JONOTHOR | JAIME
The earth trembled beneath the iron hooves of three hundred warhorses. Ser Jonothor Darry spurred his mount, cutting through the Riverlands grasslands soaked by last night's rain. They rode hard, smashing through everything in their path. Wild grass was trampled into mush, merging with the sticky black soil. Splatters of mud flew into the air like brown blood every time a hoof struck the earth.
Jonothor ignored the filth staining his white Kingsguard cloak. His mind was focused on one goal.
"Faster!" he shouted, his voice hoarse overcoming the roar of the wind.
They turned sharply at the bend of a muddy path, horses neighing in protest as they were forced to push their last remaining strength.
And then, they arrived.
Jonothor pulled his reins hard. His horse stopped, its front hooves clawing the air for a moment before landing with a heavy thud.
Before him, lay a sight that made his stomach turn.
The village, if this pile of rubble still deserved to be called a village, was absolute chaos.
Simple wooden houses had collapsed into pitiful charred skeletons. Livestock fences had been torn down and turned into piles of broken wood on the ground. A sharp smell of burning pierced the nose, mixed with the faint scent of blood unmistakable to a veteran.
Fortunately, not everything was razed to the ground. There were still a few stone buildings or houses whose frames stood intact. In the middle of the muddy village square, people gathered. They looked like ghosts in broad daylight, pale, dirty, and silent.
Jonothor gave a hand signal. His troops stopped, forming a defensive but non-threatening semi-circle formation.
He dismounted. His steel boots sank a few inches into the mud. With heavy steps, his right hand alert on the pommel of his sword, not to attack, but out of habit, he walked closer to the crowd.
The people there flinched back. Their eyes wide with fear. To them, a group of armed men arriving on warhorses usually meant one thing: certain death.
"Do not be afraid!" cried Jonothor, raising his empty hand. "We are the King's army."
The crowd was not immediately relieved, but the tension eased slightly. Then, two men separated from the group and stepped forward.
One of them, a tall man with messy black hair and tired brown eyes, stared at Jonothor with a mixture of hope and skepticism.
"Ser?" his voice was hoarse, as if he had shouted or cried too much last night. "You... you are here to help?"
Jonothor straightened his body, letting the emerging sunlight reflect off his white breastplate.
"Ser Jonothor Darry, of the Kingsguard," he introduced himself with a formal yet not haughty tone. "Sent by King Rhaegar himself. We were sent to drive away the bandits. Our ravens brought news that this village might be the next target in their attack pattern..."
Jonothor paused for a moment. He looked around, at the corpse of a dog lying near the well, at a woman crying while hugging her child.
"...but it seems we are too late," ended Jonothor with a bitter tone.
Frustration burned in his chest. It had been fourteen days since they were sent out of the gates of King's Landing. Seven days spent on the torturous journey to the Riverlands, due to roads damaged by rain. And seven more days spent tracking ghosts. These bandits moved fast, too fast, and they attacked coordinately in various places.
The tall man smiled wryly. A smile that did not reach his eyes.
"They came at night, Ser," explained the man. "We are just farmers. We were helpless to do anything when... when not even one of us is skilled in using a sword. They had steel weapons. We only had pitchforks."
Jonothor nodded, his jaw hardening. He did not answer those words because there was no answer that could comfort.
Damn it, he thought. If only the roads were better. If only we could spur horses faster without fear of breaking legs in mud holes. We might have crossed paths with those bastards.
But they had no magic to fly. Reality was his biggest enemy right now, not enemy swords.
"Are any of you injured?" Jonothor asked, shifting focus to impact management.
"Yes..." said the man, his shoulders slumping. "About most of us are injured. Bruises, broken bones, cuts. Two people died, Old Miller and his son who tried to hold the barn door. But they were buried this morning, before the flies came."
The man looked back, towards a makeshift tent made of scrap cloth. "We have treated the wounded with makeshift herbs and hope it will be enough."
Nodding, Jonothor felt his blood flow faster with anger. Attacking unarmed farmers was the vilest act of cowardice. This was not just robbery; this was terror.
He took a deep breath, calming himself. A Kingsguard must be a rock, not wild fire.
"I offer my condolences for your loss. In the name of the King, I apologize we did not arrive sooner," said Jonothor sincerely. "What about your buildings and barns? Is there anything left to eat? I heard they target granaries."
The man nodded slowly. He pointed to a stone building at the end of the village whose walls were blackened by soot, but still standing.
"Yes. Although the door was destroyed and part of the roof burned, the rain saved us from total destruction last night. The fire could not grow under the heavy rain. They left before they could burn down the wheat inside. They... they seemed in a hurry."
Good, thought Jonothor. At least mass starvation could be avoided for this village. It was not something to be happy about amidst death, but in war, small victories must still be appreciated.
Jonothor looked into the man's eyes again. He wanted to give assurance. He wanted to give a sense of security.
"I will look around to see how severe the damage they caused is," said Jonothor, his hand gripping his scabbard. "I will look for their tracks. Horses leave deep tracks in wet mud. They will not be able to run far. I will avenge this, I promise you. Their heads will be spiked at the gate of this village."
That was a knight's promise. A sacred oath.
"Yes, Ser," said the man.
He bowed slightly, polite yet hollow. His voice was flat, reflecting deep soul fatigue. In his eyes, Jonothor could see that the promise of vengeance did not mean much. Severed bandit heads would not rebuild his scorched house, and would not bring Old Miller back to life.
"Do what you must do, Ser. In that case, I will return," added the man, then he turned, returning to the crowd.
...
The afternoon wind blowing through the gaps in the buildings in The Hook brought dust and the scent of newly dug wet earth. Jaime stood on the edge of a large trench splitting the main road, his eyes fixed on a sheet of paper spread in his hands. The paper contained a map of King's Landing drawn in extraordinary detail. Not a map of streets or buildings, but a map of the city's veins: the sewers.
Black and red ink marked drainage lines. Bold lines showed completed parts, while dashed lines marked areas still under construction or in the planning stage.
"This is still too slow," muttered Jaime to himself, his finger tracing the red line in the Flea Bottom area.
On the map, Flea Bottom looked neat. In reality, the place was a nightmare. The alleys were too narrow for material carts, the population too dense, and the soil... saturated with human waste for hundreds of years. Digging there was like digging a giant latrine. They needed twice as long just to clear the work area before construction could begin.
That was why Jaime decided to move the main focus temporarily to The Hook. The streets were wider, curving up towards Aegon's High Hill, providing a perfect natural slope for gravity flow. Progress here was far faster, and worker morale was higher because they didn't have to work while holding their breath every second.
Below him, inside a trench five meters deep, dozens of workers were busy. Some of them leveled the base soil, compacting it with heavy wooden tampers. The rhythm of the pounding sounded like the heartbeat of the new city.
On the other side, a line of carts moved slowly out towards the gate. The carts were covered with tarps, but the foul smell wafting from them told their contents: black sludge dug from old sewers.
Jaime had given strict instructions. That filth must not be dumped into the river inside the city. It had to be taken far to the lowlands outside the walls, buried in deep pits, and doused with quicklime, to burn the disease before being covered with soil. It was expensive, but a plague was far more expensive.
Jaime folded the map carefully, putting it into the leather tube at his waist. He looked up, looking for his main foreman amidst the organized chaos.
"Daryl!" shouted Jaime, his voice crossing the construction noise. "How much has arrived?!"
A burly man with a face covered in grey dust turned. He was directing the unloading of a stone load from a cart.
"Thirty carts for gravel, Ser!" Daryl shouted back, wiping sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. "River sand will follow in an hour!"
Jaime nodded lightly. Thirty carts. That was enough to cast a base of fifty yards today if they worked fast.
He looked down, staring at the workers, the workers looked uncomfortable when being watched.
"Do not stop because of me," he said. "I am just looking around."
After a while, he nodded lightly, turned again and looked up. Rain seemed likely to fall again tonight, like previous nights this week. Strange summer weather.
This was troublesome. Rain meant the trench would be muddy tomorrow morning. If they poured the mortar now and heavy rain fell before the mortar hardened, the surface would be ruined. They had to cover it with oil tarps.
"Daryl!" called Jaime again. "Speed up the base gravel installation! And prepare the tarps! We don't know when the rain will fall!"
"Ready, Ser! Come on, you heard the Lion! Move! Just consider the rain your mother-in-law's spit!" shouted Daryl, spurring his men.
Jaime observed them working closely. He didn't just watch; occasionally he joined in lifting heavy wooden planks or kicking stones blocking the path. He wanted them to see that he was not afraid of getting dirty. That the hand holding a sword could also hold a shovel if needed.
Luckily, thought Jaime, although the nights were wet, days in King's Landing lately were very scorching. The sun's heat helped dry the concrete faster than estimated.
After ensuring all pouring preparations were ready and the temporary drainage system functioned to anticipate flooding later tonight, Jaime decided it was time to leave. He had a dinner promise with Catelyn, and he didn't want to be late again with the excuse of 'watching cement dry'.
"Good work today," said Jaime to the nearest group of workers. "Make sure you drink water. I do not want to see anyone fainting."
"Thank you, Ser Jaime!"
Jaime sighed. The city smell was still a mixture of earth and sweat, but behind it, he could smell the clean sea scent. One trench done. A thousand more awaiting.
And it was exhausting.
...
The sun had almost set completely when Jaime finally returned to his private chambers in the Red Keep. His body felt sticky and heavy, and the scent of wet earth from the sewer trench clung to him like an unwanted second skin.
He rotated his stiff shoulders, hoping Catelyn had prepared hot water. He missed the touch of warm water and the scent of soap, today was long and tiring, starting from supervising arriving goods and also ensuring workers did it correctly.
Jaime opened their room door with a little force.
"Cat? I'm home," he called, his voice slightly hoarse. "And I smell like a sewer, so hold your nose. I warn you."
Silence.
No answer. No sound of light footsteps that usually welcomed him.
Jaime frowned. He stepped in, his eyes sweeping the room. Empty. The bed neat, the fireplace lit small, and there was an open book on the chair near the window, but Catelyn was not there.
He went out again into the corridor, stopping a young servant passing by carrying a stack of linen.
"Where is Lady Catelyn?" he asked.
The servant jumped in surprise, her eyes widening seeing Jaime's messy appearance. "M-My Lord! Lady Catelyn... she went to Maester Baelin's room, My Lord."
"Maester Baelin?" repeated Jaime. "Why? Is she sick?"
"She did not say the reason, My Lord. She just looked... in a hurry. And I did not dare to press."
Jaime released the servant's arm. "Alright. Thank you."
His heart beat faster. That was bad. Very unusual.
Catelyn was a Lady of a Great House. If she felt unwell, usually she would call a servant to fetch the Maester to come to her room. She wouldn't walk alone to the Maester unless there was something urgent. Or something she wanted to keep secret.
Jaime's mind raced to the worst scenarios. Fever? Poisoning? Bad news from Riverrun?
"Damn," he swore softly.
He was supposed to bathe. He was dirty, sweaty, and smelled of sewers. But priorities shifted instantly. Cleanliness could wait; his wife could not.
Jaime turned and immediately went down the hallway with wide and fast strides. His heavy footsteps echoed in the silence of the stone corridor, a rhythm of urgency breaking the night's calm. He ignored the astonished gazes of several guards seeing Lord Lannister jogging in dirty work clothes.
He climbed the stairs to the workroom of Maester Baelin, the young Maester assigned specifically to serve the Lannister family's needs in the capital.
Jaime reached the heavy oak door. He knocked once, then immediately pushed the door open.
"Cat? Are you alri—"
His words stopped in his throat.
The scene inside the room froze Jaime's panic instantly.
Maester Baelin's room smelled of dried herbs and old paper. Near the workbench full of glass jars, Catelyn sat on a wooden chair. Maester Baelin, a thin man, stood beside her with a wide smile on his usually serious face.
But what made Jaime transfixed was Catelyn's face.
She was not in pain. She was not pale from fever.
Catelyn was laughing. A small laugh that sounded wet. Her hands cupped her mouth, and in her clear blue eyes, tears were welling up. Seeing Jaime enter panting with a dust-covered face, Catelyn's laughter broke even harder. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
"Jaime," she said, her voice trembling. "By the Seven, you look terrible."
Jaime blinked, confused. His adrenaline slowly receded, replaced by confusion.
"I... the servant said you ran here. I thought you were sick. I thought..." Jaime stepped in, closing the door behind him. He looked at Maester Baelin, demanding an explanation. "What happened?"
Maester Baelin bowed respectfully. "Joyous news, Ser Jaime. Very joyous."
Catelyn stood up. She walked towards Jaime, ignoring the lime stains on her husband's tunic or the wafting smell of sweat. She took Jaime's dirty hand with both her smooth and warm hands.
"I am not sick, Jaime," whispered Catelyn, looking straight into her husband's green eyes. Her smile was so wide it made her face shine brighter than any candle in the room.
She took Jaime's hand, and gently placed it on her flat stomach.
"Here," she said softly. "There is life."
Jaime felt his palm touch the fabric of Catelyn's dress, feeling the body heat underneath. His brain, usually fast and full of technical plans, suddenly jammed. He took a full second to process those words.
Life, in her stomach.
Jaime's eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly.
"You..." his voice hoarse. "You are with child?"
Catelyn nodded, happy tears dropping on her cheeks again. "Yes. Maester Baelin just confirmed it. It has been two months, he says."
The world around Jaime seemed to stop spinning.
He was going to be a father.
Not just an uncle to Aegon. Not just a big brother to Tyrion. He would be a father. His own flesh and blood.
A warm feeling exploded in his chest, so strong he felt short of breath. It was a mixture of pure joy, pride, and a little fear, but he immediately brushed it aside. He would ensure Catelyn got the best care in the world.
"Oh, Cat," whispered Jaime.
He couldn't hold back. He pulled his wife into an embrace, lifting her slightly off the floor and spinning her slowly, not caring the dust on his clothes would dirty Catelyn's silk dress.
Catelyn laughed, wrapping her arms around Jaime's neck.
"We will have a child, Jaime," she said in her husband's ear. "Someone who might have your eyes or mine."
"Whatever it is," Jaime laughed, lowering Catelyn but still hugging her tight, burying his face in the crook of his wife's fragrant neck. "Thank you. Thank you."
Maester Baelin cleared his throat softly, smiling awkwardly seeing his masters' affection.
"I suggest Lady Catelyn start reducing heavy activities and start eating nutritious food, Ser," said the Maester. "And perhaps... avoid sewer smells that are too pungent."
Jaime laughed freely, a laugh full of relief and happiness. He released his hug slightly to look at Catelyn's face again, wiping the tears on his wife's cheeks with his rough thumb.
"You hear that?" said Jaime. "Starting tomorrow, you may only smell roses. I will bathe seven times a day if necessary."
"Once is enough, as long as clean," Catelyn smiled, touching Jaime's dirty cheek. "Now let us return. We must tell your Father. And write to my Father."
"Yes," said Jaime. "Tywin Lannister will smile today. I guarantee it."
...
Power Stones would be greatly appreciated, it would also keep me motivated for faster updates. If we reach 300, I will upload an extra chapter.
Also, you can read early chapters at Patreon.com/Daario_W
Thanks for reading!