, laden with heavy cargo. Mounds of grey volcanic ash from Dragonstone, white limestone from the Vale mountains, and coarse river sand.
"They are already good at using it," said Jon. "What is its name? I forgot."
He pointed towards a giant wooden construction towering by the riverbank.
"That," said Jaime, "is a Treadwheel Crane."
The tool looked like a giant hamster wheel made of thick wood. Inside, two men walked continuously, turning the large wheel with their steps. The rotation of the wheel wound a thick rope connected to a long crane arm.
With that simple force, a large net filled with limestone, which usually required ten men to lift, now floated up from the ship's hold easily, swinging in the air, and lowered onto a cart waiting on land.
People operated it carefully, following the shouts of the foreman giving commands.
"This is truly crazy," commented Jon, but there was a tone of awe in his voice. "You make humans work like rats in a wheel, but the result... that one tool replaces twenty broken backs."
"Physics... logic, Jon. Not magic, not madness, someone can create more than this if they use their brain," answered Jaime.
The carriage stopped near the main building complex. They got out, greeted by the heat and fine dust coating the air.
Walking further, near the swift river flow, stood an elongated building for milling. A low rumble was heard from within.
It was operated by three large water wheels turned by the Blackwater current. Inside, wooden gears turned the water rotation into a pounding motion, crushing limestone into fine powder ready to be burned.
Further from the river, white smoke billowed into the sky.
The kilns.
Inside were rows of dome-shaped brick furnaces standing burning hot. Workers wore thick cloth masks on their faces. Next to it, the packaging warehouse stood busy. Finished cement powder was put into wooden barrels, ready to be sent into the city to build sewers, roads, and future foundations.
It took months for the workers to become proficient. They were also taught by a team of experts sent by Uncle Kevan from Lannisport, people who were currently quite expert in making roads in the West.
"Smells like hell," commented Jon, covering his nose with his sleeve. "Dust and smoke."
"You better start getting used to it, you will inhale it often in King's Landing," said Jaime, staring at the factory complex with mixed feelings.
The sound of cart wheels creaking and the shouts of foremen in the distance became a noisy background as Jaime and Jon stepped into the works administration area. Fine lime dust flew in the air, coating their leather boots with a thin white layer.
"Lord Lannister, Lord Connington. Good to see you here."
Someone approached them with quick but respectful steps. It was Andy, a former book copyist recruited by Jaime for his neat writing and quick calculation skills. Now, his job was to supervise and record everything here: how many people worked, how long their shifts were, how much raw material arrived, and how many barrels of cement were produced per day. It required serious precision, the kind of boring job for a knight, but very vital.
Andy was about thirty years old, with straw-blond hair that always looked a little messy from the river wind, but his smile looked friendly in his blue eyes. He held a wooden clipboard with a stack of papers clamped tight so as not to fly away.
"Everything is running smoothly, My Lord," reported Andy, his eyes scanning the notes in his hand briefly before looking at his master. "The new workers sent from the temporary settlement outside the gates have also been or are being trained. They still need time to get used to the strict work rhythm, of course. Their hands are still stiff. But they listen and try very well. Their working time became faster and more efficient after Foreman Gendry changed the mixing layout. This made twenty percent more cement produced than in previous weeks."
"Glad to hear it," Jaime smiled. "But remember, Andy. Do not push them too hard. If they get tired quickly it is useless. There will be more sick people, back injuries, or fainting from heat, and that will hinder production in the long run. Tools can be replaced, humans need time to be trained."
"With the slum situation like this, I am quite sure many of them were already very vulnerable to disease even before they set foot here," said Jon suddenly, his voice cynical but containing bitter truth.
"That is why the pay must be worth it," Jaime sighed, glancing at Jon briefly before returning to Andy. "And ensure the hygiene rules I set are obeyed. They must wash hands before eating their lunch ration. And drinking water... ensure the soup kitchen cooks boil the water first until boiling before cooling it for drinking. I do not want an outbreak of the flux crippling half my workforce."
Andy blinked, perhaps a little confused by Jaime's obsession with boiled water, something most people considered a waste of firewood, but he nodded obediently.
"They work according to schedule, My Lord. As instructed," Andy smiled awkwardly, adjusting the quill behind his ear. "If it is their break time they will get it, and if they work, they will work."
"Good," Jaime stopped the technical conversation. "Now, guide us to look around the new burning kilns. I want to see if the fireproof bricks are still functioning well."
"Certainly, this way, My Lords."
...
The atmosphere inside the Small Council room in the Red Keep felt far more stifling than the air outside, even though the high windows had been opened to let the sea breeze in. The room was full of the sound of rustling paper as well as the sharp scent of ink.
Rhaegar Targaryen sat at the head of the large wooden table, staring at everyone present with his tired purple eyes. He wore a simple black silk tunic, without a crown on his head today.
On his right side, sat Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and now his father-in-law. The old man still had the same expression as in previous years, a stone face impenetrable by emotion. There were new wrinkles here and there around his eyes and mouth, and grey hairs began to show more clearly among his thinning golden hair, marking the burden of power he never let go.
But Tywin still looked fierce. His gaze was the kind that could make an adult feel like a child caught stealing cookies. People would not start a conversation with him unless forced or ordered.
However, Rhaegar noticed a subtle change. Since the birth of Aegon, his first grandson who had Lannister and Targaryen blood, Tywin had become... calmer. Not softer, but more stable. He no longer looked like a lion looking for an opening to pounce on his prey's neck. He had secured the throne for his flesh and blood. If Rhaegar died tomorrow, Tywin would be Regent for Aegon.
Rhaegar himself held no grudge against that ambition. He knew what everyone's interest at this table was. It was fine as long as Tywin didn't directly want Rhaegar to die immediately, which didn't seem to be the case.
Rhaegar shifted his focus to the stack of documents in front of him. There were various reports that gave him a massive headache.
"So," Rhaegar spoke, breaking the silence only filled by the sound of Grand Maester Pycelle's quill. "A group of bandits just became bolder and destroyed many things? Not just robbing merchant caravans?"
His voice was heavy and firm, demanding an answer.
Denish Toland, the new Master of Whispers, straightened his body. He was a Dornish man who was quite stout but could not be called fat, with olive skin and eyes that always moved restlessly.
"Yes, Your Grace," answered Denish, opening a small scroll. "I received disturbing reports from various villages, especially on the border of the Riverlands and the Reach. For example, Lord Brackley's lands."
Denish pointed to a spot on the map spread on the table.
"They came at night, when everyone was asleep. Reports state they are organized. They have horses, many horses, also some men were seen wearing pieces of used armor or hardened leather."
"What did they do?" asked Rhaegar.
"They broke through field fences, Your Grace. They burned barns. And most specifically... they destroyed new agricultural tools. Seed drill machines, new model iron plows... everything was destroyed into wood splinters and bent iron. Only after that did they steal what could be taken. Several people who tried to resist were injured, and about fifteen people died as a result, mostly warehouse guards or field foremen."
"Are there specific details about their numbers?" Tywin spoke, his voice cutting the air like a knife.
Denish shook his head. "Very difficult, Lord Hand. According to rumors, attacks occurred in several different villages on almost the same night, showing coordination. Some panicked witnesses said fifty, others a hundred, others swore seeing two hundred men riding in the dark. Cannot confirm it because fear exaggerates reality."
"That is a very large number for mere 'bandits'," Steffon Baratheon frowned deeply. The face of the Lord of Storm's End looked concerned. "Bandits usually move in small groups, ten or twenty men, hiding in the woods. If they can mobilize a hundred men on horseback... that is already equivalent to a small mercenary company."
"And you said they appeared in close proximity of time?" asked Rhaegar.
Denish turned the paper to a new page. "Yes, Your Grace. They appeared a month ago sporadically, but this coordinated attack only happened this week. It seems they gathered members or sought resources first before conducting open looting."
"What is the response of Hoster Tully and Luthor Tyrell regarding this?" said Paxter Redwyne, Master of Ships, who sat twirling the ring on his finger. The man cared more about sea routes, but chaos on land could affect his wine shipments.
Toland's expression didn't change. "No official response yet from Riverrun or Highgarden. This news is still new, my birds fly faster than Lord's official couriers. We will likely only receive letters requesting aid from them tomorrow or the day after."
"I must say, these might not be ordinary bandits," Steffon sipped his wine, then put it down hard. "If they can gather that many members in just a few months, and target specific tools... this smells of rebellion. Perhaps there are dispossessed nobles? Second or third sons with no land, using their remaining wealth, and funding this to create chaos?"
"Whatever it is," Rhaegar snorted, straightening his shoulders, "it does not change the fact that they dare to commit atrocities in this land. Burning fields while people in the city are starving is a grave crime. Destroying tools that can feed thousands is stupidity."
He looked at Tywin, then Steffon.
"Send three hundred light cavalry soldiers," ordered Rhaegar. "Take from the garrison not currently on duty. And assign the best knight we have as leader. Let them handle and scout for now. I want the leader of these bandits captured alive. I want to know who moves them."
If the rumor was true, the bandits had a large number of people. But bandits were still bandits. Some might only have makeshift combat training, unlike a trained soldier.
"Yes, Your Grace," Denish nodded, noting the order.
Steffon opened another paper in front of him, Rhaegar sighed a long sigh. He vaguely had a hunch about this one. Trouble never came alone.
"Riots occurred on the Street of Flour, in Flea Bottom, two days ago, Your Grace," reported Steffon with a heavy voice. "Citizens gathered in front of large bakeries and shouted demanding a piece of wheat bread. They threw stones and filth at the guards. Gold Cloaks managed to disperse them, but tension is still high."
Steffon glanced at Tywin briefly.
"The number of homeless has also increased drastically compared to the previous month. I have sent some people to calm them and find out the situation. Most of them are former farmers coming from outside the city, Riverlands and Crownlands. They came looking for work, but did not find it. Free bread from soup kitchens has been given every day by order of Queen Cersei, but it is not enough for thousands of mouths, and we cannot keep doing this forever."
Rhaegar's head throbbed violently. He massaged the bridge of his nose. He didn't like seeing people starving and desperate like this under his reign.
"Wheat," hissed Rhaegar frustrated. "The wheat we produced across the kingdom this year broke records. Granaries in Casterly Rock and Riverrun are full. It should be enough to lower bread prices to the lowest point. Why are they still starving?"
"Distribution, Your Grace," answered Wyman Manderly, Master of Coin, with his calm voice. "The wheat exists, but moving it takes time. Inadequate roads, unstable water flows, affect that. And... there are people holding stock, hoping prices rise."
"For now, what we can do is continue giving free food to prevent riots from spreading, and make them work when jobs are available," said Tywin, his voice without emotion. "Road and sewer repairs, require much manual labor. That absorbs some of them."
"But not all," argued Steffon. "Many are too old, women, or children."
"We cannot rely too much on construction projects alone, yes," continued Tywin, ignoring Steffon's interruption. "Therefore we must find other ways to create more jobs. We need more works like in Lannisport. We need them to make something that can be sold, not just digging the ground."
Rhaegar held his breath.. He looked around the table. Old faces waiting for his decision.
On one side, bandits burned progress in the countryside. On the other side, that progress sent waves of refugees triggering riots in the capital. He was riding a wild dragon, and he had to ensure he didn't fall.
"Expand the sewer project," said Rhaegar finally. "We must keep them busy. A hungry stomach makes a man lose his mind."
...
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