JONOTHOR | RHAEGAR
The wheels of the prison cart rattled over the cobblestone streets, parts of which had been torn up. On the left and right of the main road, the sight greeting Jonothor was organized chaos. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of bare-chested workers were digging deep trenches, carrying wicker baskets filled with black filth, or pouring gravel mixture into the excavated ditches.
Jonothor pulled his horse's reins, trying to calm the beast agitated by the noise of hammers and the shouts of foremen. He took a breath, and immediately regretted it.
The air of King's Landing, which since ancient times had been famous for the pungent smell of feces and kitchen smoke, was now worsened by sharp lime dust that dried the throat and stung the eyes.
"Cough," Jonothor coughed softly, covering his mouth with the back of his hand encased in a dirty steel gauntlet. He winced. The taste of lime clung to his tongue.
"The Lannister family and their obsessions," he muttered softly, his eyes squinting at the dust billowing from a cart that had just dumped a load of sand.
They said this was progress. The Lannisters said this was sanitation. But to Jonothor, who had just spent weeks on the muddy roads of the Riverlands, this looked like someone was dissecting the city's stomach and letting its guts spill out. The smell was fouler than a battlefield where corpses had not been buried for three days.
He turned to the side, checking his cargo.
Inside an iron-barred cart pulled by two tired draft horses, five men sat huddled. They were the remnants of the bandit group he had ambushed in the cave. Jonothor didn't bring all the prisoners; that would have slowed the journey and consumed supplies. Some had been hanged or sent to the Night's Watch.
But these five were different.
Jonothor had selected them specifically. One was their leader, the black-bearded man. The other four were those most vocal, most intelligent, or most cowardly willing to talk for a piece of bread.
Jonothor stared at them with unconcealed disgust.
They looked pitiful. Their clothes were tattered, their faces dirty with travel dust and despair. However, in their eyes, Jonothor still saw that flash of fire. The fire of rebellion.
During the long journey back to the capital, Jonothor had spoken with some of them, also listening to their chatter during night rests.
Most of them claimed to be just recruited farmers. They told stories with fiery passion about how they were fired by landlords, how their children starved, and how someone promised money and justice.
They were angry at the nobles. They blamed the King, the Hand, and anyone who had a roof over their heads.
That narrative made Jonothor's blood boil. He wanted to slap them with his steel gauntlet until their teeth fell out.
You talk about hunger, thought Jonothor, staring at the bandit leader who stared back at him with defiant eyes, but you are the ones who burned the barns. You are the ones who destroyed the tools that plant food. You are not victims; you are the disease.
The small convoy continued moving forward, splitting the crowd of workers who moved aside upon seeing the royal banner.
Near the outer courtyard of the Red Keep, another rider approached. He wore a pristine white cloak, a sharp contrast to Jonothor's cloak which was now brownish-grey from dust and mud.
It was Ser Mervyn Mallery.
The young black-haired knight was an addition to the Kingsguard brotherhood, replacing Ser Harlan Grandison who died peacefully in his sleep a few years ago. Mervyn was a capable man, skilled with a lance, but his eyes possessed a flatness that sometimes made Jonothor feel uncomfortable.
Mervyn stopped his horse beside Jonothor, nodding briefly as a greeting. His dark eyes immediately went to the prisoner cart.
"Welcome back, Brother," greeted Mervyn, his voice calm. "Long journey?"
"Felt longer than it should have," answered Jonothor, his voice hoarse.
Mervyn stared at the five prisoners with a flat expression, as if assessing cattle to be slaughtered. His gaze stopped on the bandit leader and one associate who looked thinnest and weakest.
"Those two there look like half-rotten trash, Ser," commented Mervyn without emotion. "You fed them?"
The question sounded like an accusation of waste.
"If not, how are they still alive to get here, Mervyn?" answered Jonothor sharply, slightly offended. He was tired, and his patience was paper-thin. "It took us weeks to get here at this cart's pace. King Rhaegar wants them alive for questioning, not as dried corpses."
Jonothor pointed towards the bandit leader who spat on the ground as they spoke about him.
"Those two were very stubborn," continued Jonothor. "They refused at first. They only ate when their stomachs could no longer withstand the pain. They said our food was dirty. Food from the hands of 'oppressors', they said."
Jonothor snorted, a rough laugh escaping his throat. "Very funny, isn't it? When they are the ones who burned villages and looted poor people. They talk about stomach honor while destroying other people's stomachs."
Mervyn shifted his gaze back to the front, his horse walking slowly alongside Jonothor's horse towards the castle gate.
"Most criminals indeed do not own mirrors, Ser," said Mervyn philosophically, but his tone was cold. "Their heads are empty and cannot think about what they have done objectively. They always believe they are heroes in their own stories. They believe they are doing good deeds, even if their methods are very barbaric. That is how they sleep at night without being haunted by their victims' screams."
Jonothor nodded wearily. Mervyn was right. Fanaticism was the best shield for a rotten conscience. They passed the Red Keep gate. The atmosphere here was quieter, far from the noise of sewer construction in the lower city.
"How are the others?" Jonothor asked, changing the topic. He felt alienated after weeks in the wild. He missed news of his brothers.
"Doing duty, as usual," Mervyn smiled thinly, a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. He started counting with his white-gloved fingers.
"Ser Gerold leads the main road patrol and goes around ensuring trade route safety. Ser Manly Stokeworth escorts the King wherever he goes, although the King is busy with meetings, so Manly mostly stands bored in front of the Small Council door."
Mervyn pointed towards the slum area in the distance.
"Ser Arthur... he is mostly in Flea Bottom. Supervising the distribution of free bread. He has become a guardian angel for bakers, ensuring the people don't kill each other for a crust of wheat."
Jonothor could imagine Arthur there. The Sword of the Morning, the greatest knight in the world, becoming a bread line guard. It was a waste of talent, but also the most noble duty right now.
"Oswell is assigned with Queen Mother Rhaella and Prince Viserys," continued Mervyn. "Keeping them safe and entertained. And Ser Harys... he has become the shadow of Queen Cersei and little Prince Aegon."
"And you?" asked Jonothor.
"Me? I oversee things in the castle. Inner castle patrols, maintaining order among servants and gossiping courtiers. Waiting for your turn to return so I can sleep," Mervyn laughed lightly.
"No one injured while I was away?" Jonothor ensured.
"No. Perhaps only pride is injured having to deal with stomach and sewer issues," joked Mervyn. "We are all tough, aren't we?"
Jonothor stared at the red stone fortress towering in front of him.
"Tough, yes. Tough," muttered Jonothor. He felt anything but tough right now. He felt old, dirty, and desperately wanted a hot bath. But he was a Kingsguard. He was not allowed to be tired.
...
The torches on the damp stone walls flickered, casting long shadows that danced like starving ghosts along the spiral staircase leading to the belly of the Red Keep.
Rhaegar Targaryen descended the slippery stone steps with careful steps. Behind him, Ser Manly Stokeworth followed with a hand never leaving his sword hilt, his white armor clanking softly in the narrow space.
The air here was heavy, smelling of moss and rotten brine. Rhaegar's breath felt tight, as if the darkness around him tried to compress his lungs. He hated this place. He hated what this place represented, the dark side of power, the place where law was replaced by chains.
But he had to do this.
He wanted to see the threat to his kingdom with his own eyes. He could not let his kingdom be destroyed by fools who burned without caring about anything. Not under his watch. Not as long as he was alive.
They reached the bottom of the stairs. A fat jailer with large keys at his waist immediately bowed deeply, his face pale seeing his King descend to this place.
"Open cell number four," ordered Rhaegar briefly.
The jailer nodded nervously and opened the heavy iron door with an ear-splitting sound.
Ser Manly preceded Rhaegar inside, his body tensing, ready to protect the King from any threat that might jump from the darkness. However, the threat turned out to be helpless.
There, in the corner of the dim cell, Rhaegar saw a man.
He no longer looked like a gallant rebel leader. He curled up and was chained to the stone wall like a mad dog just beaten. His appearance was filthy, his long black hair matted with dry mud, and his clothes wet with cell seepage water.
Two guards inside the cell pulled the man's chains, forcing him to kneel and face the light, face the King.
The man lifted his face.
He looked exhausted, his eyes swollen and lips split. However, behind all that physical damage, there was still a fire burning in his eyes. He stared at Rhaegar not with fear or regret, but with extraordinarily deep anger. A burning gaze, as if he wanted to jump and bite Rhaegar's neck if not for the chains holding him.
Rhaegar stared back calmly. He wondered, what had he done, to elicit such pure hatred in someone's eyes?
"What is your name?" Rhaegar asked coldly. His voice wasn't loud, but echoed with authority that made the other guards look down. He didn't look at this person with pity. This man had led attacks killing innocent farmers. He had reaped what he sowed.
"Arys," growled the man.
Good, thought Rhaegar. At least he didn't make this too troublesome by playing mute.
"Who ordered you to do all this, Arys?" said Rhaegar, stepping a little closer so Arys could see his face clearly. "Do you know how many you have killed?"
Arys laughed. A dry, hoarse, and forced laugh.
"What is the difference with you?" spat Arys, his voice full of venom. "You, the high Lords in white towers. You throw us away like trash. You let us starve in the streets, begging for bread crumbs, until finally dying of cold in the gutter. Do you know how many you have killed, King Rhaegar?"
Ser Manly stepped forward, his face flushed red from that insult. "Shut your mouth, bastard! How dare you—"
Rhaegar raised a hand, stopping his protector knight. His gaze did not leave Arys.
"I hear you are good with a sword, Arys," said Rhaegar analytically. "You have a warhorse. I doubt that you have any connection with those farmers who have lost jobs, other than using them as meat shields."
Rhaegar leaned forward slightly.
"Do not pretend to be a hero to the smallfolk, when you yourself have the intention to sleep on other people's suffering. You burned their food. You made them hungrier. That is not a savior's act."
Those words hit their mark. The fire in Arys's eyes flickered. The man fell silent for a moment, his breath sounding heavy in the quiet room.
"Will I be killed?" he asked finally, his voice losing its previous tone.
"Knowing what you have done? It is only a matter of time," answered Rhaegar honestly. "My punishment for arson and murder is death. There is no bargaining on that."
Rhaegar saw Arys's shoulders slump slightly.
"But," continued Rhaegar, "I can make your suffering end quickly. A clean death, without torture, if you tell all the truth there is. Who ordered you? Who paid you?"
Arys ground his teeth. He stared at Rhaegar, perhaps weighing his options. Tortured to death by the royal executioner, or a quick death with a severed head. A mercenary's choice was always pragmatic.
He laughed again, this time louder, the laugh of a man who had accepted his fate.
"Fine, fine, fine. You win," he said. "I will tell you. But before dying... can I get a glass of ale? My throat is dry as a desert."
"You will get it," said Rhaegar without hesitation. "After you speak."
Arys leaned his head against the cold stone wall.
"I am a mercenary." Arys began his confession. "I was hired by a man six months ago. He did not tell me his name, and he wore a silk mask when we met, and he also did not tell me where he came from."
"What I know," continued Arys, his eyes glinting remembering the payment, "is that he had a lot of gold. Enough gold to buy my loyalty, to buy weapons for those stupid farmers, and a remaining amount large enough that I could use to gamble and hire the best whores."
Rhaegar nodded slowly. Not interrupting.
"He said that people here were angry," related Arys. "He gave me ways to make speeches. He said that people did not deserve to be played with like animals. So, he ordered me to come to the Riverlands, recruit more desperate people, arm them, and create organized chaos."
Arys grinned wryly. "The goal was to make the rulers panic. Perhaps you would listen to those people to re-employ them and give them shelter out of fear. I knew it was a lie, of course. The rich man who hired me could not possibly care about the smallfolk. He just wanted to see those fields burn. But I accepted it anyway because it was my job. I disguised myself as a farmer, created a fake background about lost land... that was to make my opinion unquestioned by the sheep following me."
The hatred in Rhaegar's heart for this man deepened, yet his face remained flat. Arys looked thoughtful, trying to remember other details.
"That man said that we, scattered groups, must gather at a place in the next few months. When we had gathered enough members and enough loot. The plan was to attack a large trading town."
"Do you know where that gathering place is?" asked Rhaegar sharply.
"I do not know," Arys shook his head. "We were cut off. They only said that their messenger would come again later when the time arrived to give directions."
"How many people became leaders like you?"
"I do not know for sure," Arys ground his teeth. "What is clear is there are many. I only heard rumors about other groups. We were only ordered to create chaos, to destroy infrastructure, to make rulers think twice before doing something silly!"
Rhaegar asked a few more things, and after feeling satisfied, Rhaegar stood tall. He looked at the guard.
"Give him ale. As much as he wants. And tomorrow morning, hand him over to be beheaded."
"Thank you, Your Grace," said Arys, his sarcastic tone gone, replaced by strange relief.
Rhaegar turned and walked out of the cell. He climbed the stairs with quick steps, wanting to inhale fresh air immediately.
Ser Manly Stokeworth walked beside him, his breath slightly heaving.
"Do you know who ordered them all, in the end, Your Grace?" asked Manly with a quiet voice, as if afraid the walls would hear. Rhaegar did not answer directly. He continued walking until they exited the dungeon and returned to the castle corridor illuminated by afternoon sunlight.
Rhaegar had a strong suspicion. Very strong.
That much money couldn't fall from the sky. Mercenaries didn't work for charity. Someone funded this rebellion with a specific goal: destroying agricultural tools and burning barns.
Connecting those dots was not hard. The target was clear: The new economy of Westeros.
Westeros was rising, producing its own goods, cutting dependence on imports. And there were parties losing mountains of gold because of it.
"The merchants of Essos," muttered Rhaegar, they were the culprits.
...
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