WHISPER IN THE WIND
King's Landing, Crownlands 278 AC.
Wyman stared at his reflection in the large silver-plated mirror standing in the corner of the room. The mirror, fortunately, was wide enough to fit his entire figure.
King Rhaegar had sent a raven to White Harbor a month ago. The letter was brief, written neatly and elegantly, sealed with the three-headed dragon red wax. Its contents were formal, yet the question within it was capable of making any man's heart, even one buried in fat like his, beat fast like war drums: Is Lord Wyman willing to come to King's Landing to discuss the future of the royal treasury?
Since Rhaegar's coronation, everyone in the Seven Kingdoms understood that a massive shift in positions would occur. A new era required new faces. Rhaegar, according to the rumors circulating, desired competence.
And Wyman, like every Lord who possessed ambition even if wrapped in layers of thick flesh, very much wanted to enter that circle.
House Manderly was a proud house. They were exiles from the Reach who found a new home in the cold North. They had built White Harbor into the richest city in the North, an unrivaled trading hub above The Neck.
Becoming Master of Coin... that would change everything. It was not just about counting gold pieces or setting wine taxes; it was about holding the vein of the kingdom. It was about sitting at the same table as the Lion of Casterly Rock, and other great Lords. This would bring House Manderly to a higher level, a recognition they had long craved.
"Do I look proper, Randy?" asked Wyman to his personal servant who was preparing a soft bristle brush.
"You look very gallant, My Lord," answered the servant with a practiced tone, though Wyman knew there was a little honesty there.
Wyman snorted softly, a sound rumbling in his broad chest. His fat and soft hands moved with surprising dexterity, smoothing the folds of his sea-blue velvet tunic. The tunic was a work of art in itself, sewn specifically to accommodate his extraordinary girth without making him look messy. On the chest, a silver merman embroidery, sparkling in the morning sunlight, held a trident spear.
Wyman adjusted his collar once more, ensuring there were no stains or wrinkles. He was very conscious of his physique. He knew what people whispered behind his back. Those cruel nicknames had long reached his ears.
He knew he was overweight. He knew he loved to eat; grilled eel, pies, and sweet wine were weaknesses he embraced happily. But he refused to be a joke.
"People may mock my belly," muttered Wyman to his own reflection, his intelligent and sharp eyes staring back from the mirror. "But they will not be able to mock my brain, or my gold."
At least, his fat did not stop him from appearing neat, dignified, and fragrant. Cleanliness was a sign of civilization, something often forgotten by skinny lords who smelled of horse sweat.
"The perfume, Randy," ordered Wyman.
The servant sprayed a little perfume scented with sea and mint. Fresh and masculine, not too flowery like the Tyrells, but enough to cover the smell of sweat that might appear due to nervousness.
Knock. Knock.
A knock on the door was heard. "Enter," called Wyman.
A palace servant entered and bowed deeply. "Lord Manderly. His Grace King Rhaegar is ready to receive you now."
"Good," said Wyman. He took his walking cane, not because he was crippled, but to help support himself when standing for long periods, and walked towards the door.
The journey to Maegor's Holdfast felt quite far for Wyman's legs, but he did not complain. He walked with measured steps, greeting every guard and noble he passed with a polite nod. He observed the Red Keep with the eyes of a merchant assessing merchandise.
The servant took him to a large wooden door carved beautifully. Not the Throne Room, but the King's private solar. The place where decisions were actually made.
The door opened.
The first scent that greeted Wyman was not the smell of old parchment or ink, but the scent of flowers. Roses, lavender, and lemon. The room was brightly lit, sunlight flooding in through the balcony open towards the sea.
King Rhaegar sat behind a neat writing desk, but he immediately stood up when Wyman entered.
That figure... Wyman had to admit, Rhaegar Targaryen was the definition of a prince in a fairy tale come true. Tall and handsome, silver hair falling perfectly, and purple eyes that seemed able to see through the soul. He wore a simple black tunic with a touch of red.
"Lord Manderly," greeted Rhaegar, his voice soft yet resonant. "Thank you for coming to fulfill my invitation."
Wyman bowed as deep as his stomach allowed, a sincere and respectful homage. "Your Grace. An honor for me and House Manderly to be here. The light of the Seven bless your reign."
"Please sit, My Lord," Rhaegar pointed to a large sturdy chair in front of his desk. The chair looked specially selected, wide and padded, suitable for Wyman's body size. That small detail did not escape Wyman's attention. This King was attentive. He did not try to humiliate his guest with a narrow chair.
Wyman sat carefully, regulating his breath so as not to sound panting. "Thank you, Your Grace."
"How was your journey from White Harbor?" asked Rhaegar, starting with polite pleasantries. "I hope the Kingsroad did not trouble your carriage too much."
"The journey was smooth, Your Grace, thanks to the friendly weather," answered Wyman with the smile he usually used when negotiating with Braavosi merchants. "Although I must admit, there is no place as comfortable as one's own home. But seeing King's Landing so alive under your shade, that fatigue is paid off."
"I am glad to hear it," Rhaegar smiled thinly. "And how is White Harbor? I heard reports that your port revenue increased rapidly this year."
Wyman straightened his back a little, pride flowing in his chest. This was his domain.
"White Harbor is prosperous. Very prosperous," he said, his tone changing to be more serious and professional. "Trade is at its peak. We just finished expanding the south dock to accommodate larger merchant ships. Wood and wool exports from the North increased, and we managed to cut middleman costs by negotiating direct contracts from the Braavosi."
Wyman paused for a moment, then added a small detail to show his expertise. "I also implemented a new customs system that is more efficient at the port gates. Reducing ship waiting times, which means more ships entering, and more taxes for the city... and of course, for the Crown."
Rhaegar listened intently, his eyes not leaving Wyman's face. He nodded slowly, absorbing the information.
"Efficiency," murmured Rhaegar. "That is a beautiful word, Lord Wyman. Something we desperately need here, in King's Landing."
Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, his long fingers interlaced on the table. The moment of pleasantries was over. The air in the room turned a little heavier, more serious.
"You must know why I summoned you here," said Rhaegar.
"I have a guess, Your Grace," answered Wyman carefully. "Although I dare not precede the King's decree."
"Master of Coin," said Rhaegar directly.
Wyman held his breath for a moment. Hearing it spoken directly by the King gave a different sensation than reading it in a letter.
"The position is... vacant," continued Rhaegar. He picked up a dragon-shaped paperweight from his desk, spinning it slowly in his hand. "Lord Chelsted has served this kingdom for the past few years."
Wyman nodded slowly. Qarlton Chelsted. A competent man, in the sense he could count, but lacked imagination.
"Lord Chelsted did his duty," said Rhaegar, choosing his words with high-level diplomacy. No insulting tone, yet the implied meaning was clear. "He kept the books neat. He ensured gold flowed to where my Father ordered. For that, I thank him."
Rhaegar put the paperweight back. His gaze sharpened.
"However, Lord Wyman, keeping books alone is not enough for the future I want to build. My Father... had different priorities. He focused on hoarding and short-term spending. Lord Chelsted was a good servant for that vision."
The young King leaned forward. "But I do not want to merely hoard gold. I want to develop the kingdom's wealth. I want to rebuild what is broken, improve infrastructure, advance trade, and create real prosperity for the people, not just an illusion of luxury in the palace."
Wyman felt his spirit ignite. This was language he understood. This was merchant language, builder language.
"To do that," continued Rhaegar, "I do not need someone who is only good at saying 'yes' and hiding deficits behind complicated numbers. I need someone who understands how money works. Someone who can turn one gold piece into two, not with magic, but with trade and investment. Someone who has proven that he can manage a busy port city and make it thrive amidst a harsh winter."
Rhaegar stared at Wyman intently.
"I dismissed Lord Chelsted this morning. I gave him a decent pension and thanks for his service. He left with his honor intact. I do not want to start my reign by firing people roughly for no reason other than change. But I need new blood. New vision."
Wyman was impressed. The way Rhaegar handled Chelsted was very... elegant. No drama, just a polite yet firm farewell. It showed quiet strength.
"And I believe," said Rhaegar, "that you are the right man for this new vision, Lord Manderly. Your reputation in White Harbor precedes you. You turned a cold outpost into the economic jewel of the North. I want you to do the same for the Seven Kingdoms."
Wyman felt his throat choked with emotion. Pride swelled in his chest, pressing against the tunic. Recognized not because of his sword, not because of his ancient lineage alone, but because of his ability. Because of his brain.
"Your Grace," said Wyman, his voice trembling slightly but full of respect. "Your words are the greatest honor House Manderly has received since we were welcomed by the Starks. I... I feel very flattered."
He took a deep breath, calming himself, then stared at the King with his sharp merchant eyes.
"I am not a magician. I cannot conjure gold from empty air. But I know trade currents. I know how tariffs can choke or advance a market. I know that investment in roads and ports is planting seeds for a harvest ten years from now."
Wyman smiled, a sincere and confident smile.
"If that is what you seek... then I am your servant. I will make your treasury sing, Your Grace. Not with songs about mere feasts, but with songs about ships full of cargo and bustling markets."
Rhaegar smiled, and this time the smile reached his eyes. A relieved smile.
"That is exactly the song I want to hear, Lord Wyman," said Rhaegar. "The music of prosperity."
The King stood, and Wyman followed him, struggling a little against gravity but managing to stand with dignity. Rhaegar extended his hand.
"Welcome to the Small Council, Lord Manderly. I expect much from you."
Wyman shook the King's hand. Rhaegar's grip was strong, but Wyman's large and soft hand swallowed it.
"I will not disappoint you, Your Grace," promised Wyman. "White Harbor never forgets a promise, and we never fail to pay a debt, or collect a profit."
"I hold to those words," said Rhaegar. "You can start occupying the Master of Coin's office tomorrow. Maester Pycelle will give the keys and existing ledgers. Be prepared, Lord Wyman."
As Wyman walked out of the room moments later, he felt his steps were far lighter, as if his weight had been reduced by half. He was no longer just a fat Lord. He was the Master of Coin. He was the manager of the dragon's wealth.
And by the Seven Gods, he would show all of King's Landing how Northerners did business. He would make them all look beyond his belly, straight to the pile of gold.
...
Oldtown, Reach, 279 AC.
The cobblestone streets in the northern district of Oldtown were always clean, swept every morning by invisible servants, but for Rowan, those streets felt like a bridge over an abyss.
He stepped into the courtyard of a large manse surrounded by high hedges and white stone walls. This place was quiet, an island of calm in the busy city. This was the area where wealthy people, successful spice merchants, retired ship captains, and distant relatives of House Hightower, spent their days behind closed walls. Rarely did anyone pass other than uniformed servants or closed carriages.
Rowan wore his best wool tunic in dark brown, with a matching cloak and polished leather boots. He looked like a successful artisan or mid-level merchant coming for business. A perfect disguise. He had to look proper so as not to be suspected or chased away by the city guards who patrolled with suspicious eyes on anyone looking poor.
But beneath the fine clothes, cold sweat soaked his back.
He sighed a long sigh, rubbing his thinning hair nervously. His hands trembled slightly, not from age, but from fear that had become his bedfellow for the past two years.
It had been almost two years since he returned from Lannisport. Two years since he ran like a coward, sneaking into the hold of a dirty merchant ship that took him back south, while his best friend was left behind.
He brought the design sketches with him. Crumpled papers he drew himself from his hasty observations in Jaime Lannister's printing house. With those sketches, and secret funding support from the Citadel through Lord Hightower's intermediaries, Rowan had managed to build a paper-making tool in the first few months.
It was an intoxicating success. They managed to make paper from hemp pulp and used rags. The quality was indeed not as smooth as Lannisport made, still somewhat rough and yellowish, but it was paper. It could be used.
However, that was where the problem started. That success brought the spotlight. And the spotlight brought shadows.
Rowan knew, almost certainly he was the person most wanted by the Lannisters if Shayne opened his mouth.
Shayne.
The name stabbed his heart every time it appeared. Thinking of the bald man who was always hungry brought massive guilt, a burden heavier than any wood he had ever lifted. He didn't know how the man was doing now. Was he still alive? Was he dead inside a damp dungeon? Or had he lost his tongue?
What was clear, Shayne's sickly wife and small child were currently under Rowan's responsibility. He set aside most of his pay from the Citadel for them, lying that Shayne was working on a long-term project in Braavos and sending the money. It was a painful lie, but what else could he do?
Luckily the Citadel had their own arrogance protecting Rowan. The senior Maesters were too proud to admit they stole ideas from a Lannister "brat". So, they fabricated a story.
They reasoned that they were the ones who "rediscovered" this paper invention. With access to thousands of ancient books and dusty scrolls, they claimed this knowledge came from the notes of Maester Glenn lost centuries ago, which they could only realize after getting "inspiration" from the crude Lannister attempts.
The story was weak. Smart people knew it was a lie. Merchants knew it was a lie. But they didn't care. The market didn't care about originality; the market cared about price. Once another competitor appeared, the goods would usually become cheaper. And Oldtown wanted to be the new production center.
Now, Rowan's task wasn't finished. Paper was only half the battle. He came here today to perfect the other monster: The Printing Press.
He was already at a stage of significant progress. If he could finish this... if he could make this machine work perfectly... the Citadel promised to give him enough gold and forget all this, he could go back to living quietly.
Rowan opened the front door of the building with a heavy bronze key.
The interior of the building looked like a rich person's house in general at the front, tapestries, flower vases, marble floors. But once Rowan went deeper, passing another door, the difference was clearer.
Here, the room was spacious and empty of fancy furniture. The floor was full of sawdust and oil stains. The smell of metal and wood filled the air.
In the center of the room, stood a giant contraption. A sturdy wooden frame with a large iron lever and a flat platen.
It was the Oldtown version of the 'printing press'.
Rowan stared at it with frustration. The machine was not finished. He just needed to add a few more things, a paper locking mechanism, rails to slide the type plate, but that was easier said than done. Because he himself only drew it hurriedly in Lannisport without further technical explanation, they worked in the dark. They were wrong more often than right. They had to guess gear ratios, plate thickness, and required pressure.
"You are late, Master Rowan."
The voice was dry and precise.
In the corner of the room, near a workbench full of glass bottles and bowls, stood a middle-aged man. He wore a simple grey robe without a chain, his chain kept under his clothes while working here.
Maester Faulin. He was a man with knowledge of mechanics and metallurgy, one of the few Maesters unafraid to dirty his hands with oil and dust.
"The streets were a bit busy, Maester," answered Rowan, taking off his outer cloak and hanging it. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong arms speckled with work scars. "Have you tried the new mixture?"
Faulin snorted, his wrinkled face looking sour. "The new mixture is as disappointing as the old one."
They exchanged pleasantries briefly about the weather and metal prices, a small ritual to normalize this abnormal situation, before moving to the core problem. The printing press itself was mechanically functional. The lever could press paper onto metal letters.
The problem was the Ink.
Rowan walked closer to the workbench. There were rows of trial papers scattered. All failed.
"Look at this," said Faulin, lifting a sheet of paper. "The ink bleeds. The letters become illegible black blobs."
He lifted another paper. "And this one... the ink refuses to stick to the metal letters. When we press it, the ink runs to the edges, leaving the center of the letter empty."
Rowan rubbed his face. This was an endless nightmare.
In Lannisport, he saw the Lannister print results. Pitch black. Sharp. Clean. The ink stuck to the paper without seeping to the back, and stuck to the metal without dripping.
Here? They used the ink Maesters usually used to write with quills, a mixture of soot, water, gum, and vinegar.
"Water-based ink does not work on metal, Rowan," complained Faulin, throwing the paper back onto the table. "Metal rejects it. Like water on a taro leaf. We already tried thickening it with more gum, but that only made it sticky like glue and tore the paper when lifted."
"Then what do they use?" muttered Rowan, more to himself. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the smell of the printing house in Lannisport.
The smell.
He remembered the smell was different. The Lannister printing house didn't smell of vinegar or ordinary writing ink. The smell was sharper, more... thick. A smell similar to a painter's workshop.
"Maybe we should try different pigments?" suggested Rowan.
"Already did," cut Faulin sharply. "No difference. The problem is not the color, Rowan. The problem is the carrier. The liquid."
Faulin took a small metal letter, the letter 'A', and dipped it into the bowl containing their trial ink. He lifted it. The ink immediately gathered into small droplets on the metal surface, uneven.
"We need something thicker than water, but more fluid than glue," said the Maester, frustrated. "Something that can stick to metal but wants to transfer to paper when pressed."
"How about egg whites?" asked Rowan. "Painters use them."
"Tried it. Smells rotten after two days, and dries too fast on the printing plate. We have to clean it every five minutes."
Rowan stared at the printing press. The object looked like a hungry monster, demanding answers he didn't have.
He felt stupid. He was a carpenter, not an alchemist. He could make a perfect lever, he could make a flat table, but he didn't understand chemistry.
"Lannister..." hissed Rowan. "That boy... Jaime. Where did he know this? The Maester there must be a genius."
"Or he got help from demons," muttered Faulin, half-joking but there was a note of envy in his voice. "Listen, Rowan. The Citadel is pressuring us. They heard that the Lannisters started printing other books besides holy scriptures. History books. Farming books. If we cannot match their quality, the Citadel's monopoly on knowledge will collapse in one generation."
That pressure again. Rowan felt it on his shoulders.
"I know, Maester. I know," said Rowan.
He took a palette knife, stirring a lump of black ink on a stone slab.
"Let's try again," said Rowan, his voice forced to sound optimistic. "What if we mix the ink with... oil? Linseed oil? Or walnut oil? Like painters use for canvas?"
Faulin fell silent. He stared at Rowan, his brows knitted.
"Oil?" repeated Faulin. "Oil takes a long time to dry, Rowan. Days. We need to print hundreds of pages a day."
"But oil sticks to metal," argued Rowan. He remembered how lubricating oil stuck to door hinges. "And if we boil the oil first? Make it thicker? Maybe add a little... I don't know, resin?"
Faulin's eyes blinked. An idea seemed to start forming behind his tired grey eyes. Silent, then he turned quickly, walking towards his chemical shelf. He took a bottle containing linseed oil and a container containing pine resin.
"This is dangerous," said Faulin, staring at Rowan. "We have to cook it until it boils. It could explode if wrong."
Rowan smiled thinly, a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"My life has been dangerous since I left Lannisport, Maester," he said. He took a thick leather apron from a nail on the wall and wore it.
"Alright," said Rowan, taking his stirring tools. "Let us cook."
He didn't know if this was the answer. He was just guessing. But he had to try. He had to succeed. Because if he failed, not only the Citadel would lose.
If he failed, he would never be able to redeem his sin to Shayne.
"I will work on it again, Maester," repeated Rowan, this time with stronger determination. He lit the small furnace in the corner of the room.
The fire lit up, reflecting in Rowan's tired eyes. In Lannisport, fire burned his best friend. Here, he would try not to burn himself.
...
Casterly Rock, Westerlands, 280 AC.
The afternoon sunlight pierced through the clear glass window and fell onto Ser Kevan Lannister's desk made of black wood. There, neatly stacked were dozens of parchment scrolls and letters sealed with various sigils, ranging from: House Broom, House Westerling, and House Brax.
Kevan sat leaning back, massaging his temples which throbbed slowly. The scent of wax and ink filled the air, a scent that to him was the smell of progress.
He picked up the topmost letter, broke its wax seal, and read the report carefully. It was from Lord Banefort. The report was full of surprising harvest numbers, and at the end of the letter, the old Lord's skeptical tone had changed into almost worshipping praise.
"It works," muttered Kevan to the empty room. "By the Seven Hells."
His mind drifted back to three years ago. At that time, Jaime had just returned from King's Landing, bringing with him ideas that sounded like the fever dream of a mad maester. He came to Kevan, not with a sword or war strategy, but with diagrams of farming tools and land concepts. He brought a letter from Tywin, a short letter containing only one sentence of order: Listen to him, and execute.
Kevan remembered when Jaime unrolled wide paper on this desk. The drawing showed a strange device. A wooden box on wheels, with small funnels and mini plows underneath.
"Seed drill," said Jaime at that time, his eyes sparkling with infectious enthusiasm. "Pulled by a horse or ox. It will make holes, drop seeds with precise spacing, and cover them back with soil. With this we can plant more and faster, practical."
The explanation made sense, very much sense. Even while Kevan was still listening with a frown on his forehead, he could imagine the tool moving in the fields. Efficiency. That was the language Kevan understood.
So, Kevan approved it. Not that he had much choice, Tywin's order was the law of nature at Casterly Rock, but he also saw the potential. He called the best woodworkers and blacksmiths from Lannisport, locked them in a workshop, and told them to realize Jaime's vision.
The first year was a trial on Lannister private fields. The result? Seed savings of almost forty percent, and a more even harvest. He also started training many blacksmiths.
Then, Kevan started "suggesting" vassal Lords to use it.
And now, the third year, these letters were the proof. The granaries in the Westerlands were bursting.
However, the seed drill was just the beginning. The real challenge was Jaime's second idea: The Four-Field Crop Rotation System. Kevan sighed, remembering the long arguments with stubborn old farmers.
"Wheat, turnips, barley, and clover," said Jaime. "Do not let the fields rest empty. Plant them alternately, this might sound like child's play, because we can only see the results later, but no harm in trying, right?"
That was the hardest to implement. Farmers were used to the three-field system, where one field was left fallow, to "recover". Convincing them to plant turnips and clover, plants usually considered livestock feed or weeds, on their precious wheat land was a diplomatic nightmare. They were skeptical. They were afraid the land would be angry.
So Kevan used the only language everyone understood: Taxes.
He suggested to several small Lords and free farmers indebted to Casterly Rock to do it as an experiment. In return, he cut their produce tax by one-tenth for that year.
The risk was on the Lannisters, the profit was on them.
And after the harvest, the results proved undeniable. Fields planted with clover and turnips turned out to produce far more fertile wheat in the following year.
The answer, said Jaime, was inside the clover roots and the manure of livestock eating those turnips. Something about "returning nutrients to the soil". Kevan didn't understand that soil magic, he wasn't a Maester, but since it worked, he just accepted it.
Kevan put down Lord Banefort's letter and picked up another object from his desk. A paperweight.
But this was not an ordinary paperweight. It was a glass sphere. Clear. Perfect. Almost invisible if not reflecting sunlight.
The third project. Glass.
Westeros usually got high-quality clear glass from Myr. Myrish glass was famously expensive, clear, and a status symbol. While that produced in Westeros itself? Little, brittle, and poor quality, often green, cloudy, or full of air bubbles. Making it was hard, and the results disappointing.
Again, Jaime came with a recipe. Not a food recipe, but a rock recipe.
"I only have the theory, Uncle, so this will take a lot of effort like before, but don't give up too fast. We need silica sand from the riverbank," said his nephew. "Limestone. And ash from burning certain hard woods."
They followed his method. This time, Kevan did not use old craftsmen stuck in their old failing ways. He looked for young people, apprentices hungry for recognition, and paid them to experiment in hot furnaces on the outskirts of Lannisport.
So many failed results during the first few months. Glass cracking when cooled. Glass still cloudy. Furnace explosions. Kevan almost stopped the funding.
But then, the moment came.
A sheet of thin glass, taken out of the furnace, cooled slowly. When held up to the sun, Kevan could see a hawk flying in the sky through it without distortion. Clear glass, almost certainly transparent. It was breathtaking.
Kevan remembered when he sent the first sample to King's Landing for Tywin. The reply came fast and firm.
Produce more. Do not sell yet. Keep in warehouses. We will use it to build greenhouses at Casterly Rock first, then as gifts.
Tywin, with his sharp political instinct, knew that selling it massively would crash the price and trigger a trade war with Myr too early. But giving it as an exclusive gift to loyal Lords? That bound loyalty. Who didn't want clear glass windows in their dark castles?
Kevan smoothed his thinning hair, feeling the burden as well as pride of this achievement. So many things happened in these three years. And this happened very quickly, as if the Westerlands were running while the rest of the kingdom was still walking.
Schools... schools also expanded.
Initially only one in Lannisport for merchant and artisan children to be able to read work instructions. Now, they had more. The curriculum was simple: reading, counting, and loyalty to House Lannister.
Even in King's Landing, King Rhaegar was rumored to also plan to build them, inspired by the success in the West. Knowledge spread like fire.
And paper.
Paper became increasingly popular. No one doubted it anymore. Lords all over Westeros now wrote letters on Lannister paper. Merchants recorded their ledgers in paper books.
And the Citadel...
Thinking of that made Kevan's eyes narrow, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes sharpening.
The Citadel also made paper now. The quality was worse, but they made it. They claimed that they "rediscovered" the recipe from dusty old scrolls.
How childish, thought Kevan cynically. How desperate those old men in grey robes were.
Now he knew who sent that bald man three years ago. The man who died without speaking in the Casterly Rock dungeon. Maesters. Of course Maesters. Who else felt most threatened by the spread of cheap knowledge? Who else wanted to monopolize the truth?
The Citadel was the enemy within. They moved slowly, but they moved. Kevan had ordered increased surveillance on every Maester in the Westerlands. Their letters were checked. Their movements monitored.
The trade war had begun, and Kevan intended to win it.
Kevan leaned back again, his gaze shifting to the family painting hanging on the wall.
Jaime.
That boy had returned to King's Landing since the success of glass making two years ago. Tywin wanted him there, by the King's side. Guarding Rhaegar. Ensuring Lannister influence did not fade.
Kevan missed his nephew. Jaime was no longer a mischievous child; he had grown into a young man. Sometimes Kevan wondered, where did all those ideas come from? Did the Gods whisper them while he slept? Or was he truly a genius born once in a thousand years?
And Cersei.
The girl grew into a stunning woman. Reports from King's Landing said that she was the jewel of the court. She would be married at sixteen namedays.
That would be the peak of all Tywin's ambitions. And with the new wealth generated by Westerlands agriculture and industry, the position of House Lannister would be unshakable for a thousand years.
Kevan smiled thinly. The smile of a man who saw his books balanced and surplus abundant. He took his quill, dipped it in ink, and began signing another approval file.
…
King's Landing, Crownlands, 281 AC.
The air inside the kitchen of "The Golden Loaf" bakery felt heavy and sticky, like a wet wool blanket wrapping the skin. The heat in King's Landing this year was scorching, carrying with it the humidity from Blackwater Bay trapped between the dense stone walls of the city.
Talia stood in front of a large wooden table whose surface was white covered in flour. Her strong and skilled hands moved with a steady rhythm, pressing, folding, and pushing the chewy wheat dough.
Press. Fold. Turn.
That movement had become a second language to her. The muscles of her arms tensed under sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Sweat dripped from her temples, making several strands of her brown hair stick to her neck.
The air in the room was thick with the scent of rising yeast, burnt sugar, and cinnamon, a scent that to Talia was the smell of salvation.
It had been four years.
Four years since the fire devoured the Dun Fort. Four years since Clark, her foolish and brave husband, disappeared behind the ruins of the fortress of Darklyn, leaving Talia and Clara alone in a cruel world.
Talia closed her eyes for a moment, letting the memory pass like a cloud shadow. Back then, she thought her life had ended on that muddy hill outside Duskendale. She thought she would starve to death or become a beggar.
However, fate, or perhaps the Mother, had other plans.
After that destruction, Talia did what a mother had to do: survive. She worked any job. Washing smelly soldier clothes, clearing rubble, until finally she found a place in a soup kitchen established by a local Sept to feed refugees.
It was there she found her talent. Or rather, her escape.
Baking bread was not merely cooking. It was an exact science that was calming amidst the chaos of her life. The measure of flour had to be right. The water had to be warm, not hot. Yeast needed time to breathe. If you followed the rules, you would get a good result. Bread would not betray you like a greedy Lord.
Her skills improved rapidly. She started experimenting secretly at night, using leftover ingredients to make sweet bread with honey or spiced bread. She shared it with Clara and fellow refugee friends at the Sept. Their praise was her first currency.
Then came Septon Marton.
Talia smiled thinly remembering the man. Septon Marton was a thin man of about forty namedays, with a face that always looked sour and cynical, as if he had just eaten a rotten lemon. He was not the type of religious leader full of sweet words. However, behind his rough robes and sharp tongue, he had a just heart.
"Your bread is better than my sermons, Talia," Marton said back then. "My friend in King's Landing, a bakery owner, needs new hands that aren't lazy. I can write a letter for you."
Talia trusted him. And that trust brought her here. To the capital.
Life in King's Landing was hard, noisy, and smelly. But here, there was money. There was opportunity.
Now, she was no longer a pitiful refugee widow. She was the head baker at one of the busiest shops in the merchant district. She rented a small but dry room above a shoe shop, two streets from here. She and Clara never slept with empty stomachs again.
Talia opened her eyes, staring at the dough which was now smooth and elastic under her hands.
"Mama?"
That small voice broke her focus. Talia turned.
Clara stood in the doorway of the kitchen connecting to the back room. The little girl had grown big now. She was six years old, almost seven. Her height already reached Talia's chest if she stood straight. Her hair was braided in two neatly, although there was a smudge of flour on her sharp nose, her father's nose.
Clara wore a simple clean cotton dress, a cloth bag slung over her shoulder.
"May I help make bread later, Ma?" asked Clara, her eyes sparkling staring at the dough on the table. "I can make the rabbit shape again. Master Fred said my rabbits were cute."
Talia smiled, her heart warming. "Your hands will get dirty, Clara. And later the flour will get on your dress that Mother already tidied. It will be troublesome to clean again, Darling. You are about to leave for school soon."
Clara's face turned gloomy. Her lips pouted, an expression very similar to Clark's when he lost at guessing games.
"Then I don't have to go to school today," offered Clara quickly, stepping forward approaching the table. "I will just help Mother here. I can learn to count by counting loaves. One loaf, two loaves..."
Talia frowned, stopping her hand movements. She cleaned the flour from her palms by patting them on her apron.
"Do not say that, Child," said Talia firmly yet gently. She knelt so her eyes were level with her daughter. "School is good for you. Very important. It will make you smarter. Smarter than Ma. Smarter than... your Dada."
School.
It was a new miracle in this city. Rumor had it, King Rhaegar had started supporting the establishment of primary schools managed by the Faith or merchant guilds for common children. The cost was cheap, subsidized by the Crown and merchant taxes.
For Talia, school was a gateway. An exit from true poverty.
Talia knew how important reading and writing were, precisely because she herself could not do it. She was illiterate. Her world was limited to what she could see and hear. If there was an announcement pasted on a wall, she had to ask someone else to read it, and she never knew if they were lying or not. She only had meager counting knowledge to ensure her wages weren't cut unfairly.
But Clara... Clara could be different.
With the ability to read and write, Clara didn't need to spend her life with blistered hands in front of a hot oven. She wouldn't struggle. She could be a scribe. She could work in school administration. She could write letters for others. Or perhaps... perhaps she could open her own business one day, becoming an owner, not a worker.
Certain nights, when the candle was almost out, Clara would sit beside Talia on their narrow bed. The little girl would open her precious notebook, and patiently, teach her mother to recognize letters.
"This is 'A', Ma. And this is 'B'."
Those moments made Talia want to cry from pride and shame at the same time.
"But school is boring sometimes, Ma," complained Clara, twirling the end of her braid. "And it's hard to be smart when Raymond is there. He sits behind me. He often shouts and runs around when the Septa isn't looking. He pulled my hair yesterday."
Talia chuckled, pinching her daughter's cheek with affection, leaving a little trace of white flour there.
"Raymond is just a naughty boy, Clara. Ignore him. If he bothers you again, you may pinch him back, but don't get caught by the teacher," whispered Talia slyly. "It means you can practice to be more focused. If you can learn amidst Raymond's noise, you can learn anywhere."
Clara giggled. "Mama is naughty."
"Mama is practical," corrected Talia. She stood up, kissing her daughter's forehead. "Now, go. Don't be late. Remember, listen to the teacher. And later tonight... you can read that story about the Dragon Knight to Ma again."
Clara's eyes sparkled again. "Promise?"
"Promise. Now run, before the bells ring."
Clara nodded, fixing the position of her bag, and ran out the back kitchen door towards the busy streets.
Talia stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her daughter's small back disappear around the corner. She prayed silently that this world would be kind to Clara. That King Rhaegar would keep this peace long enough for Clara to grow up without knowing war.
She sighed, then turned back to her work table. That dough wouldn't knead itself.
...
King's Landing, Crownlands, 282 AC.
Soft morning light flooded Cersei Lannister's chamber in the Red Keep tower, reflecting off the surface of the full-length silver mirror that was the room's centerpiece. Inside that reflection, stood a young goddess who would soon claim her throne.
Cersei stood still, her posture perfectly erect, chin lifted with a pride that had been part of her since she took her first breath at Casterly Rock. She let the servants swarm her like worker bees around a queen bee, their hands busy yet very gentle, afraid to hurt the perfection they were decorating.
This was the most historic day of her life. The day she had waited for since she was a girl listening to Jaime's nonsense tales about princes and princesses. Before, she dreamed of being Rhaegar's wife because of the prince's handsomeness in songs. Now, she stood here because she knew this was her destiny. This was her right.
She was currently ten and six namedays old. The age where a girl turned into a woman. Her beauty had matured since the day she arrived in King's Landing a few years ago. Her cheekbones were more defined, her skin glowing like polished pearl, and her green eyes held an emerald glint that could charm or kill.
She was satisfied with her life right now. She was satisfied with the reflection staring back from the mirror. She was a Lannister. She was a Lion. And soon, she would be a Dragon.
"Comb it neatly, Celia," said Cersei softly, her voice calm yet containing an undeniable command. Her eyes watched the servant's hands through the mirror, ensuring every wave of her golden hair fell exactly where desired. "Do not let a single strand be out of place. I do not want even the slightest flaw in me today."
"Yes, My Lady," answered Celia, her hands trembling slightly from nervousness as she combed Cersei's long and thick golden hair.
My Queen, corrected Cersei internally, her lips thinning slightly forming a firm line. In a few hours I will be Queen, you better remember that, stupid girl. 'My Lady' is no longer enough for me.
Another servant was buttoning the back of her wedding dress. The dress was a masterpiece of the best tailor specially brought in by her father. Thick and luxurious white silk, embroidered with real gold thread and small pearls, forming a lion pattern. A cloak with the Lannister crimson color lay ready on a nearby chair, waiting to be worn by her father for the last time.
"Done, My Lady," whispered the servant, retreating with head bowed, not daring to meet her master's eyes.
Cersei stood up. She turned her body slightly, ensuring the fabric fell perfectly. The dress hugged her body fittingly, accentuating her curves without looking excessive.
"Leave," she commanded.
The servants bowed deeply and hurried out, leaving Cersei alone with her victory. She looked at herself once more. Perfect. No Tyrell or Martell girl could match this. Cersei was the embodiment of power and beauty. Rhaegar would be mesmerized. He had to be mesmerized.
The chamber door opened again without a knock.
Only two people in the whole world dared to do that without her permission.
Cersei didn't need to turn to know who was coming. She recognized those heavy and rhythmic footsteps, as well as the lighter yet confident footsteps beside them.
Tywin and Jaime entered the room.
The Hand of the King wore a dark red velvet tunic with his golden chain of office gleaming. His face, as usual, was a mask of impenetrable calm. Yet Cersei, who knew him better than anyone, could see a very subtle glint of satisfaction in those pale green eyes. This was his day of victory too. The culmination of his lifelong ambition to place his blood on the Iron Throne.
Beside him, Jaime smiled gently, her twin brother looking very handsome. He wore a dark red silk doublet with intricate gold embroidery on the sleeves and collar, the grand colors of House Lannister he wore proudly as the heir to Casterly Rock. A sword with a lion-head hilt hung at his waist, and a gold cloak draped over one shoulder, making him look like a lion prince who jumped out of songs.
"Are you ready?" asked Tywin, his voice flat. His eyes swept over Cersei from head to toe, assessing his valuable 'asset' for the last time with a critical gaze. "You better be quick and not keep us all waiting. The carriage is prepared. The King does not like waiting, and the smallfolk have started to get restless in the streets."
Cersei straightened her back, slightly offended that her father thought she would be slow. "I am never late, Father. I am only ensuring perfection."
"It is a defining day in her life, Father," Jaime defended, but with a light joking tone. "Let her enjoy her moment for a while. Besides, the bride is indeed supposed to arrive a little late to make everyone hold their breath in anticipation, right?"
"I will not be late," repeated Cersei, her voice calm and full of conviction. "I am only ensuring that I am perfect. Do I look perfect, Father?"
Tywin stared at her. He did not smile, but he nodded slowly, a rare acknowledgment. "You look like a Queen. That is what matters. Remember, today is not just about you, Cersei. It is about House Lannister. About our legacy. Do not make mistakes. Do not trip while walking to the altar. Do not cry like a whiny girl. Stand tall. Show them dignity."
"I will not cry," answered Cersei sharply. "I am not a weak girl who cries from happiness or fear. I know who I am."
"Good," said Tywin. He walked to the chair and picked up the Lannister Cloak. With a rigid yet meaningful ceremonial movement, he draped it over Cersei's shoulders. The weight of the red velvet felt comfortable, like the protective embrace of the family that had surrounded her all this time.
Tywin tied the cloak strings at Cersei's neck, then looked deep into her eyes.
"Remember what I told you last night," whispered Tywin, his voice low so only Cersei could hear. "Marriage is a beginning, not an end. Your duty is to provide heirs. Male heirs. As soon as possible. That will secure your position stronger than your beauty or the King's love. A Queen without sons is a fragile Queen."
"I know my duty, Father," said Cersei. "I will give him sons. Sons with golden and silver hair who will rule the world."
Tywin stepped back, satisfied.
Jaime interrupted the heavy moment with a low whistle. "You look stunning, Cersei. Truly. Rhaegar will forget how to breathe when he sees you walking in."
Cersei laughed a little, a sound cold yet amused. "He should."
"That's the spirit," said Jaime. "And I will be there, in the front row, watching you. Ensuring you do not trip."
"Come," ordered Tywin, cutting the sentiment before it became too long. "Time to leave."
The journey to the Great Sept of Baelor felt like a blurry yet vivid dream. Cersei sat inside the gold-plated royal carriage, her father sitting opposite her.
Outside, the cheers of the common people crowding the streets sounded like adoring ocean waves. The roar of their voices penetrated the carriage walls.
Cersei waved at them from the carriage window with a perfectly practiced smile, a smile friendly yet distant, a smile of a goddess to her worshippers.
Look at me, she thought, her heart swelling with satisfaction. Look at your Queen. Remember this face. The face that will rule you.
The carriage stopped. The door opened.
When Cersei stepped out in front of the white marble stairs of the Great Sept of Baelor, the grandeur almost overwhelmed her for a moment. Thousands of candles burning inside, the sweet smell of incense wafting out, and great bells tolling deafeningly.
She held her breath, slightly nervous. Not out of fear, but out of pure adrenaline. This was her biggest stage. She had waited for a moment like this all her life.
She took her father's arm. Tywin patted her hand once, a very rare gesture of support from the ice-cold man, and they began to climb the stairs.
They entered the Sept.
A sea of noble faces turned to look at her. Colorful velvet cloaks, sparkling jewels, everything faded in the presence of Cersei.
She walked down that long aisle. Step by step. Her rhythm perfect. Chin lifted.
Every eye was on her. She could feel the envious gazes of the Tyrell girls sitting in the front row, the admiring gazes of small lords, and the calculating gaze of Jon Arryn. She loved it all. She absorbed that energy. She was the center of the world right now.
And there, at the end of the aisle, in front of the altar, stood Rhaegar Targaryen.
He was tall and handsome, wearing a black and red Targaryen tunic. Jaehaerys's crown sparkled atop his silver hair. His figure regal and full of power.
His purple eyes stared at Cersei as she approached.
There was a smile on Rhaegar's face. A smile that was gentle, welcoming, and... accepting. No rejection there. No hesitation.
Cersei felt her knees go a little weak from joy, but she forced herself to keep walking gracefully. This was the man she wanted. Her dream prince come true.
They reached the altar. Tywin released her arm and handed her to the King.
"I give my daughter, Cersei of House Lannister, to be your wife and your Queen," said Tywin, his voice echoing strongly in the silent room.
"I receive her with joy," answered Rhaegar. His voice was like music, deep and melodious.
Rhaegar extended his hand. Cersei welcomed it. Rhaegar's hand was warm and strong, grasping her hand gently yet firmly.
The High Septon, in his sparkling crystal robes, began reciting wedding prayers. Cersei listened, but part of her mind drifted to the victory of this moment. She had won. She had beaten fate. She had defeated all her competitors.
Then came the time for the exchange of cloaks.
Rhaegar stepped behind her. The King's hands untied the Lannister Cloak from Cersei's shoulders. The red cloth with the golden lion fell to the floor, a symbol that she was no longer just her father's daughter. She released her old identity.
Then, with a gentle and respectful movement, Rhaegar unfolded a new cloak.
The Queen's Cloak.
Pitch black silk with a three-headed red dragon embroidered large and regal on the back. The Targaryen Dragon.
Rhaegar draped it over Cersei's shoulders, tying it at her neck. The weight was different. This was heavier than the Lannister cloak. This was the weight of power. The weight of a dynasty.
"With this cloak, I protect you," said Rhaegar.
Cersei turned to face him.
"And with this heart, I love you," replied Cersei, reciting the vow she had memorized and practiced thousands of times in front of the mirror. Her voice clear and sincere.
They turned to face the High Septon again, hands clasping each other.
"With the power given by the Seven Gods, I pronounce you husband and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul..."
Rhaegar turned to face Cersei fully. He leaned in, his hands holding Cersei's face gently. Their lips met.
The kiss was polite, according to etiquette in public, yet there was warmth there. There was a promise.
Cheers exploded inside the sept as they separated. Trumpets sounded, announcing to the entire city and world that the King had a Queen.
Cersei stared into Rhaegar's purple eyes from close range. She saw her reflection there, a young woman with a gold crown in her hair.
She smiled. She was now Queen. The King's wife. Mother of future kings. She was on top of the world.
Cersei looked at the sea of faces before her, the Lords, Ladies, Knights, who now bowed to her. No one could look down on her anymore. No one could command her except the King, and she was sure she could manage the King.
She was Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And she would make sure everyone remembered her name.
...
Fairmarket, Riverlands, 283 AC.
Night in Fairmarket was never truly dark; the night here was dirty grey, illuminated by moonlight filtered through river mist and dim lanterns from brothels that never slept. But in the narrow alley behind the closed fish market, the darkness was pitch black, wet, and smelled of blood.
The sound of bone hitting flesh sounded wet and disgusting.
Rick hit again. And again. His hand moved with a rhythm of blind desperation. He didn't hate the old man beneath him, he didn't even see his face clearly, but he hated the hunger tearing at his stomach like a mad wolf.
Blood splattered, warm splashes hitting Rick's dirty face, then scattering onto the mossy stone floor. The man he beat had been unconscious since the second blow, his body limp like a sack of wheat falling from a cart. Yet Rick kept hitting again, one last time towards the ribs, just to make sure everything was safe. Just to make sure the victim wouldn't wake up and scream for the city watch before Rick disappeared.
Then he stopped.
Rick stepped back, staggering almost falling because his own legs were trembling. He was panting, his breath spent as if he had just run from a bear. His lungs felt very hot, burning every time he inhaled the cold and damp night air.
He looked down, at his own hands. Under the dim moonlight penetrating the roof cracks, he saw his skinny fists. The skin on his knuckles had split, revealing red flesh underneath. They were bruised, swollen, dark red, and a little purple.
It was painful. A stinging soreness started creeping up his arm. But the pain in his hand was nothing. It was just a mosquito bite compared to the discomfort filling his stomach. A gaping black hole in the center of his body, demanding to be filled.
He hadn't eaten for a whole day. Not even a piece of bread. The last half of a hard moldy loaf he kept behind a brick in his bed wall was finished yesterday afternoon, and even that was only enough to trick his stomach for a few hours.
Getting food was no longer easy. When you were someone with no copper pennies, no trade skills, or any valuable goods to pawn, your choices were limited. The most likely path was begging, sitting on the side of a muddy road, holding out dirty hands, and asking for other people's mercy to give a little leftover food.
But in these times, in this dense and crowded Fairmarket, rarely did anyone have empathy. People walked with eyes closed to the suffering of their fellows. Especially to strangers like Rick. They saw him as a pest, a gutter rat to be driven away.
So Rick chose the easier yet hardest path: stealing.
He remembered a few days ago, he went to the busy grain market. He tried to steal some warm bread when the seller was arguing about price. He almost succeeded. His hand had touched the crisp bread crust. But the sharp eyes of a shop guard caught him. Shouts of "Thief!" echoed. Rick ran with all his might, his heart about to explode, sneaking between horse legs and carts, luckily he ran fast enough that no one could beat him or cut off his hand.
But that was a few days ago. That luck had run out, just like the energy in his body.
Tonight, Rick started starving again. Hunger that was not just a desire to eat, but physical pain making his vision blurry and his head dizzy. He sat in this alley, waiting for death or a miracle.
Then came this old man.
He walked alone, drunk, singing a bawdy song about a milkmaid. His clothes were quite good, thick unpatched wool, and at his waist hung a leather pouch that jingled every time he stepped. The sound of metal clashing. The sound of salvation.
He was an easy target. A gift from the Gods, or perhaps demons.
Rick knelt beside his victim's body. His trembling hand groped the man's waist, cutting the pouch string with a small dull knife he found in the trash. He took the pouch, feeling its weight in his palm.
He opened it slightly. The glint of copper greeted him. And... there was one silver stag.
Rick's eyes widened. His heart beat fast. Enough. This was more than enough. There were several coppers and one silver there, enough to buy food for maybe a week, or two weeks if he scrimped and only ate porridge.
He smiled, a smile showing his teeth. This was his lucky day.
"Rest in peace, Old Man," whispered Rick, his voice hoarse. "At least until tomorrow noon when you wake up with a headache."
Rick stood up and left the alley quickly, merging with the shadows. But as he walked away, the pleasure faded, replaced by nausea.
He felt like trash. He felt dirty for beating an innocent old man just for his stomach. In the past, his mother taught him to respect elders. In the past, he was an honest man.
But he had no other choice. Survival logic killed his conscience. If he didn't hit, he was the one who would die of starvation in that cold gutter. And no one would cry for him.
In the past... Rick was a farmer in the village of Narrowwood, a small hamlet. Well, he wasn't a land owner, he was just a farmhand working to help on Lord Brackley's fields.
His job was simple. Hoeing hard ground, planting seeds by hand under the scorching sun, watering, and harvesting wheat. His back often hurt, his hands rough, and the pay small.
His life was ordinary. Very ordinary. He had a small hut, he had drinking buddies at the village tavern, and he had a dream to marry the milkman's daughter. However, he only realized now that ordinary life was also a luxury. A luxury he didn't appreciate until it was snatched from him so quickly.
Two years ago, disaster came. Not in the form of war, dragons, or plague. Disaster came in the form of wood and iron.
Lord Brackley, their landlord, had just returned from a meeting with Lord Tully. He brought a new tool. A strange cart with funnels and gears.
It was a tool already heard in the farmers' ears through terrifying rumors from the west. The seed drill from the Lannisters.
When Rick saw the tool pulled by two horses, walking splitting the field and planting seeds in perfectly straight rows in just a short time, he felt cold in his stomach. The tool did the work of ten men in half a day.
Rick knew right then that he had to find another job.
And sure enough. Lord Brackley called his farmhands. He said with a regretful face, or pretending to be regretful, that he had to perform "efficiency". The seed drill took his and his friends' jobs. Only a few people were kept there to maintain the tool and herd livestock. The rest? Not needed.
"You can seek fortune elsewhere," said the Lord.
So, that forced Rick out of the village where he was born. He had no land, no skills other than farming. He packed his meager bundle of clothes and tried his luck here, in Fairmarket, the largest trading town in the Riverlands. He thought in a big city there would be many jobs.
But yes, reality looked harsher.
Not only Rick was driven out. Many people like him also came here. Farmhands from other villages also replaced by Lannister tools. They all flooded the city like a flood.
Finding a job became almost impossible. For every single job lifting crates at the harbor, there were fifty people fighting for it. Wages fell freely because of too much labor. The city population increased drastically, but jobs did not.
So in Fairmarket now there were many homeless people. A slum tent city grew outside the walls. People wandered with empty eyes, sleeping in slum alleys, under bridges, or in pigsties. Theft epidemic increased. Prostitution increased.
This was a silent disaster. No blood on the battlefield, but slow death in the streets. And Rick didn't know how long this would last.
Rick shook his head, banishing the bitter memory. He gripped his stolen pouch tighter under his tunic.
He arrived at a leaning wooden building with a sign of a broken oar. "The Broken Oar" Inn.
He entered. The air inside was warm, smelling of wood smoke and human sweat. The noise of conversation filled the room. Rick liked this place. He chose an inn far from the city center and noble civilization because usually the food was cheaper, but at the same time the place was also crowded with outcasts like him. Here, no one asked where you got your money.
Rick walked to the sticky wooden bar table.
"Give me a whole loaf of bread. And meat stew. The large bowl," said Rick to the innkeeper, his voice trembling slightly with anticipation.
The innkeeper, a burly man named Dhorin, stared at Rick suspiciously. Rick placed several copper pieces on the table. Dhorin's eyes softened. Money always talked.
"Wait a moment," muttered Dhorin, sweeping the coins into his drawer.
While waiting, Rick looked around the main room. Usually this place was crowded with drunks gambling or whores looking for customers. But tonight was different.
Almost everyone in the room, rough laborers, beggars, former farmers, unemployed mercenaries, were looking in one direction. To the corner of the room near the fireplace.
There, a group of people gathered closely. The atmosphere was tense yet excited.
"What are they doing?" asked Rick to Dhorin, pointing to the crowd with his chin. "Is there another philanthropist distributing money? Or a madman dancing?"
Dhorin followed Rick's gaze, then frowned deeply. He leaned slightly over the table, whispering with a warning tone.
"You better ask them yourself if you have the guts. Or better yet, eat your food, close your ears, and leave," hissed Dhorin. "I want nothing to do at all with what they are talking about. It's dangerous business."
"Is it that hard to explain to a friend?" Rick smiled thinly, trying to fish for information.
Dhorin stared at him flatly. "You are not my friend, Kid. You are just a customer. I will prepare your order."
Dhorin turned to go to the kitchen.
Not long after, the bowl of stew arrived. Steam billowed, carrying the thick aroma of beef broth, onions, and carrots. Beside it was a large and dense piece of black bread.
To Rick, it looked more beautiful than King Rhaegar's crown he had ever imagined. It looked like heavenly food.
He snatched the bread, tearing it with his teeth, and chewed ravenously. He slurped the hot stew, letting the liquid burn his tongue and warm his cold stomach. The pain in his hand was forgotten. The guilt of beating an old man was forgotten. There was only a feeling of fullness slowly creeping in.
As he ate quickly, a loud shout occurred in the corner crowd.
"Right!" shouted someone. "What do they think we are? Cattle?!"
Rick raised an eyebrow. His curiosity was piqued. He took his bowl and remaining bread, then walked closer while continuing to eat. He stood on the edge of the crowd, listening while chewing.
There, in the center of the crowd, stood a man on an overturned wooden crate.
The man was tall, thin but muscular. He had a thick messy black beard, and long hair tied with a leather strap. His clothes were shabby, patches here and there, but he had a strange authority. His eyes burned with a fire that reminded Rick of a mad preacher, but his words made far more sense than prayers.
"You cannot just keep silent like this, can you?" said the man, his voice heavy and hoarse, yet reaching every corner of the room. He stared at the tired faces around him one by one. "Waiting for death to pick you up slowly in wet alleys? Waiting to be thrown bone scraps by dogs? While your voices are not heard? While your children's stomachs rumble?"
People nodded. Some muttered agreement. The atmosphere in the room started to heat up.
The man continued, his hand clenched in the air.
"They call it 'progress'," spat the man with disgust. "They call those tools a blessing. But a blessing for whom?"
Rick stopped chewing. The bread in his mouth felt tasteless suddenly.
"With those tools, the nobles become increasingly arbitrary to us!" cried the man, his voice rising. "They cut workers because tools don't need wages! They drive us from our ancestral lands because tools need vast fields without peasant huts! They don't think about our children struggling to get a piece of bread!"
The man pointed towards the door, towards the outside world.
"While the wheat itself is getting more abundant in their granaries! Harvest is plentiful, they say! But did the price of bread go down? No! are we full? No!"
"They hoard it to become gold!" shouted a woman in the front row.
"Exactly!" welcomed the speaker. "They get richer on our broken backbones. They replace us with wood and iron. Do you accept it?! Are you willing to be replaced by inanimate objects?!"
"NO!" shouted several people in unison.
Rick swallowed. He chewed his bread slowly.
Those words... those words stabbed right into the heart of the problem.
True. Since the appearance of strange tools and new farming systems from the West, it had become common knowledge that harvests in the Riverlands and Westerlands were increasingly abundant. Never had there been this much wheat. But that abundance did not trickle down. The Lords became richer, buying silk and glass, while their own people, the ones who used to till the land, were now starving in the cities, having no roof to sleep under, becoming thieves and whores.
This was not just poverty. This was systematic injustice.
The bearded man looked around, his eyes meeting Rick's eyes for a moment. There was an invitation there. An invitation to be angry.
"We must take back our rights," said the man, his voice lowering into a dangerous growl. "Those tools... they can burn. Those granaries... the doors can be broken down. If they don't feed us, we will take it ourselves."
This was not just a complaint in a tavern.
Rick realized it with a cold shiver down his spine. This was developing as a gathering. A beginning of something big and bloody.
Rebellion.
And as he stared at the remaining bread in his hand, bread he bought with money from beating a person, Rick wondered: would he join in burning the world, or not.
...
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