Daario_W
patreon
Fields of Gold - (Jaime SI), CH:29
🕑 Added 2025-11-03 06:57:39 +0000 UTCJAIME
"This journey will take more time than we thought."
Tygett Lannister's voice, low and heavy as stone, cut through the silence of the dimly lit room. Outside, the rain that had been only a drizzle had now turned into a fierce, raging storm. It no longer fell; it was poured from the bruised gray sky. The trees on the edge of the muddy road howled, their bare branches thrashing about like desperate hands, blown by the fierce, shrieking wind. Leaves and small broken twigs flew everywhere, slapping against the inn's windows with a panicked sound.
They were at an inn in the middle of nowhere, on their long journey to Riverrun. The air here was freezing. It was not the kind of cold that bites; this was a damp, seeping cold, that seemed to stick to the skin and creep into the bones. It made a man shiver slightly, no matter how close he sat to the weakly burning hearth in the corner of the room.
The inn was quiet at present. There was only them, a few of their guards eating at another table with soft voices, and the bored-looking innkeep behind his counter. Jaime was standing looking out the window, observing the chaos outside. In his hand, he held a warm cup of milk mixed with honey. It was sweet, tasted smooth, and its warmth was the only thing that felt calming at the moment.
"The weather is indeed something we can never predict," Jaime added, his voice flat, his eyes still fixed on the raindrops.
They had been traveling for more or less ten days to Riverrun, and on almost every day, a storm would come at an unexpected time. This was one small fortune; they had managed to find the nearest inn just before the sky truly opened up. But there were times they were not so lucky, trapped in the middle of the wilderness, crammed inside a narrow and musty carriage, listening to the creak of the wheels and the unavoidable drip of water from the slightly leaky roof.
Riverrun. Jaime was already eleven, yet he had never been there at all. From what he had read and heard, he knew the scenery around the place was beautiful. Many lush green trees and wide meadows, ancient castles towering high, and of course, the rivers that were the lifeblood of the Riverlands.
However, he was not going there now to enjoy all of that. He was not going as a tourist; he was going to meet his 'betrothed'.
The word felt very bitter when he thought of it, like ash in his mouth.
He was Steven. A man in his thirties, who was now somehow trapped in the body of a boy. Indeed, that meant he was a child now. This was his second life, and honestly, his past memories were beginning to fade a little in parts, replaced by the current reality.
But still, he had something weighing on his heart. The remnants of Steven screamed that this was all wrong.
Lately, since Tywin had unilaterally announced the betrothal, he had been exchanging letters with Catelyn Tully. Ignoring her was completely impossible; it would be a cruel thing to do, especially while the girl herself sent her letters so carefully, written in a neat hand and full of a noble lady's courtesies.
Jaime, every day since then, thought about what he would write in his own letters. At first, he was completely stuck. Finally, after much exhausting internal debate, he gave in to the pretense.
He would just be honest... well, partially. He told of his daily life as a squire for his Uncle Tygett. About cleaning armor until it shone, brushing smelly horse coats, and exhausting sword practice under the sun. But because Jaime knew that might be very boring, he added spice. He included stories he thought were interesting, which he took directly from novels and films in his previous life. He told tales of knights fighting dragons, of sorcerers, and of kingdoms filled with creatures like elves and dwarves.
Poetry? Of course, poetry too. He wrote poems about the beauty of Casterly Rock facing the sunset, about the hustle and bustle of King's Landing, or about anything else he could think of to fill the sheets of paper.
Now, he was going to meet the girl. And Jaime found that he did not know what to say. This, somehow, felt far more difficult than facing his father directly.
"We should have been very close if only the weather had been able to be friendly." Tygett's voice was heard again, low and grim as usual. This uncle of Jaime's was the most serious of the three. Far different from the dutiful Kevan or the cheerful Gerion. Tygett was a soldier, straightforward and without ceremony. But beneath it all, Jaime knew he was very kind and cared for him in his own way.
"Well, the clouds seem to be raging. A pity we do not know the cause of their anger," Jaime joked, trying to lighten his own mood a little.
"Even if we knew, we could never overcome it," Tygett replied, ignoring the jest completely. He sipped his drink. "Are you thinking about something?"
Jaime turned from the window. "What do you mean?" he asked, a little confused by the sudden change of topic.
"Your face. Your face has been so different since we left Casterly Rock."
"My face is always like this," Jaime denied, a weak lie.
"No," Tygett said, his sharp eyes staring fixedly at Jaime. There was no judgment there, just pure observation. "Your face is usually calm. You are always smiling at your own jokes that no one else understands. But, lately, you have been quieter. And your brows are always furrowed."
"Really?" Jaime knew it was true, but he still tried to deflect the conversation.
"Jaime," Tygett's voice softened, something that very rarely happened. "If you need someone to talk to, I am here. We do not have to keep everything to ourselves. Sometimes those thoughts must be released so they do not become a heavier burden."
Jaime fell silent. 'My burden right now is perhaps something you cannot understand, uncle,' he thought to himself.
Jaime stopped himself from letting out a long sigh. However, the sincere kindness in his uncle's voice, something so different from his father's cold calculations, finally made him relent.
He thought, his cup of milk now cooling in his hands. "It is about Catelyn."
Tygett raised an eyebrow slightly, a barely visible movement on his stiff face. It was the equivalent of anyone else gaping in shock. He looked at his nephew for a moment, as if making sure he had not misheard.
Then, a strange, hoarse sound escaped his throat, which Jaime only then realized was a suppressed laugh.
"Catelyn?" Tygett shook his head. "By the Seven Hells, lad. I swore I thought you were thinking about something to do with paper, business, or how to make that printing press work faster. I thought you were vexed about how to turn lead into gold or some such."
He looked at Jaime again, this time with an unmistakable expression of amusement. "And it turns out, all this... all those furrows on your brow... are just because of a girl? I cannot believe you are vexed over a girl."
"It is not like that," Jaime argued. His uncle had misunderstood. "I just feel that this is all too fast. We are both still children." It was a weak reason, but it was the only one he could give without sounding mad.
"It is natural for a highborn to be betrothed at a young age," Tygett informed him, his amused tone vanishing. "We have been doing this for... who knows how long. It has just always been that way."
"Besides, it is not as if you are getting married now. You are only going to meet her. The wedding itself will, at best, not happen until you are fourteen or fifteen name days."
'That does not make me feel any better,' Jaime thought, looking back at his uncle flatly.
After chatting for a little while longer, the topic shifting back to more superficial things, the journey, the terrible weather, the quality of the ale at the inn, Jaime finally finished the rest of his honeyed milk, which had now gone cold. It no longer felt comforting.
"I am going upstairs," he muttered.
Jaime shook his head once more, as if to clear the remnants of the awkward conversation, and he then climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the upper floor. He entered his own inn room. The room was small, cold, and smelled of damp wood and the faint smoke from the hearth downstairs. The rain was still lashing against the window, and its sound now seemed even heavier, like thousands of small drums being beaten relentlessly.
Deciding to spend his time on more important things than pondering his betrothal dilemma, Jaime knelt beside his narrow bed. He reached into his travel bag and pulled out a notebook he had bound himself.
The cover of this book was made of simple black leather, and the paper inside was some of the first sheets of high quality linen paper that he and Jon had managed to make. This book was filled with his random thoughts when he was bored, rough sketches of mechanisms, song lyrics he remembered, but there was also something more important. There were notes on his progress, his fears, and his plans.
He opened it carefully. The pages felt smooth beneath his fingers. He began to read what he had written a year ago, his own handwriting, slightly slanted and neat.
"27th of March, 276 AC."
"I have started the paper production and so far it is going well. Uncle Gerion has already set off across the sea. This was Father's order. I did not expect him to act so quickly, even before I had time to make a complete suggestion about trade routes. No wonder he is the Hand of the King. He never wastes time."
"Paper is good, it is the foundation. However, this is something new and is a direct replacement for parchment. Because of that, it will also bring some unavoidable negative impacts. I have created something that will destroy the livelihood of thousands of people involved in that business. And it is the same for the printing press; the writers and copyists whose job is only to copy books, will be affected too."
"But the latter is still fewer than the former. For now. Because the printing press itself, as far as we will go at present, is only printing 'The Seven-Pointed Star' periodically. And in the future, approved Lannister histories. Therefore, for other books sold by merchants or kept in the Citadel, they will still have to rely on scribes to copy them. Unless, of course, this printing press technology leaks and spreads faster than I anticipated. That is a constant worry."
"Input has been given to Uncle Gerion that it would be best for him to first offer these paper contracts to the large parchment merchants. Besides them having existing connections and distribution networks, this will also make them less destroyed by the economic shift. They can switch from selling parchment to selling paper. It is the best solution I could think of."
"The school in Lannisport quickly became popular, which I did not expect. I thought this would go more slowly, requiring more persuasion. This is unexpected, but at least it is not a bad thing. The wealthy merchants and skilled craftsmen seem to have immediately seen the opportunity for their children to become more educated. But what is more important? I realized this is not just about reading. It is about Environment."
"Yes, all who can enter the school so far, because of the cost, are the upper-middle class. This means their own children will befriend children of the same status sooner. They are not learning mathematics; they are learning who to know. This builds connections. This builds networks. They will be able to adapt to the world of trade more quickly. I wanted to create enlightenment, but instead I created the first exclusive networking club in Lannisport."
Reading that again, a year later, Jaime scratched his hair slowly. The irony of it still made him chuckle softly.
It had been over a year since that entry. And everything had progressed faster than he had imagined. They had managed to build, or were in the process of building, mills in fifteen different locations throughout the Westerlands. Fifteen. Uncle Kevan, with his quiet, relentless efficiency, did not jest when he saw the potential for profit. Sure, some of those mills were currently still just newly laid stone foundations, but it was still an enormous number. The Lannister industrial machine had begun.
Jon himself, his loyal sworn shield, now spent more time on the road, overseeing those new locations, acting as Jaime's personal eyes and ears. In return, Jon had earned a small plot of land and a simple towerhouse on land not too far from Lannisport, a direct gift from Tywin for his "invaluable assistance" on the paper project. His mother and father were living there, enjoying a life they had never dreamed of. Meanwhile Jon, still roaming Casterly Rock and Lannisport, was more loyal to Jaime than ever.
Closing his book with a soft sound, Jaime slipped it back into his bag. He felt a little calmer, his mind diverted by larger, more tangible problems.
He then walked to the thin mattress and lay down on his back, still wearing his boots. He stared at the dark wooden ceiling above him. There, right above his face, was a small dark stain, and every few seconds, a cold drop of water formed, hung for a moment, then fell to the floor beside his bed.
Plip.
Jaime closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the roaring rain outside and the steady drip of water inside his room.
