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Chapter Text

The Red Keep's stench struck Viserra first—faint rot beneath stone, laced with echoes of lost ease. Its corridors still thrummed, not yet hollowed, though her kin had thinned—some bound to duty, others flung to distant keeps.

Her son of Sunglass trotted at her side, spry and wide-eyed, a boy of three namedays darting this way and that, questions spilling like grain from a torn sack.

She bore it, weary but firm.

"Keep near, Jaedar," she said, fondness cloaked in a rough bite.

"Aye, Mother," he chirped, half-listening, blond strands catching torchlight where it pierced the walls' fissures. "Why's it so smelly? Are the walls sick? Do they weep the black stuff?"

"Old, not sick," she sighed. "Older than us, and rank with it. Watch your feet, not the stones."

He bobbed his head, eyes still roving. She knew he'd heed—his father's calm tempered him, a lone trait she didn't damn. Soon they stood at Maelys's doors, flanked by two guards in strange armor—not the keep's dented mail. Valyrian bred—tall, pale, lilac-eyed, frames forged hard. Not knights, but taut with order.

Viserra curved her lips, charm seeping like spilled ale. Age had honed her—beauty sharpened, a taunt to vows—cheeks full, lips ripe, eyes edged with ash. The right guard's face flushed red. "Princess Viserra, Lord Jaedar," he said, heads tipping low. "Your wish?"

Andal words, but Low Valyrian's burr hung thick. "My brother," she said, smile faint. "He's here?"

"Aye, princess," the left one growled, red cloak shifting as he gripped his spear. "Been hunched over his parchments since dawn. You'd have him now?"

"I would," she said, head tilting. "Gael's with him too, I hear?"

"Aye, she's in," the right guard said, blush fading as he steadied. "Sewing, or fussing with thread—always near him, those two. Twins, folk say, bound tight as rope."

"Ever so," Viserra replied, dry as dust. "Since we were weaned. Open it, then—I've not trudged from Sweetport to loiter."

The left guard huffed, heaving the doors wide. "Mind the lad keeps his hands off—the prince mislikes his scribbles touched."

She dipped a curtsy, tugging Jaedar close, and hoped no Targaryen strangeness simmered within. The chamber stretched broad, quiet and fine—chairs carved plain, ceilings white, marble cold. Where furs didn't reach, the floor gleamed, swallowing light from tall windows. Maelys's mark, once jeered by their brothers, etched every line.

Their steps sank into rugs, hushed. There, sprawled on a pale couch, Gael sat, needle and cloth slack in her hands. She'd grown into Alysanne—soft cheeks, still face, eyes warm as a hearth. Happy, unscathed, a light Maelys had fenced from the world's claws.

Viserra envied it, a thorn she swallowed.

Gael's gaze snagged them, joy cracking wide. "Sister!" she cried, leaping up and closing the distance fast, as if moons were years. "Viserra, you're back—I'd near given you up to Sweetport's tides! When did you ride in?"

Grace shunned her, spring blooms on her dress flapping. Jaedar ducked behind Viserra, her small shield rattled by this stranger-kin. Gael swept her into a hug, spice and petals rising—maiden-sweet, unspoiled. Viserra clasped back, her own warmth a faint shadow.

"Well met, Gael," she said, tasting the gap. "Not so long—moons, not decades. Just rolled in this morn. You're hale, still stitching?"

"Aye, when I can," Gael said, stepping back, eyes agleam. "Maelys keeps me hopping elsewise—sewing his designs, meeting with his aides, endless rounds. But you—gods, it's a balm to see you! Sweetport's not eaten you whole, then?"

"Not yet," Viserra said, shrugging. "Trade's lean, harvests worse. Luras bumbles on—I keep it afloat. Better than choking on this place's stink, some days."

Gael's smile dipped, then steadied. "You'll not choke now—stay, let us mend you with meat and wine. What's the Sound like these days? Luras still praying more than ruling?"

"Praying aplenty," Viserra said, voice flat. "Rules little, and poorly. I patch the holes." She nudged Jaedar out. "Greet your aunt."

He edged forth, shy but soft. "Hello."

He waved, faltering, then fixed on his boots. A sweet lad, her Jaedar—she reckoned it firm.

Gael, as ever, knelt swift and swept Jaedar into her arms, heedless of his squirming. "Young Jae," she said, voice soft, a grin splitting her face, "you've forgotten me again, haven't you? Am I so dull an aunt?"

Viserra watched, a rare thaw in her chest. It was good—this welcome, this tangle of royal blood knitting tight. Better still with the twins, whose hearts hadn't yet hardened. Best now, while Jaedar's youth kept him honest, free of the games that curdled later years.

"Oh!" A voice drifted from deeper in, quiet but edged with faint command. "I'd not wagered it'd be you so soon."

Maelys stood paces off, barefoot on the gleaming floor, clad in a loose shirt and leather breeches—a rustic ease clinging to him. White hair spilled past his shoulders, pale violet eyes catching hers with more mirth than shock. Beautiful over handsome, his frame lean but sure—no mistaking his manhood.

Viserra favored him above the rest of their brood, always had. If she'd been their mother's fairest daughter, he was their father's finest son. Sometimes, in dark hours, she'd wished him her twin—not Gael. Might be she'd have fewer scars on her soul, less to rue.

Dreams, though—fickle as mist.

"Maelys," she greeted, a thin smile breaking through. "Good to see you breathing yet."

He crossed the gap and pulled her into a hug, woodsmoke and ripe fruit thick on him. "I'd say the same, sister," he said, chuckling low, a sound warm as hearthfire. He'd shot up since last she'd seen him—taller, broader. "And you've dragged Jae along, eh?"

Maelys hoisted Jaedar up, easy as lifting a cloak, his slender build belying the strength. The boy crowed, shyness shed like an old skin. Her brother's visits to Sweetport Sound—trade and tales by the fire, gifts tucked under his arm—had won the lad's heart swift.

"Gods, boy, you've sprouted since I last clapped eyes on you," Maelys said, tossing Jaedar high, sparking another giggle. "What are you now, ten?"

"Three!" Jaedar shouted, legs kicking air.

"Three?" Maelys gaped, mock-wide. "Then you'll be a bloody giant by ten—a mountain with boots! How'll you fit a horse under you?"

"Father says I'll train in the yard at seven," Jaedar said, proud as a lordling. "With swords and all!"

"Swords, is it?" Maelys set him down, ruffling his hair. "Then we'd best ready you, young ser. What's first—blades or bows? Gotta pick one to start."

"Bows," Jaedar said, bouncing. "I saw a man shoot an apple once—right off a tree! Can you do that?"

"Can I?" Maelys laughed, sharp and bright. "I've split apples at fifty paces, lad—clean through. We'll get you a bow, big enough for your hands, and see if you've the eye for it."

"Truly?" Jaedar's voice climbed. "When? Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow's hasty," Maelys said, crouching to his level. "Got a heap of vellum to wrangle first—maps and such. But soon, aye? You'll be loosing arrows before the moon turns, mark me."

Viserra folded her arms, watching. "Don't fill his head too full," she said, half-stern. "He's got years yet before he's any use with a bow—or a brain."

Maelys grinned up at her, unrepentant. "Years aplenty, sister, but no harm starting early. He's got the spark—look at him. A proper little Sunglass knight already."

Maelys and Jaedar drifted off, the boy now clutching a candy stick he'd not had moments before—some sleight of her brother's hand, no doubt. Viserra lingered, a flicker of mirth warming her chest. She caught Gael's eye, her sister's gaze lost to some dreamy haze, smitten as a maid in a tale.

It gladdened her, seeing Gael still moony for Maelys—years on, their closeness a knot near choking, yet she thrived in it.

"Has he made a woman of you yet?" Viserra tossed the words light, a mask of ease honed sharp. "You've grown fairer still—and heavy up top, I'd wager."

Twice her own heft, truth be told, though Gael bore it well—lush, not lumpen. Her sister jolted, rose blooming at her ear-tips, betraying she'd caught the drift.

"Come now, Gael," Viserra pressed, smirk tugging her lips, "no fret he'll stray to the whores prowling these halls? Plenty'd claw for a taste of him."

She'd seen it in her youth—lords, ladies, scullions, squires—rutting through Maegor's secret ways, a maze of vice she'd crept as a girl. The keep hadn't cleansed itself since. Gael's face flared red, cheeks puffing as she glared up. "Why must you be so coarse, Viserra? Can't you leave it be?"

Viserra chuckled, knuckles brushing her mouth. "Fair question, I reckon—simple enough. But your calm tells me there's naught to fear. He's true, then?"

They ambled toward Gael's couch, the younger princess trailing her. "He swore an oath," Gael said, voice firm, "and I'd trust him without it. He vowed no wandering—absurd to need it, but he gave it all the same. His word's steel."

Viserra laughed, not at Gael's faith but at their brothers' fates—save Vaegon, buried in books, each had snared a love pure as snow. Baelon and Aemon met grim ends, but Maelys and Gael—she'd bet good coin they'd grey together, hale and whole.

"You're lucky, little sister," she said, not sitting, her eyes roving Gael's spot—sketches and half-stitched cloth strewn about. "Yours is a romance for singers, one they'll croon till the Wall melts."

The drawings snared her—odd smallclothes, cut thin and loose, baring more than they hid. Less bulk than the norm, daringly so, if the scraps beside them spoke true. Her brow arched, curiosity prickling.

"Mother said as much," Gael murmured, voice a threadbare whisper, scarce louder than the room's hush.

Viserra turned, catching a shadow dimming her sister's face—melancholy, thick as fog. Alysanne had clung closest to the twins, a bond tighter than with the rest. Viserra hadn't buckled when the Good Queen went to ash three years past, but Gael still sagged under it, a yoke she couldn't shrug off.

"Mother had an odd knack for it," Viserra said, lips thinning. "Her matches rarely split or soured—strange, that."

Not love, not quite—more a truce, a lean-on-each-other kind of knot. She and Luras had that, a tepid ease, even with him half-gone from Jaedar's life. Like their father in his absences, yet Luras bore no crown's weight—just faith and fumbles. She shook the thought loose, grasping at the cloth in her hand instead.

"Another of his schemes?" she asked, dangling the thin garment.

Gael choked a laugh, cheeks flaring red. "Aye, he's after better garb—says Westeros'd thank him for it. Lighter, cheaper, fit for more than lords."

She slid a parchment over, no sketches of smallclothes this time—just lines and shapes Viserra couldn't parse. "Here's the contraption he'd use to make it work."

Viserra took it, squinting, tilting it this way and that, pretending she grasped its guts. "He's got tailors already, hasn't he? Why chase this?"

"The tailors, aye," Gael said, meeting her nod with a steady look. "Those bleed coin—silks and such for fat purses. Too dear for most, he told me when I pressed him."

She fished out another sheet, ink-smudged. "This'd churn out heaps, cheap and quick—smallfolk could wear it without begging."

Viserra's brows ticked up, not at the plan but at Gael—merchant's guile sat easy on her, sharp as a blade. She'd pegged her soft, a echo of Daella—meek, mild—yet here she was, bright as a new-minted coin. "Clever," she said, sinking onto the couch beside her, snagging a needle. "You've a head for this I'd not reckoned on."

Gael grinned, faint but real. "Maelys rubs off, I s'pose. He's been at it since we were knee-high—always some venture. You'd not believe the half of it."

Viserra dangled the breast-strap and its skimpy mate aloft, stitching fine as spider-silk. "Think Maelys'd whip me up a set if I begged?"

Gael choked, a wet sputter catching in her throat. "What?" She coughed, steadying herself, cheeks ablaze. "Why in the Seven's name would you want those?"

Viserra's brow creased, suspicion prickling her gut—she stamped it down. "They're clever work," she said, voice dry. "Might spark some fire in Luras—get him eager for once. He's no mummer with a blade, but he's damn near a septon in our bed."

The man's indifference gnawed at her—fury she kept leashed. "Jae's not the last I mean to whelp, you know. Maelys spill that to you?"

Gael's smile came stiff, cracking at the edges. "Aye, he did—bits of it. But young Jaedar'd not thank you for that kind of scheming, I'd wager."

Viserra shrugged—she knew the boy'd balk, but Viserys's lass might suit, a betrothal to bind them later. Gael set the garments aside, hands smoothing her dress, fingers lingering on the fabric like it held answers.

"I've spares," Gael said, glancing up. "Some of these—could part with 'em for you."

Viserra smirked, sharp and sly. "What fits your bounty'd drown me, sister—your chest's a sight more than mine these days."

Gael laughed, a soft huff, touching her belly briefly. "Aye, it's gotten hard to miss of late—packing meat on me. But I've others, sized right—some cut for… lesser gifts up top."

Viserra pulled a mock-scowl, lips twitching. "Humble, you say? Cheeky wench—I'll take 'em anyway. Might wake Luras yet."

Their talk rolled on, easy and unguarded—no webs of deceit, no veiled barbs. A rare balm. Gael spilled the keep's pulse—King's Landing's churn, their kin's latest turns, the schemes she and Maelys meant to hatch soon. Viserra listened, hooked, mind drifting to Sweetport Sound. Could their plans leach there? She wanted Jaedar's inheritance strong—lands fat and firm—and room for more babes if she could pry them from Luras's tepid loins.

An hour on, Maelys ambled in, Jaedar limp in his arms, the boy's breath a soft snuffle against his uncle's chest. "Wore him out," he said, voice low, a grin tugging his mouth. "Candy and tales—he fell like a stone."

The Saint: New Story!

Chapter Text

The sky had darkened as noon crept near, a great rain ready to fall before night swallowed the day.

High in his solar, Jaehaerys stood before a window of clear glass, a make by of the bronze-men south of the bastard daughters. Beyond, a storm brewed fierce upon the sea's edge.

Clouds twisted and swelled, black as beasts prowling the heavens. Thunder muttered far off, its voice riding the western wind, and lightning followed—sharp and bright as dragonfire against the gloom.

He watched it, still. Empty.

In days long past, when grief bore no sting of shame or loss, he had loved such storms. They cleansed the city's filth, leaving it grand and shining, fit for tales. They lifted his heart, stirring dreams of a future bold and pure.

Happiness. Love…

…Mayhap a taste of peace. Or at least its shadow.

Now, old and worn, the storm showed him only his ruin. A city still stinking, children taken by the Stranger, and the few left living—scarce known, scarce held dear. A wife cold in the earth, a keep vast and silent.

Jaehaerys judged himself wanting, both as king and father. Yet the latter cut deepest, its weight a yoke on his soul, breeding black dreams.

Often—always, now—he wondered what might have been had his brother not fallen to their mad uncle's blade. Would his babes yet live, strong and whole? Would his wife stand with him still? Would the realm fare better?

He shifted, silk robes brushing soft against his skin, a faint echo of old comfort.

This much he knew: he would have kin yet—maddening, dear, a living din to warm these hollow walls.

A knock came, soft and low, breaking his grim thoughts and the storm's drone.

"Your Grace, Prince Maelys would have words with you," Ser Ryam of Redwyne called through the shut door.

Jaehaerys scarce stirred. The boy often came at evening's edge, to see to his old king or speak of his works.

A small thing, and one he rued not treasuring more.

He crossed to his desk and sank into the chair, his face set cold and calm.

"Let him in," he said, voice sharp and sure.

The door groaned as it swung wide, and in strode his son, tall yet lean, silver hair agleam in the fading sun's light. He wore a tunic of deep blue, the three-headed dragon of their house stitched in silver across his breast.

In his hands he bore a bowl—nuts and berries for his taking.

"Father," Maelys said, the High Valyrian smooth upon his tongue. "I trust I do not trespass."

Jaehaerys weighed him with a look, his face a mask of stillness. No flourish, no dread, no strain. The lad never bent to his judgment, ever showing naught but his true self.

"You never do," he answered, though the words rang hollow in his throat. Once, perchance, they might have carried warmth… mayhap a flicker of mirth.

Maelys did not sit at once. He lingered by the window, eyes drawn to the storm swelling over the sea. "A great rain comes," he murmured.

"Aye," Jaehaerys said. "It will wash the city clean, if but for a time."

Maelys turned then, his gaze pale as dusk's last breath. "If but for a time," he echoed.

The king knew there was more the boy wished to speak. An old matter. Maelys had schemes, a host of them, often laid bare—of mending the sewers, of righting countless ills.

Yet Jaehaerys held back. Wary.

Maelys, scarce two decades lived, had won the smallfolk's love and the nobles' eyes in King's Landing. His ventures brimmed with cunning, his ties stretched to distant lords, some whose blood ran older than their own.

Whispers had begun—soft, yet sharp—that he might suit the throne better than his elder brother. The first threads of a faction stirred.

Jaehaerys would stoke no treason, nor see kin turn on kin again. The realm had bled enough, and he with it.

Maelys let out a breath and set the bowl before him, the clink faint against the desk. "You've not eaten since morning."

No question lay in it.

Jaehaerys loosed a harsh breath through his nose, tired of the care in the lad's voice. "I had duties."

"You ever do." Maelys sank into a chair, leaning forth, arms braced on his knees. "Father… you cannot sup on ghosts and sorrow alone."

The king held his peace, choosing silence over words that could mend naught. He took a clutch of berries from the bowl, chewing slow. Maelys let the quiet stretch, though it would not endure.

It never did.

"Viserra has come, along with Jaedar," the boy said, voice steady, though his eyes flicked to the parchments piled at the king's side.

Jaehaerys knew already. His Master of Whispers left no such tidings astray. He cracked a nut between his teeth, thoughts drifting to his daughter.

She had not favored him with kindness since Saera's fall. A wound of his own making—of what he had done, and what he'd forbidden. He'd bound Viserra to wed with cold command, no softness, only the weight of duty and dread of further shame.

He rued it. Despised the piece of him that had reaved her will, her joy. That Baelon's shadow had driven him so—she was still so young.

"How fares she?" he asked at length, easing back to meet his son's eyes. "Does Luras treat her well?"

Maelys smiled, though it was a tempered thing, faint as dawn through mist. "She's glad enough, yet not at ease. Sweetport Sound falters. Trade wanes, the yields…" He paused. "It's failing. Viserra would mend it, but answers come not so swift."

The old king watched him, a softness stirring within.

"You mean to aid her."

The lad met his stare, then dipped his head. "Aye, I do."

He slid the bowl aside, fingers lacing beneath his chin. "And how will you see it done?"

"Luras is… wanting. Adrift in piety. Coin slips through his hands, his ships rot, his men waver—his bannermen grow bold in their scorn." Maelys sat taller, his tone even as a blade's edge. "And Viserra's past—how she was bound to him—mends naught."

Jaehaerys let out a breath, slow and laden. "That… was no bright hour of mine," he owned, the words bitter on his tongue.

"I come not to cast blame, Father."

"Then why stand you here?" Jaehaerys' voice was soft, his eyes dim with weariness.

"To speak," the lad said, settling back, shoulders loosening. "To lay my intent before you." He weighed his next words, cautious as a man treading thin ice. "I seek your counsel, Father. I'd not see strife flare where a few words might calm the tide."

The old king's gaze rested on him, not probing, not judging—merely seeing.

Silence hung thick. A log split in the hearth, embers flaring faint in the chamber's gloom, deepened by dusk's creeping veil.

Maelys pressed on, untroubled. "I would root some of my ventures there." Rain began, a soft murmur against the stone. "The distilleries—I've crafted flavors to yield to House Sunglass. The quickstone too; I've sworn to raise a hundred homes with it."

Jaehaerys' brow creased, shadows pooling in the lines of his face. "What more?" he asked, voice low, seeking.

"Farms, orchards, granaries, forges, and the like," Maelys said, shrugging as if it were naught. "A pair of orphanages too—to rear men of skill, sworn deep to House Targaryen."

The king saw the weave of it, clear as day when his son named his sister. Maelys had once deemed the Crown's might brittle—too propped on dread, not love. He chased a strength free of dragonfire, a footing carved from something lasting.

Jaehaerys had thought him green for it once. Now, the tides of late made him wonder.

He gave a low hum, eyes fixed as the boy tallied gifts for his sister. Venom cloaked in honey, that's what it was. House Sunglass would bloom, no doubt—but in a dozen years, or two, their bounty would kneel to Maelys' will.

Not the first to dream such a scheme, but the first with the wit and wealth to thread it through.

Yet a shadow lingered…

He leaned back, sinking into the chair's embrace. "What do you crave, son, in this life?" His voice clove through the lad's talk, sharp as a dragon's bellow veering the wind. "These plans, these notions, these burdens fit for kings—and you bear no crown, no birthright to match."

Maelys drew back, subtle, careful. His face quieted—for but a second. "I want a family," he began, his voice steady, "children lost to happiness and softer worries. I want lavish lives for my descendants, wealth and luxuries that would not demand from them sacrifice." He paused, then looked at him straight in the eyes, unflinching. "I want a legacy, the adoration of the masses. Earned through goodwill and respect."

Jaehaerys dragged his tongue along his teeth, caught between scorn and a flicker of pride.

Maelys was… rare. Flawless, near enough. The lad bore the hunger, the wit, the steadfastness, and the relentless drive Jaehaerys himself had once lacked in full measure.

He had the makings.

"Do you want the throne?" he asked at last, his voice thick with a shadow he could not name.

Baelon craved it not—not in truth. He wore the heir's mantle for duty's sake, no more. And duty alone held no fire. That was why Jaehaerys lingered on it, why the thought gnawed at him in the still watches of the night. His heirs had might, they had courage, but they lacked the vision to peer past his reign—to forge a legacy grander than his own.

His youngest son… he saw it clear.

The boy did not flinch. "Not as it stands," he said, a thread of mirth lacing his tone.

Jaehaerys had braced for a sidestep, a denial, perchance a feigned humility—but not this. The answer struck odd, and for that, it stirred him.

"Speak plain."

"It's the succession," Maelys began, "or the want of it. Maegor's ruin should have begotten laws to bar the Conqueror's errors anew."

Jaehaerys' lips twitched, though his son marked it not, blind to the faint amusement.

The lad forged on. "That war's end was a chance. Had you laid down firm lines, every king after would've held to them, lest they wear the name of rogue or tyrant."

Maelys sighed. "But you did not, Father." Lightning flared through the window, bathing the chamber in stark light, thunder rolling in its wake. "Worse, you let Aemon tangle it further, and now we've 'The Queen Who Never Was.'"

Bitterness welled in the old king's breast, his face tightening. The boy spoke no fresh wound—only old regrets, a heap of them. Yet he did not lash out, swallowing the storm within.

A breath passed, and he mastered it. "Would you have had me crown Rhaenys?" he asked.

Maelys shook his head, swift and sure. "No," he said. "Beyond the Velaryon knot, there's the matter of the realm's stomach for it." A faint smile curved his lips, cold as winter's edge. "The lords would prod her, flout her, scorn her, or wield her. Not for want of skill, but sheer disdain. Her wrath they'd call cruel, her choices they'd pin to her husband or council."

"Best turn, she's a puppet. Worst, a mad queen."

"Your remedy," Jaehaerys pressed, voice hard. "I'd hear it."

"You should've urged Aemon to sire more heirs," the boy said, glancing at the bowl. "Failing that, wed Rhaenys within the blood—with a dragon to her name. Viserys would've served."

Jaehaerys shook his head; that road was known. "Answers for now, boy."

Maelys faltered, a rare hitch. "I'd… sooner not voice mine. It sits ill with me."

The old king could well guess what shadowed his son's thoughts.

He sighed through his nose, rising from his chair with a measured slowness. He crossed to the window, gazing out upon the city below. Rain lashed the world beyond, a white shroud falling fierce as a river's plunge.

He shut his eyes, drew a breath, and let his mind roam past the now, to the echoes of his choices.

Baelon would do. He had two sons and a spine steady enough. His rule would hold, even if it birthed no songs. Steadiness was no mean gift.

The rot festered in his sons.

Viserys… a lost cause. Too soft to resist a tugging hand, too mule-headed where it served him ill. A king for others to wield, and Jaehaerys would not see his realm dance to unseen strings.

Daemon, though—Daemon was a darker storm. Hungry, wild, drawn to ruin like flies to carrion. He called to mind Visenya, yet lacked her steel-sharp wit.

"I understand your hesitation," Jaehaerys murmured, voice pitched just to reach. Understanding stirred, but it bent not to accord. "I'll grant you lands," he said, tone forged firm, "east of Massey's Hook, south of the peaks, afore the Kingswood's edge."

He clasped his hands at his back. The gift was no golden prize, and he knew it—yet he wished to see the lad's mettle. "Your works in King's Landing may take root as well."

Guilt gnawed at his breast. He shoved it down.

A stillness settled, heavy as mist. Then Maelys cut through it, voice smooth as polished stone. "Do you deem this prudent, Father? What of Baelon's sway?"

No shock in that.

"Would you bend to him?" Jaehaerys asked instead.

The reply flew swift. "No."

"Then lands you'll have," he said again. "Your labors go free, so long as they cross no lord's writ in plain sight."

Maelys stirred. "I'd not claim the honor escapes me, for it does not. Yet what's the price?"

"No price—no command. A boon, one you may spurn. I'll be dust soon enough, regardless."

He turned to face Maelys, whose mouth twisted in a grimace.

Jaehaerys paid it no heed. "Do you know why Aegon—your great-grandsire—took Westeros?"

"For a legacy to echo?" The words wavered, yet a deeper thread ran beneath. "Or some higher call?"

"Some of each," the king said. "He saw it—a dream—a doom crouched to strike Westeros. An ancient shade, fiends in the frost, and the flame to hold back winter's teeth."

The lad watched him, unease flickering in his eyes—doubt, mayhaps. "A dragon's dream, then," he said. "What of it? Did he reckon us the fire to save all?"

"You know what the vision means?" Jaehaerys asked in turn.

"The Long Night."

Jaehaerys dipped his head. "An old tale, muttered across the world—a tide of woe and darkness, of beasts most dire." He stilled, then pressed on. "If Westeros stands sundered, the Frost will swallow it whole."

"The First Men stemmed it once."

"The First Men were scant, and the green seers stood with them. Even so, the Ice gnashed ever forward." He shook his head. "We've no such grace. We're many, aye, but broken—and no aid will rise from myth, save what our dragons lend."

Quiet fell, thick and unbroken, till Jaehaerys clove it. "Grasp you what I say, son?"

The lad tilted his head. "We owe a debt to our blood."

"Aye," he said. "And a chance to hammer a name finer, braver than Old Valyria's own."

Maelys' mouth tightened. "You've told Baelon this?"

"Yes."

A plain word, yet it bore a weight—a shift, sharp and deep. He doubted not his son's heart, nor the lengths he'd chase for a name to endure.

If the boy was truly as he judged, Jaehaerys feared naught for House Targaryen's root.

"I see." The answer came as foreseen, and the king took it with a nod. "It bends my aim little."

And so it did not.

A sennight hence, the word was sealed, and the Prince of Havenhall rose.

The Saint: Any recommendation to what I should name the lands? I'm open to opinions!

Chapter Text

The chamber stank of dust and melted wax, its air heavy with the weight of old parchment. Maps lay strewn across the table, their edges frayed, ink faded from the days before the Freehold's fall—borders scratched by hands long turned to bone.

Maelys loomed over them, a dark shape hunched with discontent, muttering as though the lands given to him mocked him from beyond the paper's reach.

"Queer name, don't you think?" he said, voice roughened by some unspoken grievance, his fingers splayed across a map's curling edge.

Viserra sat opposite, still as stone, watching him. Candlelight flickered across her face, catching the pale gleam in her hair—a mark of their blood, old as the dragons' first flight.

His words carried the bite of complaint, yet his eyes told another tale: bright, eager, alive with a hunger that twisted his lips. Already, he'd sent word ringing through the city—ravens winging to every corner, calling masons, smiths, even the meanest smallfolk to heap stone upon his dreams.

"No," she said, flat and unbidden, though he'd not sought an answer. "Fitting, rather, for what you mean to do with our kin—the ones rotting under Free City whips."

Maelys looked up, one brow cocked, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. "Gael's been loose with my plans, has she?" He let a parchment fall—a sketch of houses rising like jagged teeth, drawn as if glimpsed from dragonback.

Viserra's gaze lingered on it, a spark flaring in her chest before she dragged her eyes back to him. "I'll keep it close," she said, voice low. "But where did you mean to settle them, before this swallowed you?"

A second question hung there, unvoiced: Was this always your game?

He waved it off, eyes drifting to the candle's guttering flame. "No need to hoard it. Let it spread—won't sour the deals I've made." He leaned back, chair creaking, and scratched at his temple, nails rasping over stubble. "Had half a dozen places in mind."

She waited, breath held, but he named none. Irritation welled in her gut, then bled out in a sigh she couldn't stifle.

"Why must you be so bloody difficult, Maelys?" Weariness dragged at her now, the day's toll sinking deep.

He grinned—a thin, sharp thing—fingers tapping the table, a slow thud like boots on frozen earth. "Not knowing spares you the ache, sister."

She rolled her eyes, a small defiance, but pressed no further. He'd speak when he damned well pleased. Instead, she snatched a parchment from the mess—ink still damp, margins cramped with scrawls, corrections carved in a hand that brooded over every stroke.

She read it. Frowned. Read again, half-certain her tired mind played tricks.

It didn't.

"This is for King's Landing."

She glanced up, but Maelys had risen, stepping to the side table where a flagon waited. He poured wine—red as heart's blood, its sweet reek curling through the room. No cup for her, the discourteous cur.

"Aye," he said, back turned, lifting the cup. "Father wants the city… purified."

"Fixed," she corrected.

He shrugged, a lazy roll of shoulders. "Same difference." He drank, long and slow, though his eyes gave nothing away—flat as winter stone. "He bid me see to it. I said yes."

"Shouldn't that be Baelon's burden?" Bitterness slipped free, souring her tongue, and his quick look said he'd caught it.

He let it lie. "Dragonstone's got him pinned. Ruling that grim pile's no jest, they say—not with Velaryons mucking about." He eased back into his seat, all languid grace.

Viserra glared, unfooled. "Don't twist the thread, Maelys."

Still, she tucked the scrap away—Velaryon trouble, something to prod at later.

"Why you, with a settlement of your own to pile up?"

"Not starting tomorrow, sweet sister." He leaned in, voice dropping like a blade's edge. "I'm building a way—small tasks for small men, big ones for me."

He plucked the parchment from her hands, gave it a glance, and grunted before tossing it back to the heap. "Why Father picked me? That's mine to keep."

She fixed him with a look, unimpressed. He ignored it, as ever.

Doubt gnawed at her, shapeless. He seemed unbothered, steady—not a man crushed by a mad king's whim. Mayhap Father's will held no fevered edge, only intent. She shook her head, casting the thought off, and recalled why she'd come.

"Another matter," she said, softer now. "I'd thank you—for what you've done."

A smile broke through her fatigue, worn but real. His aides had hounded her mercilessly—endless quill-scratching, endless questions—but the sense in it shone through. Maelys stood unbowed, his load borne by deft hands. Mayhap she'd take a lesson, bend some Yi Ti trick to her own ends.

Her words stirred him, though his reply came stiff, a touch red-faced. "No need. It's what kin's for."

He stared at a painting on the wall—smallfolk, plain and finely wrought—dodging her eyes. She swallowed a scoff, and the jab that only he and Gael held such folly dear.

A knock cracked the stillness, blunt and low, and the door groaned inward. Two servants edged into the solar—a fair boy with high cheeks and a woman, silver streaking her braid, both in fine robes that cling tight.

Maelys stabbed a finger at the table, where vellum lay scattered amid wax drippings. "Take it all," he said, curt as a whip, then swung toward the door, boots striking stone as they hastened after. "Rest easy, sister," he threw back, voice clipped, fading into the corridor's dark throat.

Mad brother, that one.

Viserra lingered in the chamber after Maelys's steps had drifted off, the silence thick as the dust on the maps. Her smile was gone, buried under the sprawl of his plans—too broad for King's Landing's muck, too keen for a prince just handed Havenhall.

She rose, bones creaking from the day's grind, and trudged to the window. Beyond the twisted glass, the city sulked under a fading sky, torches sputtering like drowned hopes.

A soft shuffle of boots stirred her—maid, she reckoned, till a milder voice broke through.

"Still here?" Gael stepped into the candlelight, silver hair a twin to her brother's, though her eyes bore a kinder sheen. Her grey gown hung heavy, its hem crusted with the city's filth—odd for a princess, even one tied to a scrap like Havenhall.

Viserra turned, arms folding. "He's kept me longer than I'd planned."

Gael's lips quirked, a flicker of shared wit passing between them. "He's got that knack—more to say than he lets spill." She drifted to the table, fingers grazing the parchments as if they'd murmur his schemes. "Father's piled plenty on him, hasn't he?"

"Two heaps, by my tally," Viserra said, voice parched. "King's Landing's stench to scour, and Havenhall to wake—lands bare as bone, with the Kingswood lurking near."

Gael nodded, tracing a sketch Maelys had tossed aside—houses huddled by Massey's edge, stout against the wood's shadow. "He's not shaken. I've seen him stride the corridors, muttering of ports and roofs, folk to root there."

"He's a fool to think it'll come fast," Viserra said. "The city's a sty—shit and sickness in every crack. Havenhall's a blank slate, and the smallfolk there only know he's royal, nothing else."

Gael's gaze lifted, steady and sure. "They'll know him when his ships dock—Valyrians from Essos, freed slaves, bred to work and bend. He's hauling them to fill the place."

Viserra's brow furrowed. "He dropped a hint, stingy as ever. You've got more?"

"More than he suspects," Gael said, twirling a quill in her fingers. "He sees sails clogging the bay, unloading our kin—blood thinned by time, but ours. Havenhall's their perch, he reckons."

"And Father backs this?" Viserra's tone edged with skepticism.

Gael shrugged, easy as Maelys might. "Father's nod, or Father's fancy. Jaehaerys wants peace, little trouble for our blood. Maelys aims beyond."

"Always beyond," Viserra muttered. She sidled closer, eyeing the map Gael nudged—a smudge for Havenhall by the Kingswood's snarl, Massey's lands a mute neighbor. "No quarrel with Massey, then. What's his snag?"

"The wood's outlaws nip at him some," Gael said, letting the quill fall with a clack. "Thieves bold enough to test a prince's claim. He's got honest blades on it—small bother. The louder mutter's with the lords—his slaver talks in Essos might twist their tongues."

Viserra snorted. "Slavers. Risky for a prince to sup with that filth. They'll brand him dirty, wait and see."

"He's supped longer than they'd guess," Gael said, unruffled. "Coin, hands, stone—he's stacked it since he was half-grown, plans set before he shaved. The port'll stand too—he's got it sewn tight."

Viserra's eyes narrowed, then slid to Gael's skirts, caked with grime. "And what's this?" she asked, nodding at the mud. "You've been wading in the gutters?"

Gael glanced down, unbothered, and brushed at the hem—a futile swipe. "Tending the broken," she said, voice light. "Soup houses, mostly—Maelys's and mine. We've got a few in Fleabottom, doling broth and bread. Keeps the smallfolk fed, keeps their tongues sweet."

Viserra's lip curled, a noble's reflex. "Useless," she said, sharp and low. "Throwing scraps to rabble won't mend a thing—they'll just beg louder."

Gael tilted her head, a faint smile lingering. "You've been gone too long, sister. They don't beg—they cheer. Maelys walks the streets, and they shout his name. Mine too, some days. The soup's cheap, but the love's dear."

Viserra stiffened, caught aback. Sweetport Sound had kept her far from King's Landing's pulse—she'd heard no tales of her siblings' fame, no whispers of their sway among the masses. "Charity," she said, tasting the word like sour wine. "A game for soft hearts. What's it buy you?"

"Loyalty," Gael replied, simple as that. "Not the lords' kind—grubby and bought—but the kind that lasts. Maelys knows it. Been at it since we were pups, him with his schemes, me with the ladles."

Viserra shook her head, a dry huff escaping. "You're both daft—Jaehaerys's shining twins, spooning slop to win a crown of cheers."

"Mayhap," Gael said, smile holding. "But it's ours to wield."

The candles guttered, wax dripping onto the table in fat, slow tears. Viserra's eyes flicked to the door, sleep gnawing at her like a persistent hound. "I'm for bed," she said, voice rough with fatigue. "You'd best go too—crawl into your husband's arms. Mayhap he'll claim your maidenhead this time."

Gael laughed, a soft sound muffled by her wrist against her lips. "A week hence, sister," she said, eyes glinting in the dim. "I'll be a woman then—knees trembling, belly swollen with his seed. You'll see."

The Saint: I might rework this chapter in the future, something about it leaves me dissatisfied. Tell what you think about it.

Chapter Text

His hands rasped against her skin—rough, warm, callused by toil and steel—a man's grip.

A shiver snaked up her spine, a low moan spilling free. Vanys quickened, thrusts sharp and measured, piercing her core. Her sex ached, long ignored, clutching him fierce, greedy. Back bowed, rump high, thighs splayed wide.

The Valyrian guard took her from behind, a stallion's fire in his bones—tall, lilac-eyed, forged hard as his kin. Viserra relished it, her mind weaving Maelys atop the man—high cheeks, soft smile, eyes burning with want.

She fucked the guard but felt her brother, or his shadow—harsher, hungrier, lust soured by Gael's chaste hold.

"Harder," she barked, voice trembling, thick with heat.

Vanys answered, snagging her hair like a silk street drab, rough as she craved. She savoured the bite of it. His sack slapped her folds, a wet, brutal rhythm, pleasure coiling tight. The bed creaked, a wounded thing, lust's clamor bouncing off the chamber's stone.

She broke in a minute, a thrill spiking sharp—walls clamping, pulsing round his cock.

He chased her over the edge, seed thick and hot, flooding her womb as he groaned, lost. Moon tea would scour it out later—no lowborn whelps for her, not unless the blood was worth it. This was her dull husband's lone wound, and she'd keep it so.

Vanys pulled free, cock softening, spent. She collapsed, linens cool against her sweat-slick skin, eyes glazed, breaths heaving deep. Good rutting, this—last night and now. She'd half a mind to drag him to Sweetport Sound, a warm cock when Luras knelt at his sept's cold walls.

Fancies, naught more.

"No watch today?" she asked, rolling to her back, pleasure's echo ebbing slow.

His gaze snagged on her breasts, a quieter hunger there. "None—day's mine, tomorrow too." He looked off, scrubbing a hand through dark hair. "Prince gives us leave when he's in a mood—fair man, free with it sometimes."

She smiled, faint and sly. "That so? Goes for all under him, I'd bet?"

"Aye," he said, shrugging. "Most, leastways. He's got a way—folk'd bleed for him, and he don't even ask."

Viserra chewed that over, piecing Maelys together—her brother's pull, unhealthy almost. Loyalty like that, unbending, even in this guard's tight lips. She'd pried, light as air, but Vanys gave up nothing—stubborn as stone, no gossip, no cracks. Maddening.

For a heartbeat, she wondered if her charm was slipping, if age sagged her at last.

Minutes bled by, then she rose, dawn's grey spilling through the shutters. She'd not miss breaking fast with kin—save the old king, damn him. Vanys' eyes tracked her, hot still, as she stretched, shaking off the last dregs of weariness.

"Off to wash," she said, hips swaying as she crossed the room. "Be gone before I'm back—lest Jaedar stumbles in and finds you sprawled in his mother's sheets."

He grunted, a half-laugh, already tugging on his breeches. The dismissal sat easy—she felt it clean.

The bath scalded her skin, a fierce heat that sank deep, steam curling thick in the air. Valyrian hands worked over her—lithe fingers, pale as milk, worn but deft—her own maids shunted aside for these few her brother had plucked from Lyseni brothels.

Old blood, he called them, freed now, scrubbing her with a knack that spoke of years bending to scented soap—jasmine and bitter rind, sharp on her flesh.

Lowborn raised to ape nobility. Her brother was half-mad.

It ended too quick—coarse cloths sucked the wet from her, steam still rising off her skin like a forge's breath as she stepped from the haze. A silk drape fell over her, thin and clinging, guarding what modesty she cared to keep.

Vanys had cleared out, the chamber bare—no trace of him or Jaedar. The boy was likely off in the yards, lost in dreams of steel and spurs, or chasing Aemma's squalling whelp through the keep's dust.

They dressed her, those Valyrian hands—slipping her into indigo, a gown cut tight at the bodice, skirts rustling soft and fine. No provincial rag this—she wore her rank, a gift from some simpering lordling.

She stepped from her chamber, the door's groan lost in the corridors now thick with clamor—Dragonstone's hands shoving past.

The old king had barked for Viserys a day after Maelys's rise, a summons sharp as steel.

Daemon had swept in on Caraxes a day after, all flame and haste, the dragon's screech splitting the sky. Viserys trudged in two days later, his ship groaning under Aemma's weight and Rhaenyra's cries.

Maelys had let the reason slip to her, a hissed scrap of truth, but the deeper game stayed shadowed. Her brother saw it—his eyes glinted with it—but he kept his lips stitched tight, hoarding the why like a miser with coin.

Now the keep brimmed with kin, a hive of blood and breath, though it stirred no warmth. Too many tasks clawed at her—plots to sniff out, chances to snatch—too much to waste on stiff nods and cautious kin.

This dawn feast was a ripe chance—to coax soft words from Viserys' meek mouth, to snag favors with a smile and a nod.

The dining chamber hummed as she drew close, voices bleeding through the gaping doors, a low roar of kin and clatter.

The table sprawled long, its wood gouged and worn, heaped with crusty bread, smoked sausages glinting oily, and pitchers of wine sweating dark.

Viserys hulked at one end, broad and flushed, his ruddy face tipped toward Maelys, words spilling thick and fast. Aemma perched further—the other end—slight in pale blue, her smile for Gael soft as dawn, easy as if the world hadn't shifted.

Jaedar slouched near Rhaenyra, picking at berries with idle fingers, his blond locks a sharp gleam against the babe's silver sheen, her tiny hands smearing juice.

Daemon wasn't there—off rutting some whore, like as not.

"…old books—ancient, crumbling things. They mutter of days before the Ghiscari skinks sank their claws into our kin's marrow. Back when dragonflame was a clean torch, not the warped jest it turned to." Viserys leaned toward Maelys, voice thick with conspiracy. "Sweeter times, I'd wager."

Maelys scowled, though the honesty of it was missing. "I don't swallow that rot—our blood's steeped in spite and sin, and those old tomes spill it plain, all the black rites and worse." He caught her eye across the table, dipped his chin in a quick nod, then pressed on. "Still, I'll back your hunt—tap the strings I've got in the Free Cities, sniff out those dusty tales you're mad for."

"Generous as ever, eh?" Viserys grinned, ruddy cheeks bulging. "I'll square it with you, mark me."

Maelys waved it off, sipping orange juice, a flush creeping up his neck. "I'm not fishing for debts, Viserys. Got coin enough to fund your little whims." His voice dipped, gruff with a shrug. "Foul or not, it's ours—blood of our sires. I can stomach some pride in that."

Viserra slipped in, skirts brushing stone, and took a seat by Gael, snagging a cup of wine—tart, unwatered. Alyssa's shadow lingered in Viserys's talk—her love of Valyria's lost days, her taste for steel and tales.

Gael glanced over, grey gown crisp and elegant. "Morning, sister. You're looking well—slept sound?"

"Hardly," she said, voice parched as old leather, a fostered bite in it. "You?"

Her sister's cheeks bloomed pink, a flush of sin and glee smeared across her face. Viserra knew the why, plain as day. Maelys had been buried thigh-deep in her last night, staking his claim for the first go. Must've been soft about it, if Gael still glowed like a maiden touched gentle.

"Ehh, aye," her sister muttered, words dodging the question.

Aemma choked a laugh behind her hand, lips brushing the rim of her wine cup. "No need to blush over it, Gael," she said, voice low and easy, taking a sip. "It's a fine thing—better still if it's sweet. I've heard women at Dragonstone moan dry of it, saddled with men whose hearts are cold as their blades."

That worked plenty, and Gael let it pour like tavern talk—mood, caresses, every little scratch and sigh, the hours that stretched it out. Pure romance, soft as a bard's tune. Her sister swam in it, all moony, while Maelys reckoned it normal.

By the end, Viserra's gut twisted hotter against Luras—useless prick that he was. Even Vanys caught her scorn, the cur, for not fucking her half as well as her brother did Gael.

The scrape of boots on stone cut her spite short, stomping it before it could root deep. Daemon swaggered in, rogue to the bone, sword slung low on his hip. He carved a line straight for them, brushing past the jabbering pair with a curt greeting.

When he loomed close, the reek of Maelys's spirits hung on him, sharp and sour, though his eyes cut through, bright, no haze dulling them. He was Alyssa with a cock—bold as brass—and it made him a sight. The years had carved him sharper, and the warrior in his bones doubled it.

"Ladies," he drawled. "Fine morn, eh?"

His gaze slid past her, old rancour flickering in those sharp eyes. Viserra was too worn to give a damn—too sour to waste breath on a whelp who'd never watched his sister bartered off, fucked dry by some withered lord, then broken by it.

Aemma piped up, "Daemon, why're you late?" Her voice carried old weariness, frayed at the edges. "Drunk too, I'll bet."

The rogue prince had the grace to dip his head, a rare softness tugging his sharp face. He snagged a small loaf, a bowl of steaming soup, half a fried chicken—crisp and golden—and, queerest of all, a cup of apple juice.

"Got tangled in bed," he said, grinning wide. "Pair of beauties held me—well-bred stock, plump with want, legs parted eager. Sweet girls."

Viserra was half-set to agree before words interrupted her.

"I'd ask you keep your lust away from the servants," Gael said, voice thick with reproach, a warning coiled in it. "Especially the Lyseni ones. They were swore a new start when the chains came off, but that old meekness still sticks. Wave your lust about, Daemon, and you'll find them barred to you—no more service."

A hush dropped over the table, heavy as a sodden cloak. All but the bairns froze, struck dumb, jaws slack. Gael didn't spit words like that—her hunger for kin usually softened her tongue.

Maelys's seed must've stoked a fire up her spine.

Daemon's eyes slit narrow, but he eased back—too quick, too smooth for Viserra's taste. "Fair enough," he said, draining a gulp of the apple juice. "Yet I shall not deny them my embrace should they seek it of their own will."

Gael's smile broke true, warm and open. But Viserra reckoned the rogue's hopes would crash hard—nothing but Andal cunt waiting for him come tomorrow.

"Speaking of embraces," she cut through the quiet before it curdled awkward, "got any prospects for a wife, Daemon? Plenty of houses'd leap to snag a dragonlord for a good-son."

The prince barked a scoff, Aemma smothering another laugh behind her hand. Viserra flicked a look at Maelys and Viserys, but they stayed hunched, lost in their own muttered knot, deaf to the rest.

"Mother had a match picked for you," Gael said, and eyes swung back to her. "Wanted you bound to the Royce girl—lash Runestone to your hip. A storied house and a comely wife, a fine match, no?"

Viserra saw the shape of it. A woman's grip was a shaky thing—lords loved to bray against it—but a royal match would've clamped it tight, made the loud ones cringe. And Daemon? He'd have relished a lord's weight, his iron will bending those mountain knights to his fist.

A damn good pairing, especially for him—landless but for Caraxes's wings.

Trouble was, the rogue prince was a thick-skulled fool, drunk on his own swagger and strut.

"I'd sooner be ash than chain myself to some mountain whore," he bellowed, voice crashing loud across the table.

Aemma cracked his ribs with a quick slap. "Watch your filthy mouth round the bairns," she snapped, voice a low bite. "Rhea's solid—you'd have warmed to her if you weren't so…" She let it hang, breath puffing out in a gust. "Matters naught now—Rymond's got her leashed since the Stone Crows got smashed."

Gael and Aemma prattled on, their chatter veering sharp to the latter's Arryn blood and all its tangles. Viserra, though, slid a sly glance at Daemon—his eyes lingered on the kids, heavier with thought than she'd seen before.

She gave it a year, tops, before the rogue prince was shackled to some Reach girl—plump and perfumed—to grease trade or buy a favor. Mother might've weighed her matches gentle, but Father didn't muck about with such niceties.

Soon the other pair drifted over, and Havenhall took root in their talk. Maelys spilled his schemes, no guard on his tongue—some sounded mad as a hare, others pricked her curiosity. A few gleamed pure genius, but they'd suck coin and steel dry, and she'd already bled House Sunglass's coffers near to dust.

"I'm off to Driftmark in a sennight," he said, then he and Gael slipped out.

Viserra cornered Viserys with talk. He played nice enough, probing about Sweetport Sound, the doings there. She nudged him toward marriage plots—prodding if he'd mused on who'd get her lass when the years ripened her right.

"Bit early for that, I'd say," Aemma cut in, sharp-eyed, sniffing out her play. That little niece of hers saw the hook and didn't care for it one whit. "Thought we'd set her for Rhaenys's lad or Gael's brat once she's plump with Maelys's get."

"Risky, banking on a babe not even quick yet," Daemon tossed in, sour on the marriage chatter—he didn't stomach it well.

"Gael'll have a whelp swelling her gut before the moon turns, you watch," Aemma told with a flush of the cheeks.

Viserra grudged it, sour in her gut, but she wasn't done sniffing out a fat match for her Jaedar yet.

They jawed a bit longer, scraps about the Velaryons feeding her nosiness, but soon she was out the hall, Jaedar trailing at her heels.

The Saint: I'm sorry about the characterisation of Viserys, I'll try to smooth it out in the future. And no, the MC won't be banging Viserra, he's loyal like that. Tell what you think about it.

Chapter Text

King's Landing

​

​98 AC (Eighth Moon—Day 15)

Otto I

The prince's fussing was a sight, rare as a honest dicer, all his dealings hoarded close like a miser's stash. Tavern talk swore the lad had brains and grit for old houses and grizzled lords, but plenty still sneered he danced to the king's tune.

Otto knew better—knew more than most. Aide to the lumbering dolt of a Master of Coin, he'd lurked near enough to catch the hissed words between Lady Florence and the king when the prince's tricks came up.

The crown's purse bulged with his schemes, stuffed fat by that sly lass who pounced on every mad gleam in the boy's eye. 

Fountain pens that scratched smooth. Quick stone that set like iron. Fyre wine, sharp enough to singe your throat. Perfumes that stuck to your skin like a lover's sweat. Soaps that foamed thick and smelled of streams. New crops sprouting green in sour dirt. Cloth tougher than a sellsword's hide.

All of it was miracle stuff—any single one could hoist a petty house up to strut among the highborn.

"Well then, Ser Otto," the prince said, snapping him from his musing. "What say you to this double journaling?"

Otto worked his jaw, weighing the explanation and the neat script before him. A clear method, easily understood, yet its value seemed deep. He studied the parchment once more, gave a measured hum, then set it aside.

"It is… remarkable, my prince," he conceded, voice steady. This accounting system would chart funds with precision, sparing wasted time and excess hands. It was a quiet wonder no one had devised it before.

Or mayhap they had, but saddled it close.

The prince grinned—always bloody grinning, that smile a shield hard to loathe. "Good to hear," the lad said, a sigh slipping free, soft as a breeze. "I'll put it to use myself, especially now with these hefty tasks piled on. Not chasing the fame of it, though—don't give a damn for that."

Otto's hackles shot up, stiff as a drawn bow. The prince couldn't have laid it plainer. He stared, lips shut tight, picking at the lad's words for the catch. He'd not peg himself a fool, sniffed out by some boy who'd rather moon over his sister than tangle in court's thorns.

Nay, he knew the lad was sharp—too sharp. Had his own nest of snakes coiled in tight, lords fattened and propped up by the prince's clever twists.

But halfwits, most of them—blundering fools drunk on feelings, not wits. Otto had kept his own aims close, no bold moves, just grinding along under Lady Florence's long shadow.

Yet he was sniffed out…

…or was he?

A sour twist gripped his face. Doubt was a slow rot, seeping deep. "I'd ask why you'd shrug off the praise," he ventured, voice catching slight. "More renown wouldn't sting—especially for a thing this… light on ill."

The lad's eyes fixed on him, a beat too long, then his mouth sagged, a faint droop. Otto knew that look—his father had worn it whenever his brother stumbled arse-first into folly.

The prince was weighing him and finding him wanting.

"It's an offer, Ser Otto," the boy said, a sigh huffing out as he rose and drifted to the side. "Lady Florence means to quit her perch before the year dies. Your brother's pushing you for it—swears you've the mettle. We hashed a deal, and this is your cleanest shot to claim it."

That stopped him cold. His brother, cooking deals without a word to him? What had that fool bartered to the prince for this mad grab? Otto racked his skull and came up dry—nettled him fierce. He'd been so snarled in court's webs, dodging plots and counting scraps, he'd let his own kin drift from reach.

Prince Maelys lingered there, still as stone, waiting him out.

Otto swallowed the churn, dipped his head smooth. "A kind offer, my prince," he said, voice level, "though I'd need time to chew it over." His eyes flicked up, hunting the lad's face for a twitch.

The prince gave more than a twitch—he let out a long, heavy sigh, ripe with dismay. "I'd banked on a quick answer," he said, pinning a limp smile on his face, half-dead. "Come morrow, I'm setting this to work."

Once more, Otto felt the noose cinch round his neck.

The prince turned again, snagging two squat glass cups, pouring his fyre wine with a steady hand. He took his time—too damn patient—letting the sharp, amber stuff glint as it filled, a quiet elegance in the pour.

Otto scratched for a way out, clawing at this trap he'd stumbled into. The lad judged him swift, no falter—had him pinned like a moth. But why stoke his climb? Power, plain and raw—had to be. Only a dolt would think the ones he'd trod on wouldn't snap back with teeth bared, though.

Otto wouldn't bite at the prince's bait—too much soft heart in the boy for his taste. Bound to him, his reach would be tethered short.

But could he shove him off…

His pulse eased, a faint thud.

…aye, he could. Best move, that—snuff the deal the prince and his brother had cooked up. His kin would grouse, sure, but that was a lighter lash to bear.

The lad dropped back into his seat, sliding a cup his way. Otto took it with a curt nod, sipping slow—the fyre wine seared his throat, a hot knife down to his gut. Wicked stuff, near lethal, but the taste hit different.

"The offer's solid—grand, even," Otto said, throat still raw from the burn. "But I'd have my own worth lift me up, not this."

The prince's face sagged again, disappointment plain, though a glint of grudging respect flickered in his eyes. "Fair words, if they sting me some. I'll honor them—your brother's yours to tell, though."

He gave a low, measured laugh, the prince joining with a faint, courteous echo. Yet the Hightower pondered keenly—what had his brother traded that the prince would relinquish this so readily.

Prince Maelys held him another hour, turning to lighter fare. He prodded about the day's court—a dull slog that dragged overlong, another Bracken and Blackwood spat.

A tavern brawl this time. Left some Blackwood guard with his guts spilling out. Fools sloshed with ale and starved for a woman's flesh. The outcome was expected.

The old king dispatched the envoys back to the Riverlands this time—good riddance to them.

The prince proved a fair talker, all jest and ease. He didn't dig for secrets, sticking to stray, safe threads. A stranger might mark him a fool, not knowing better. 

Otto stayed walled up, wary to the last—each word from the lad's mouth he weighed with a clenched fist of salt.

Still, when they split, he reckoned he'd scraped some favor—thin as it was. He walked off with a promise of fyre wine, contract and all, and a fountain pen—gold and silver twisted tight, studded with glinting gems, custom-wrought with his name etched deep.

It was a small fortune—more the former if he let it linger a few decades.

Otto felt the weight on his shoulders ease a fraction as the carriage jolted past the Lion Gate, the castle's clamour falling away. 

His eyes drifted to his daughter, settled across from him, her young face trying hard to hold a lady's grace, though it wobbled at the edges. Already, though, a beauty was blooming—her mother's soft looks, warmed by the old blood singing in her veins.

Men would cross steel for her once she bloomed full, and he only prayed no foolish whims would sour her before then.

That gnawed at him. Alicent might bloom into a beauty, aye, but looks alone wouldn't chain her to some fat-pursed lord or high banner. Her worth hung on him, and Otto had yet to claw up any real ties or power worth a damn.

This post might shove him nearer the king's ear, but it left him no space to grease palms or charm the noble rabble. 

He choked down the grimace itching to twist his face at the thought. Till now, he'd only stood before the king to nod, explain, or fix some mess of coin. The old king had no lack of greybeards with clever tongues, and if Otto tried slipping his own counsel in, the highborn lot would sneer and spit.

He'd meant to spark some chatter with the fresh-arrived Prince Viserys, maybe knead a soft bond with the man—the lad seemed pliable enough.

But those words with Maelys left a sour churn in his gut.

"What'd you make of your first moon here, Alicent?" he asked, eyes flicking brief to the side, the world rolling past. "Found any friends yet?"

The girl flinched, but smoothed it quick—good, that. "It's been pleasant, Father. The maesters teach queer here, not like Oldtown."

He knew it well—one of the prince's odd whims, hammering learning into some rigid shape. Otto didn't mind it—ignorance was a rot among the highborn, worse still in the ladies and lesser lordlings, stumbling over their letters like drunkards.

"And I've made friends with Jeyne Plumm," she tacked on, voice lifting.

That pricked him, though his face stayed stone. Like him, a brother to a lord, Ser Maynard, played high aide to that oaf Martyn. But where Otto scraped by, Maynard raked in taxes, a post that threw him elbow-deep with lords, their favors ripe for the picking.

So favored was the taxman that his brother had shipped his girl, Jeyne, to King's Landing. Not a queer move, but one thick with trust, all the same.

Otto let his eyes drift longer over the streets and squat buildings, mind grinding on how to twist his girl's friendship into something useful. The Plumms wanted for naught—boon of those western houses, too much ore clogging their hills—and their fields bloomed rich, if left a touch fallow.

The taxman was too bloody thorough, though he'd dip into whores now and then.

Truth was, Otto had naught real to offer, not of his own honest making. He could lean on his brother's clout, aye, but that'd be borrowed muscle—same as the prince's help. It dangled plenty, sure, but the favour would never be his to keep.

His eyes dropped to the parchment clutched in his hand—the fyre wine contract. Queer, how a lone barrel of the stuff could weigh so heavy in gold. Might be a crack here to pry open.

He'd have to dig deeper into this trade business, maybe start sweeter talks with the taxman. Both of them were second sons, aye—that might knot them a thread or two.

That was at least a plan.

"Jeyne Plumm," he said, letting the name slide off his tongue. "A sharp friend to make. Her father's a man with clout, and her uncle's name carries far. Keep her tight, Alicent. A lady's bonds are her armour—more so here, where every grin masks a dagger."

Alicent's brow pinched, a quick twitch, before she ironed it flat. "She's kind, Father. She doesn't… doesn't seem the sort for daggers or shields. We read, mostly. The maesters set us on Aegon's Conquest, and she giggles at Visenya's rages."

A grin broke across his face, real. Deep. Moments like this jabbed him—his little lass was no court vixen, not yet. There was still a soft heart in her, unscarred.

He kept the talk flowing, prodding here, nudging there. His girl spilled plenty and naught—bits of chatter, scraps of nothing. Otto didn't mind; the quiet moment, just them, was worth more than gold. He ached for Lysa to be here, to see their lass blooming.

The carriage jolted beneath, slowing as it rolled into the high manses under Aegon's Hill. The prince's talk had dragged him back here, true, but Otto was damn glad to shake off the Red Keep's stiff walls and stiffer stares.

The carriage rattled through the manse's gates after a few turns, wheels crunching gravel as it rolled into the estate's heart. 

Garlan stood waiting, stiff as a post, his steward's chain glinting dull in the afternoon light, a handful of maids hovering at his flanks—girls in plain grey, hands folded, eyes down.

"Ser Otto," Garlan greeted, voice flat but proper, dipping his head. "Good to have you back, ser."

The welcome was spare, no trumpets or fawning, but Otto cared not a whit. He stepped down, boots hitting stone, and waved a hand. "Garlan, fetch the maester to the solar—I've letters to fire off to Oldtown."

The steward dipped his head, turning to go, but Otto halted him sharp, thrusting the rolled contract and a small, carved wooden box—the fountain pen nestled inside—into the steward's hands.

"Stock up on ink for this item and set a scribe to copying that contract—send the twin to Oldtown," Otto ordered, voice clipped. "And dispatch a rider to Ser Maynard Plumm—bid him join me for supper two nights hence. He can drag his kin along if he likes."

Not till the morrow did Otto loose the ravens, the tiny creatures carrying more requests than questions.

The Saint : Was Otto's character captured well, or should I have made his arrogance more explicit? Personally, I don't like portraying characters as overly malicious or as having knowledge beyond their means. Otto isn't scheming to have Alicent married to Viserys at this point—I don't think he even has such aspirations yet, being the lowly helper that he is. As for Maelys, he's trying to be fair, but also transparent about his intentions.

​

Tell me what you think.

Chapter Text

"Ser Maynard Plumm will sup with you, Ser Otto," Garlan muttered, voice a flat echo, scarce hours after the runner had torn off with the summons. "His kin won't tag along, however."

Otto spared it half an ear, the words slipping past like an old tale. Refusal wasn't a card to play—not with House Hightower's weight backing the ask. He hunched over his desk, quill scratching sharp, carving through months of tangled coin with the prince's journaling method.

It worked, damn it—sliced the muddle of numbers into something solid, clean as a fresh blade.

Maester Joran hovered near, his watery eyes glued to the ledger, wide with a marvel Otto had never seen in the old scholar before. The maester's gnarled hand twitched, greedy for the page.

"Whose craft is this, Ser Otto?" Joran asked, snatching a finished ledger off the desk, his bony fingers clutching it tight as he squinted at the script.

The old man's grabby ways stung Otto, a jab of irritation, but he bit it down—scholars turned to slavering dogs when a riddle dangled before them, manners be damned. He eased back from the desk, settling into the chair's worn grip, its wood groaning soft under his mercy.

"The prince swears it's his own," Otto said, flicking a glance at Garlan and jerking his chin to bid the steward sit. "Though I'd wager it's more the work of some maester he's got leashed, scribbling in his shadow."

The lie came with no effort.

"Doubtful," Joran grunted, shuffling to the sagging couch by the wall, his robes whispering as he sank into its faded cushions. He offered no meat to his words, and Otto didn't bother digging for it.

Instead, he turned to Garlan, sliding a scrap of vellum across the desk. "Your hand's meticulous—every coin pinned, not a copper astray."

There was an honest praise buried in there.

The steward took the offered vellum, fingers grazing the edge, his eyes lifting—wary, but steady as stone.

Otto forged on, tone thick. "From now on, you'll tally with this method. It's cleaner… quicker. Maester Joran will hammer it into you."

Garlan's gaze flicked to the maester, then snapped back, a thin line creasing his brow, but he dipped his head.

He stifled a twitch—the obedience was a salve.

"I'd counsel sending its workings to Oldtown, too," Joran said, not a scrap of deference in his gravelly voice.

Again, Otto let the annoyance slide. Instead, he chewed on the creased scholar's cunning. Aye, his kin ought to know—this trick was too sharp to keep close—but how much to spill? He could lay it all bare, make damn sure the prince didn't dangle the credit to some other grasping fool vying for Master of Coin. It's what he'd do, after all.

But the prince would see right through him, he'd already taken his measure. That still stung Otto, raw as a fresh cut, to be sussed out and weighed by a lad half his years. Madness.

"Aye," Otto said at last, after a beat of silence, voice low. "But scrub the prince's name from it." He'd not wave a flag to draw the lad's sharp eyes his way.

Joran shot him a look, thick with suspect, but the old man dipped his head, bending to the order all the same.

Otto's mind swung back to clawing for the post—nothing in his court stint or royal drudge shone bright. Careful steps, aye—he'd reckoned time was his patient whore. It wasn't. He needed weight, something to tip the scales.

Nay, cozying up to the nobles would be too sluggish, too ripe for sniffing out. All that was left was some deed, some flash to drag eyes his way.

There was one, aye.

Prince Viserys. The second in line to the throne, no trouble there. But Otto couldn't just swagger up to the lad—too bold, too bare. He needed a veil, something sly to shroud his move.

"Any of the prince's men poked around here of late, Garlan?" Otto asked, his gaze pinning the steward, whose eyes still traced the vellum he'd been handed.

"A few—Fleabottom rabble dressed up fine—two learned sorts at the head," Garlan replied, lifting his gaze, voice steady but clipped. "They came to measure the estate, the manse too, talking of new sewers to be laid."

Otto flicked a sharp look at Joran, an order there.

The maester inclined his head. "I met an old colleague, now in the prince's service. They've devised new workings, bolstered by his quick stone. The construction will be swift, they claim."

It wasn't the prize Otto sought, but it added a scrap to his hoard.

Lady Florence had spelled out how much the crown would offer up for the project, though the sums were still half-guessed, numbers dancing on parchment. Budget work, aye—that was Otto's patch. It'd drag him square into Prince Viserys's path.

His lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. Four moons till the year's end—time enough to cozy up to the prince. Hells, he might even try his hand with Princess Viserra, dangle some help her way—though Sweetport Sound sat a damn long haul from Oldtown.

He'd cut a deal with Maynard, see if the taxman couldn't tug a few threads for him.

The rub was what to dangle before the Plumm lad for his help. Always the same, wasn't it? Fat-pursed lords were a bastard to sway. So far, he'd only cooked up a trade deal—Plumms and Hightowers. Maynard was dug in deep as taxman, though—western lords still stank of mistrust in the king's nose.

Otto let a sigh slip, a real thread of unease woven in. "How sharp are our cooks, Garlan? Can they whip up some of the new dishes floating round the city?"

The steward dipped his head. "We've got a handful fresh from the princess's kitchens—trained up on the new fare, aye. But we'll need warning to stock the larder proper."

He grunted, mind flicking sour to the coin bled on these daft kitchens—half of it bloody folly. "Nay, fetch a seasoned cook—those flash tavern hands. I want a proper feast laid out, something to tickle Plumm's tastes, if you can manage it."

Garlan dipped his head, no twitch on his face. "We'll need to crack the old Arbor reserves, Ser."

Otto stilled a beat, chewing it over, then gave a curt nod. He'd snapped up those wine casks from the Myrish two years back—pricey, but ripe for a moment like this.

He'd grease the taxman plump with vintage Arbor, and gift him several bottles for good measure.

Soon, Garlan was out the door, off to his tasks.

Otto swung his gaze to Joran. "Ready some parchment, we've more letters to scratch out."

The sun was sinking low by then, bleeding red through the slats.

The morn broke grey, heavy clouds squatting low. A breeze stirred, gentle… fresh. Otto savoured days like this, when the city's reek was near scrubbed clean and the clamour dulled to a murmur. King's Landing almost gleamed in such hours, or so he told himself.

He drew a deep breath, the frost-leaf he'd chewed leaving a sharp chill on his tongue, crisp as winter's bite. Damn fine stuff, this. Pity Westeros got short shrift of it—Essos hoarded its flashier trinkets, the slaving bastards.

The yard roared when he stepped in, a din of shouts and steel ringing sharp. He'd let his own blade work rust this year—royal duties had him chained, ankle to neck.

He'd fix that, aye, and not give a damn for looking the fool.

The chatter dimmed when he strode in, but Otto paid it no mind. He wasn't here to swap tricks with the manse's guards—dull blades, the lot—but the house knights, men worth crossing steel with.

Ser Bryan clocked him first, eyes sharp under his helm. "Ser Otto," he said, dipping his head just enough. "Got any tasks for us, ser?"

Otto waved a hand, the gesture curt, shedding the pleasantries. "Nay, not today, Ser Bryan. I'm here for the yard—need to shake the rust off these bones." He tugged at the sword belt slung low on his hips, the leather creaking as he adjusted it.

Bryan's brow lifted, a flicker of surprise, but he masked it quick, nodding stiffly. "As you command, ser. Need a sparring partner, then? Ser Allyn's available—he's skilled, if you wish a challenge."

Otto's lips twitched, not quite a smile—Allyn was the nephew of his old squire, twice cut off from the main line of those red fox bastards. Fine knights, though. "Aye, fetch him. But no coddling, mind—I'll not have you lot going soft on me just 'cause I shuffle papers more than steel these days."

It was a sharp quip, though he'd not let himself sag. He kept his vices tight-leashed, ever watchful that his frame didn't bloat. The Red Keep's endless twists of corridors kept his legs hardy, though he wondered if Lysa's bed might've stoked his endurance sharper.

Bryan nodded, and turned to call across the yard. "Allyn! Front and center—Ser Otto requires you!"

The yard's din dropped, heads swiveling, coin clinking soft. The curs were wagering—bastards. That stung him, a thorn under the skin, but he'd scour their slack ways later, set Bryan to double their drills.

Aye, he could mold them sharp, like the gold cloaks—forge a tight fist of them, loyal and lean.

Ser Allyn approached, a tall, wiry lad, his mail clinking with each measured stride, sword loose in its scabbard. "Ser Otto," he said, dipping his head, his eyes steady, respectful, no glint of eagerness—only duty. "Spar, ser? Blunt blades, or live?"

Otto barked a laugh, raw and deep from the gut. "Blunt," he said, shaking his head. "I've no taste for bleeding over games, but don't you dare ease up—I'll smell it if you do." He yanked his practice blade free, steel hissing from the scabbard…

Queer thing, keeping a blunt blade just for yourself.

…he stepped into the cleared ring, the dirt packed hard underfoot, scuffed and scarred from a hundred boots. The air hung thick, sharp with sweat and the tang of metal.

Ser Allyn squared up across from him, his own blunt blade drawn, the tip hovering steady, his stance low and coiled—a young man's stance, all spring and fire.

Otto marked it, eyes narrowing, tracing the knight's balance, the slight shift of weight to his left leg.

He'd not fought in earnest in near a year, but the old lessons clung, etched deep—watch the feet, read the hips, strike the gaps. His own stance was stiffer, heavier, the court's soft living weighing on his joints, but he'd not let it show.

"Begin," Otto growled, and Allyn moved, quick as a whip, lunging forward, blade slashing high for Otto's shoulder.

He jerked his sword up, catching the blow with a jarring clang, the shock rippling up his arm, waking the old fire in his sinews. He shoved back, hard, forcing Allyn to skip a step, but the knight twisted, blade darting low now, a viper's strike at Otto's thigh.

He pivoted, barely, the blunt edge grazing his breeches, a whisper of what could've been a crippling blow with live steel.

"Sloppy," Otto grunted, more to himself, and surged forward, his own blade slashing a wide arc, aiming to drive Allyn back. The knight parried, metal shrieking, but Otto pressed, hammering down, each blow deliberate, forcing Allyn to give ground.

The men's chatter faded, swallowed by the rhythm of steel, the thud of boots, the harsh rasp of his own breath burning in his chest. He felt the old strength singing, sluggish but there, buried under moons of parchment and wine.

Allyn ducked under a high swing, countering with a thrust, the blunt tip jabbing hard at Otto's ribs.

He twisted, grunting as the blow clipped his side, a dull throb blooming under his doublet. "Bastard," he hissed, and retaliated, feinting left, then slashing right, catching Allyn's blade mid-parry, the force knocking the younger man's arm wide. Otto lunged, shoulder first, ramming into Allyn's chest, sending him stumbling back, dust kicking up in clouds.

The boy recovered quick, too quick, rolling his shoulders, blade snapping up to guard. "You're slow, ser," Allyn said, voice steady, respectful but edged, testing.

Otto's blood flared, hot and sharp—slow, was he? He'd show the whelp slow. He charged, blade flashing, a flurry of blows, high, low, left, each strike a hammer, driving Allyn back step by step, the knight's parries growing tighter, more desperate. Sweat stung Otto's eyes, his lungs heaving, but he felt alive…young.

Allyn ducked a wild swing, lunging low, blade thrusting for Otto's gut. He danced around it, barely, the air hissing past, and brought his own sword down, a brutal chop aimed at the boy's shoulder. The knight caught it, just, blades locking, steel grinding, their faces inches apart, breath hot and ragged.

Otto's arms burned, muscles screaming, but he leaned in, shoving with all his weight, forcing Allyn's blade down, down, till the younger man's knees buckled a hair.

"Yield?" He rasped, voice raw, sweat dripping from his brow, splattering the dirt between them.

Allyn's jaw clenched, eyes fierce, but he dipped his head, respectful. "Aye, ser," he said, easing back, blade dropping.

The young knight had skill, aye, no denying it, but Otto had been cleaving bandit skulls while the lad was still bawling at his mother's tit.

He stepped away, chest heaving, blade hanging heavy in his hand. The yard was silent now, the clink of coin stilled, eyes wide on him—some shocked, some disgruntled. The bastards wagered against him.

He flicked a glance at Bryan, voice rough. "Triple their drills, Ser Bryan. And no more bloody betting—next man I catch loses a week's pay."

Bryan dipped his head, rigid and mute, and Otto swung his gaze to Allyn. "My daughter needs a sword at her back," he said, fixing the lad as he hauled himself up. "I'd name you for that duty."

The Saint : I'll admit I got caught up in the enjoyment of writing Otto, so this chapter doesn't carry much tension. Still, I think there's enough substance here to justify deeper reflection. Feel free to ask questions or offer criticism.

Tell me what you think.

Chapter Text

The sun hung high, a pale disc scorching through the Red Keep's haze, spilling light over the garden's tangled heart—a nook few ever found, walled by gnarled vines and crooked yews.

Gael sat cross-legged on a wool blanket, the grass beneath prickling through, her sundress—a light thing of cream linen, stitched with tiny bluebells at the hem—fanning out around her. The fabric clung soft to her skin, sleeves short and loose, a rare freedom from the stiff gowns she wore for court.

Her love sprawled across her lap, head heavy against her thighs, silver hair spilling like molten metal through her fingers as she toyed with it, tracing its shine. His eyes were shut, face slack with peace—high cheeks, lips curved just so, beautiful in a way that told of story.

She lunged for them, a sudden haze of want clouding her—hands snagging his tunic, lips brushing his in a quick, clumsy peck. No fire, no sting—just a fleeting press. Maelys didn't flinch; his mouth curved slow, eyes creasing with a grin.

This sly indulger.

A wicker basket sat open beside them, its bounty half-spent: crusty bread torn to chunks, a wedge of sharp white cheese flecked with herbs, a clay pot of honeyed figs—sticky and dark—spilling their scent into the air, and a clutch of red apples, one notched where Maelys had bitten it and left it to gleam in the sun.

A bottle of sweet-wine lay tipped against the roots of a stunted oak, its clear glass sweat-beaded from the heat.

The garden hummed—bees droning in the lavender, a faint wind rustling leaves—no footsteps, no voices, just them.

Gael's thoughts wandered as her fingers slid through his hair, teasing loose the soft snarls—silver strands yielding under her touch.

She savoured these times, these quieter stretches of closeness, romance stripped to its bones. They never dulled, never grew rote—not like the tales she'd overheard, ladies hissing envy through the Red Keep's hidden veins when she'd crept those damp, whispering tunnels.

She pressed for them to push on… dogged as ever, even as they trudged to their new holdings, into a house that'd reek of strangeness and empty roots.

That thought curved her lips—a wry smile at the greedy knot in her chest, craving this unbroken. A dream carved in sunlight, this hour, yet dreams never lingered long. Nay, children would come swift enough—sweet, clamouring things—and they'd gnaw these quiet times to scraps.

The thought didn't sour her, not truly—small feet pattering these stones, laughter chasing the bees—but it shifted something. Would she be good at it, mothering? Stern like Viserra, who ruled Jaedar with a voice like a whip yet kissed his brow when he slept? Or soft like Aemma, all patience and murmurs, even when Rhaenyra wailed the keep down?

Maelys, sprawled here so easy—would he cradle them as he did her, steady and warm, or drift to his own ends, as their father had too often done? She frowned, realizing she'd scarce spared a thought for names—boy or girl, nothing fixed in her head.

That jolted her, a gap she hadn't seen till now.

"Maelys," she called, tone low, tugging a strand of his hair to stir him.

His eyes cracked open, violet and glinting, a smirk curling slow. "Aye, sweet? What's that tone—plotting my demise already?"

She huffed, half a laugh. "Names. For… later. Children, I mean. I've not thought on them proper."

He shifted, propping on an elbow, grin widening. "Gods, Gael, we've scarce started tumbling regular, and you're naming a brood? Your appetite will be the death of me—I'll be grey before they're weaned."

Her cheeks warmed, but she swatted his shoulder, light. "Hush, you—don't tease. I'm serious. Girls, at least—what'd you reckon?"

He flopped back, hands behind his head, staring up through the branches. "Girls, eh? You've got that gleam—spit it out, then. What's brewing in that head?"

She hesitated, twirling a lock of his hair round her finger. "Alysanne, mayhap—after Mother. Or Maegelle—for our sister. Both feel… right, but heavy too."

Maelys hummed, a low sound, eyes narrowing thoughtful. "Alysanne's a queen's name—strong, but it'd weigh on a lass, all that shadow. Maegelle, though—soft, pious. Suits you more than me—I'd not saddle a girl with sermons."

"You'd rather her a dragonrider than a septa?" she asked, brow arching.

"Aye," he agreed, grinning. "Let her burn something before she prays it—I'd teach her myself. But Alysanne… might be I'd bend to that, if she's got her fire."

Gael smiled, small and real, her fingers stilling in his hair. "You'd name her for fire, not duty?"

"Fire's what lasts," he said, catching her hand, pressing it to his lips quick and warm. "Duty's just the leash—girls of ours would snap it, I'd see to that."

She laughed outright, the sound startling a bird from the branches. "You'll spoil them rotten—me chasing them with a switch while you stoke the chaos."

"Not too rotten, mind—I'd not have them grow like Saera, all scorn and shame, bitter as a lemon left to rot," Maelys said, easing back into her lap, eyes fluttering shut once more. "We'll hash this out again—names and the rest—after I've had you proper, sweet."

Saera's name stung, a bitter thorn pricking Gael's calm.

Mother had murmured of her—Father's favoured girl once, the child who'd shattered him and left him a husk. A whore now, so the tales went, lolling in the bastard dens of Essos—Lys or Volantis, mayhap—her whelps weaned to scorn, spat on by lesser men who'd bow to their blood if it shone pure.

Folly, the lot of it—pure rot. Nay, she'd not let her own babes drift into whispers of warning and disgrace.

"How's she faring—Saera, I mean?" Gael's gaze drifted to the horizon, thinned by the breeze rustling soft through the yews. "You've sailed to those lands of sin for your schemes—Lys, Volantis, the lot. Surely you've sniffed after her, asked a name or two. Met her, even?"

Maelys let her words fester, unanswered for a few slow thumps of her heart, but Gael held her tongue—she'd not prod him. The wind hummed, soft as a sigh, and she waited, fingers still in his hair.

"She's a sad thing," he said at last, eyes shut, voice low and steady. "Chasing lust for love, for kin to fill the hollow. I reckon she's waiting on Father's call—not to drag her back, but to prove her rutting and rebellion weren't sin in his eyes."

He shifted, a faint crease on his brow. "Met her once, in Lys—she came at me, all honeyed words and hands. It's her craft, all she's got left. I brushed her off, and that lit a fire of hate in her—spat my name like poison after."

Gael's lips twisted, a bitter smile cracking her charm—why had love turned its back on her sisters, casting them to sin and shame, chasing Maelys's hands he'd never yield to their grasp?

Mayhap the old sins had called doom's eye to her kin—taints of blood and fire from aeons past, dragging misfortune like a chain. Did they need some pure deed to break the grip of Old Valyria's ghosts, to cleanse the filth of the bastard cities and set them free? Mayhap it was so…

…Mayhap.

"Your silence sets me on edge, Gael," Maelys whispered, his violet eyes cracking open to fix on hers. "Tell me you're not stewing on dark things—malice or worse."

"Kinder thoughts, I'd say," Gael said, plucking a green grape from the basket and popping it between her lips. "How're your parleys with Lord Hightower, love? Has the man found his wits yet?"

Maelys sank back, a deep hum buzzing in his chest as he chewed it over, eyes slitting lazy once more.

"Dragging on, aye—Leyton's clawing for more sway in the deal, the grasping fool." A laugh broke free, sharp with jest, crinkling his face. "Matters little what he settles on—I've Vaegon stirring the maesters at the Citadel, a pot well-simmered. Spoke with Septon Barth too, and Father—a title's no hard prize to pry loose."

Gael shook her head, a thin line forming on her lips—Maelys's scribing press was a marvel, a clatter of iron and ink that spun words like magic.

Yet handing it to Oldtown chafed her, a move she misliked, though he swore it was the quickest road to woo the godly and win the maesters' nod. He hungered for the Faith's blessing on his Essos gambit—flesh dealings that'd reek to the nobles—hoping a holy stamp would muzzle the lords who'd bare their teeth at him.

Nay, that wasn't the sole path. He could plant it here instead—raise a second Citadel in King's Landing, manned by the swarm of maesters he'd bent to his will. Aye, it'd sow rancour with the Hightowers and those stiff-necked Archmaesters, but Gael reckoned it no steep cost—not when the prize was his own forge of lore.

"You've a tender spot for these lords who puff themselves grander than they are, Maelys," Gael said, a smile prettying her countenance. She knew well why he danced on the brink of courtesy and calm—his game demanded it—yet it rankled her still. "And Otto? You've been sour as old milk since he spat on your offer."

Maelys lifted from her thighs, twisting to face her, a frown creasing his lips—an ugly mar on that fair face. "I pray you don't spill every scrap to Viserra," he said, tone light but laced with a warning's edge. "I know she's been feeding her fancies through you."

His jest carried teeth, and Gael felt heat flood her cheeks, a flush she couldn't stifle. Viserra's counsel had its uses, damn her, and he knew it too well.

Maelys pressed on, voice dropping low, a glint of malice in those eyes. "Otto's muzzled for now—some sweet crumbs tossed through Maynard to keep him scrambling. He'll whisper to his brother, and Leyton will heap whatever Otto mutters into the bargain. That's why I let him strut and prance—slow venom, love, seeping deep. It won't cripple yet, but mark me: the Hightowers will kiss our boots this century. Come the next, they'll be dust on the wind…"

He wove it with deft hands, this silent treachery—chains of fool's gold draped over allies with an honest smile. And Gael, damn her, loved him fierce for it, her heart a fool to the marrow, snared by the lengths he'd stretch to shield their unborn babes from uncertainty.

He'd laid it bare to her once, the shape of things to come—death's shadow creeping close, a tide he half-craved. She saw it in him, that hunger for the ruinous fall, teetering just a breath from breaking loose. It fuelled his games—why he bowed and grinned to lords, tossed bread to the smallfolk, and now angled for the Faith's sanctimonious nod.

All of it a scaffold for the day Baelon's breath stilled, when Father's trembling hand would set the crown on him. For the hour the knives came out, kin turning on kin.

A sharp crack split the air, and Gael's hand stung where it met his cheek. "No dark words here," she said, soft as a whisper, tugging him back to her lap. Her fingers grazed the reddened skin, tender now where she'd struck. "You do it for love—there's no venom in it. You'll shape them right, these highborn—lift them higher, truer. Kindness repaid with kindness."

"You're mad, sister," he said, a laugh rumbling through him. "And I'd have you pay for that, come nightfall."

Her cheeks blazed, a tide of heat she wrestled to bury, shoving the wicked thought aside. "Speak of something else," she urged, weakly. "Tell me of the first lot bound for Havenhall."

Maelys spared her, seizing the new thread with no feigned zeal. He'd always burned for his schemes, even when he granted them but a sliver of his mind.

"A tally's been scratched out for the first settlers—three thousand, all told," he said, tone excited as he traced the thought. "Maester Jon's lot have their names etched down, faces roughly sketched, each pinned with a number and stowed safe in the archives. They'd be drilled there, shaped for fat purses once the early grit's scraped past."

She'd heard Father would yield nigh a quarter of King's Landing's rabble—most no more than gutter-rats and souls steeped in vice. Yet they couldn't haul the lot.

Nay, she and Maelys had their marks picked clean, a crop of decent folk fattened by the food houses and honed sharp by the maesters' teachings.

It would be a marvel, that land of theirs, carved by her husband's cunning and peopled thick with souls of sharp wit and proven faith.

"What of the ships to bear them there?" That knot she couldn't unravel. Her love wielded a web of clever means, yet no fleet of his own to ferry stocks for the pacts he'd forged across the known world.

Even the Valyrian stock he meant to fetch would sail on the Sealord's hulls, some bargain struck with the Braavosi to grease the way. He was plenty secret about that one deal.

"We'll parley with Lord Velaryon for that," he told with a sigh, lifting a hand to prod her chest lightly. "The man's in my debt."

She flicked his hand off her, a light blush reddening her face before it eased. "It'd best not be blackmail, love." Rhaenys was too dear a friend and Gael wouldn't abide her turning foe…

…not yet, leastways.

"You'll ride the wind with me to Spicetown," Maelys said, a faint smile tugging his lips. "We'll linger a few days—Rhaenys and her little brood would relish your company. Pack some of those wicked scraps for our niece."

Gael pinched his arm, though she'd do it anyway—two babes was a meagre count, especially for Rhaenys, with hips made for birthing a dozen.

They should aim high, she reckoned—mimic the Good Queen, who'd pushed out nigh on a dozen babes from hips too narrow for the task. Gael's own were broader, a generous span, a frame fit to birth a horde, if her love never grew weary of her.

Aye, she'd proved the better dam, not one babe snatched to the Stranger's cold arms. Such was a wife's charge, and she'd not let her womanhood be cast in doubt.

A shadow fell swift, the sun swallowed by a thick cloud. Her eyes raked the sky for a storm's promise, but no rain hung heavy—this week held none of it, that wet wrath.

She'd wearied of the mud, and a stray thought flickered—might they ever see a winter stretch a full year? She'd glut herself on frozen cream till her teeth ached, if it came.

That quirked her lips. Mayhap she'd wheedle a vow from Maelys to take wing for the North in the weeks to come.

"What of the orphan houses for the small ones?" she remembered, shifting to prop herself up. "Plenty of these settlers'll be children kissed by ill luck. I'd not have them fall to grim roads, Maelys." Gael misliked how scant the care and steering were for the young in this world of theirs.

She knew Maelys had his plans scratched out and smoothed sharp already, a lattice of order for how things would stand—yet these soft prods did no harm. He clasped her hand again, pressing his lips to her knuckles.

"Keep an ear open for me," he echoed her, voice steady, "this and that of the women, so they're spared those low trades once more. Still, it'll be well. I'd drain every coin I've hoarded to scourge the shadow of want from our haven."

Gael's lips curved—mad as he could be, Maelys bore a heart of truest gold beneath it all.

At last she rose, a gentle weariness fogging her thoughts, smoothing the scant creases from her dress while Maelys whined for her lap, cheeks puffed like a sulking child's.

"We've dawdled too long," she reminded him, "and I'd bet you've duties clawing for you." She had her own ahead—Aemma waited, a talk brewing, not least her wish to tag along on Gael's forays into the city's muck.

She'd relish it—nothing cheered the smallfolk more than their highborn tending to them with care.

"…fair enough," he muttered, still sprawled on the earth, eyes roving her form. It was a proud stare, one he'd taken to wielding often of late. "Though mark this—I've scant duty pressing, save a word with Father come dusk."

Gael couldn't fathom how Maelys, tangled in a web of schemes and trade, carved out such wide swathes of idle hours. Aye, he'd laid it bare once—spilled it all in a breathless tirade about the Yi-Tish ways, though the full grasp of it slipped her still.

She turned from his ogling and played the handmaid, thoughts on Aemma up at the keep. "Then keep close to Viserys. Aemma says he savors your company and aid."

As the crowned face of the sewer works, Viserys had to traipse about, parleying with lords, merchants, and shopkeeps—a grand farce, all of it, for Maelys's men were the ones trudging the muck and turning the wheels.

Yet her love was winsome and sharp-witted beside. He steered the other prince from rotten bargains and the conniving sycophants of the court who'd fleece him blind.

He hummed, a low sound. "Your words have sparked a thought, though I'll need to chew it over with the artisans and maesters first." He hauled himself up. "You'll like this one, sweet—you all will."

Maelys dusted off his breeches, eyes alight with that wild gleam she knew too well, and launched into a storm of words.

"Picture this, my love—a stretch of ground, right there by the outer ward, timber frames sturdy as a keep's bones, ropes thick as a sailor's braid swinging to and fro." He flung his arms wide, pacing the grass like some mummer gone mad, heedless of her earlier nudge toward Viserys.

"Then planks balanced just so—up one end, down the other, creaking with every shift. And wheels, aye, flat rounds of oak spinning fast enough to dizzy a lad till he's laughing sick!"

Gael bent to gather the wicker basket, lips twitching as she tucked the half-eaten bread and sticky figs inside.

His voice rolled on, hands slashing the air to carve shapes she could scarce picture. "Rungs too, lashed tight, for climbing—high enough to scare the piss out of them, but safe, mind you, safe as a septa's prayers!" He spun on his heel, grinning like a fool, and she caught the edge of it despite herself, even as she shook her head.

She brushed crumbs from the wool blanket, folding it neat over her arm, while he prattled on, heedless. "And a chute—polished smooth, steep enough to send them flying, squealing all the way down!" His boots scuffed the dirt, marking some invisible line, and she sighed, half-vexed, half-charmed.

"Gods, Maelys, you're a whirlwind," she muttered, tucking the sweet-wine bottle under her arm, its glass still cool against her skin.

His fervour grated her patience, aye, the way he barreled past her words like they were chaff in the wind.

She straightened, basket in hand, and caught his eye mid-gesturing. "Whatever it is, slow down and breathe, lest you choke on it before it's born."

Maelys stilled, the storm in him ebbing, then leaned close—his lips brushed hers, a gentle echo of her earlier peck.

"I'll hunt down Viserys," he said. "Father bid me keep an eye on him—didn't tell you that, did I?" She feigned annoyance at him, a furrow on her brows. "We'll chew over this tonight, though—my ropes and all."

He was off swift enough, leaving her there alone. Yet Ylvara soon appeared, stepping soft to help with the clearing, a fine gown draped over her arms—cut and stitched proper for Gael's rank.

Shedding her garb beneath the open sky felt a scandal teetering on the brink, and the whisper of silken smallclothes only deepened the shame. Gael's cheeks blazed hot; she'd never worn a mask for guile with ease.

Ylvara bore no trace of her fluster, though—the maid's hands moved steady and sure, smoothing her hair afresh before the sundress slipped free from her grip.

"You carry no mark of wifely duty on you, my princess," Ylvara said, her tone threading with a faint unease, though her words rang clear—too bold, mayhap, in their prying reach. "Is the prince unwell?"

Gael felt the heat claw up to her ears, a flush she couldn't quell. She knew the unchained Lyseni meant no slight—those lilting tones bore only the scars of her old trade, honed in the perfumed dens of those wretched cities, narrowing her sight to flesh and little else.

Still, it stung her pride raw.

"That… wasn't the aim of this hour, Ylvara," she said, voice tight as the blush seared on. "It's the heart we tend—love and trust, nursed slow and sure." Aye, that's what Maelys had sworn when she'd first pressed him on it.

Ylvara dipped her head, a touch slow, unsure. "It's only… I'd thought—" She stilled her hands, a finger jabbing toward Gael's chest, the breast strap. "With such inviting garb…" Her words faltered, and mayhap the maid caught the snag in her own probing, eyes flicking down.

Gael's lips pulled low, a fair bit, but she shook her head. She'd donned them for Maelys now and then—fanning his fire, as Viserra's sly counsel urged. Yet not this day. Now she savoured their ease, the breath they granted, free of binding layers and heavy folds.

They lent her grace too for the odd twists and stretches she worked through each dawn.

Still, the maid's words chafed her, a burr under her skin—too plain how the once-chained lingered in the dregs of their past.

"Ylvara," Gael said, tone firm yet fraying soft, "your freedom wasn't won to bind you anew—least of all to that sort of yoke." She let out a breath, her gaze easing. "Rest easy. Such would never be demanded—not by me, and surely not by Maelys."

Few truths stood firm in her days, but Maelys's love was a rock among them. He'd never tire of her flesh or her presence. Never. It was why he laboured so, weaving plots, stretching hands, spinning falsehoods—all to forge a bulwark for their unborn brood and carve out more hours to linger with her.

The maid bowed her head low, but Gael knew the matter wouldn't rest there. The once-shackled would still yearn for Maelys, offering thanks in the only coin they'd learned—base and worn from those cursed cities. It fell to her to school them in virtue, to scour the filth of their old ways clean.

Mayhap she'd murmur to Maelys—see if the Faith might lend its voice to guide and turn them true once they struck out for their new home.

Ylvara slid the gown over her now—silk and samite, thick with stitching worthy of a princess's rank. The maid's nimble fingers tugged it taut, a pinching weight Gael once bore gladly but now misliked.

Soon they left the old garden behind, stepping into the shadowed corridors. Ser Arthor of Claw Isle fell in beside them, a sworn shield whose loyalty to her stirred no scorn at court.

She found she liked him well enough—his skill at arms was exceptional, his honor a thing beyond doubt, and his colouring held hints of kin.

"I hope we've not kept you waiting overlong, Ser," Gael said, her words laced with honest care.

"You haven't, my princess," the knight replied, his voice even as stone. "And it'd be churlish of me to grumble at how light this post sits."

It should've weighed heavier, she knew. Yet Maelys set scant store by Westeros's knights—too fickle or too scheming, he reckoned. So Ser Arthor's true burdens came only on these picnic jaunts or when court and grand affairs called him to stand watch.

Still, he drew a fat purse in coin and the shine of prestige that came with being Maelys's sworn man.

"That's good to hear," she said, offering a smile that left a fleeting fluster on the knight's visage. She turned a blind eye to his fondness—such looks were quite common within these walls. Ylvara, though, edged nearer, a quiet shield, slipping between her and Ser Arthor.

Another show of silent fealty, and one she misliked all the same. Let the men stew in their want—brothels and eager ladies aplenty stood ready to slake it. Her maidservants bore no duty to bear its weight.

Besides, Ser Arthor had a wife and babe—he'd not risk them for some wicked fancy.

"What's roused while we idled?" she asked, steering the focus elsewhere.

Ylvara piped up, eager. "A duel in the yards—two knights clashing for Lord Ball's eldest girl, her hand in the balance." One of Aemma's flock, if Gael recalled true. "I didn't catch the end of it, though."

"A draw," Ser Arthor helped. "Both took grave hurts and bled out a truce."

Gael's breath caught, a chill threading through her. It gnawed at her, how quick these men leaped to death's edge over trifles. "Who were they?" she asked, brows arched high.

"The Sloane heir, most like, and some Reacher knight bound to the Balls."

House Sloane—Gael's mind snagged on it. That was the kin of the lass Maelys had dangled to sour Vaegon's vows down in Oldtown. He'd have to step in now, lest this spat swelled too fat to ignore.

Mayhap her discussions with Aemma would yield a trove on House Ball's ties to the Sloanes—beyond their shared roots in ancient blood.

"Anything more?"

"Aye, my princess," Ylvara replied. "Some ladies came sniffing for your ear. Lady Fossoway was among them."

Gael's lips thinned. Reach folk weaving through today's stirrings, it seemed. She could wager why the requests piled up—Maelys's dyes, born of his and the maesters' toil, had spilled into the markets, along with the fabrics stained with their hues.

She didn't fault the ladies their aims—noble life starved out bonds forged for mere fondness, but that didn't mark these women as foes. They sought only the good of their kin and houses, ready to cozy up to her for it.

Mayhap it was time she took on ladies-in-waiting. The principality would crave sworn houses to reap Maelys's bounty, and those vassals would need wives. Gael stood poised to pick them.

Aye, the hour had come for her to step bold and deep into this dance of schemes.

"One never knows true beast 'til they parry a blow from a knight of the King's Blood—swift as a lash, strong as an ox, and lean as a lance. They say the Mercy took three heads with one sweep of his blade in the Second Iron Rebellion."

—Words of Ser Bran of Manting, etched during the Fourth Winter Tourney (253 AC in Riverrun)

The Saint: This is pure fluff—I love fluff, especially the non-sexual kind. I enjoy writing it. Still, there's some bits and pieces of information sprinkled in there to bolster curiosity. Ask if you don't quite get the meaning behind something.

The aim here is to actually give Gael personality while still keeping her… girly and cardboard like. You know, like a traditional wife. She's her own person but will still adhere to whatever her husband decides. Also, her perspective is more reliable than any when it comes to Maelys' character.

Tell me what you think.

Chapter Text

Dust spun in the midday glare, stirred by the scuffle of servants and the restless rake of dragon claws against stone.

Gael lingered at Silverwing's side, her gloved hand pressed to the beast's shimmering scales—pearl-white, shot with veins of silver, warm with the banked fire thrumming beneath.

Her riding leathers gripped her tight—soft black hide laced with silver thread, light yet sturdy, a sheath that molded too snug to her form.

She shifted, the pinch at her hips and the pull across her chest a quiet nag, and glimpsed herself in a dragonkeeper's burnished helm: a she-warrior stared back, silver braid coiled down her spine like a rope. It stirred a flicker of pride, that fierce image, though the fit laid bare her full curves, and her soft face mocked any claim to ferocity.

Maelys stood a stride away, snapping commands at the knot of servants wrestling their meager haul—clothes, perfumes, and some gifts. His leathers mirrored hers, dark and sleek, but they draped his spare, sinewy build with ease, the cut sharpening the breadth of his shoulders.

Dreamfyre hulked at his back, her scales a gleam of sea-blue, eyes keen and twitching with borrowed impatience. He turned, meeting Gael's look, and his mouth softened from its prior edge into a gentler curve. "Ready, sweet?" he called, voice slicing through the din.

"Aye," she answered, stroking Silverwing's neck as the dragon snorted, steam wisping from her snout. "Though I'd stake coin you'll twist the path double before Driftmark's in sight."

His laugh rang out, bright and wild, and he vaulted onto Dreamfyre's saddle with a fluid grace as the keepers tugged the final straps taut.

Gael hauled herself up after, her climb clumsier, limbs less yielding to the task. Her heart held no waver, but she'd long accepted her body lent no elegance to such feats, no matter how often she rode.

Her father had bestowed Silverwing upon her after the queen's death—a rare boon she'd seized with shaking hands, her twin steady as stone at her side through the claiming.

The keepers finished their fussing, then fell back, barking harsh Valyrian at the score of servants milling about the pit. Gael shut her eyes, drew a slow breath, and gave the reins a firm tug.

"Gīmigon, Sōvēs!" (Let's be off, Silverwing)

The dragon surged skyward, her wings cracking the air like a storm's first peal, and the Dragonpit dwindled below—a jagged scar shrinking to a speck as King's Landing unfurled beneath them, a sprawl of stone and shadow stitched with rivers of smoke.

The wind howled, a wild rush that should've flayed her skin and snatched her breath, yet it didn't—only pressed gentle as a sigh against her face. Maelys had named it magic once.

"No man ought to hold together at this pace, this high," he'd said. "Godsdamned sorcery, Gael—not the twisted tricks those half-mad shadow-weavers peddle in Asshai."

She'd only half-heeded him then, more caught by the silken heat of that creamy draught he'd shipped from the Summer Isles' wanton shores, but now, riding the wind above the Blackwater, she chased it—that strand of the strange he vowed ran through them—hoped to feel it, at least. It was a slippery thing to grasp, a gift so woven into her bones it might as well be air…

…and mayhap it was so, her husband merely adrift in his madness once more.

King's Landing blurred to a faint smear at their backs, its towers drowned in haze, and Maelys banked north—off Driftmark's true course, toward the untamed spine of Rosby's lands. Gael let out a quiet sigh, easing Silverwing after him.

He'd always been thus—parched for the sky, glutting on the winding way whenever time bent to his will. Two hours they'd meander, she judged, threading peaks and woodlands no axe had scarred, before he'd weary of his sport and veer for the sea.

She lacked his craving for the heavens—cherished Silverwing, aye, took her aloft twice weekly to nurture their tie—but flight was a task she shouldered for need, not delight. Yet as Maelys and Dreamfyre carved arcs through the clouds, she couldn't begrudge him this rapture.

He spurred his mount into a corkscrew, wings shearing the wind, and unleashed a bellow of flame—orange and wild, a raw gust that licked the treetops below.

Next came a tighter jet, keen as a blade, slashing a charred streak across the soil.

A broad huff followed, faint and wide, a glimmering veil that dissolved swift, and then—after a lag that tested her patience—Dreamfyre loosed a fireball, sluggish to shape, rolling like a fallen star to smash a hollow in the earth.

Gael quirked a brow as Silverwing trailed, her pace a languid drift. "Strutting now, are we?" she murmured, the wind stealing her words.

Maelys was all revelry, his mind swallowed by the dance, and he waved Dreamfyre higher. Then came the white flame—rare, ferocious, a needle of fire that stabbed the ground with a shriek, melting rock to molten ruin and clawing a furrow deep enough to swallow a man whole.

Gael's heart skipped of fright. He'd whispered of that blaze once, late in their bedchamber, voice hushed and shadowed: "Stronger than the rest, lancing—hotter, purer. Drains her more, though..."

Those were grim words—darker yet with the shadow of days to come. Gael prayed their father would cling to that gnarled throne for years still, save her wondrous husband the title of kinslayer a few years longer.

Three hours had slipped by since they'd quit the pit—two in a gentle drift, one more lost to his capers—when Gael eased Silverwing down to a riverbank, a glade ringed by gnarled oaks, its earth unmarred by blade or furrow.

The she-dragon sank with a low growl, wings folding tight, and Gael slipped from the saddle, her boots pressing into damp moss. She stretched, leathers groaning at the seams, and settled beneath a tree… upon a flat stone that sat near the tumbling waters.

Her husband carried above, his dragon threading loops through the clouds, but she let him revel. The river sang soft and cold, and she peeled off her gloves, trailing her fingers through its chill current.

She savoured this—the stillness, and the air itself. It hung lighter here, freer than the gusts that swept King's Landing. Mayhap the sewers would wrest back this clean breath, unspoiled by rot. Though she doubted it would be so.

Still, she'd be gone by then, spirited off to their new lands with the handful of companions she'd have gathered. Her parley with Lady Fossoway had all but promised it—the woman keen to tether her second girl to Gael's side, a lure for finer suitors to swarm.

Their talk hadn't been all of weddings and fellowship, nay—Lady Fossoway sought a sharper bargain, her house's prized ciders, grains, and leathers to be traded for fine textiles, rich dyes, and sole rights to a strain of their fiercest fyre wine in the Reach.

When Gael bent her husband's ear on it, he tweaked the terms scant—a twist of apple to the fyre wine and a distillery raised in their hold, bartered for a hefty yield of timber to shore up the principality.

Maelys had let slip he meant to pitch the North on a like deal—steady bushels of their crops for ironwood and other stout timbers. He'd set his heart on some tree with sweet sap, swearing it'd turn a fine trick in a spread of desserts, yet she knew such talk was a feint, a sweet lure to tug her gaze from what he truly craved of those frost-bitten barbarians.

Still, she lent her hand, lightening his load—a fair deed, she reckoned. The Fossoways strode off merrier, and she'd smoothed her own path into deeper webs of scheming.

She bent easy to such plots. From what she'd marked, the cider-house daughters carried keen minds and staunch loyalty too—traits Maelys prized above all, though she knew the highborn craved prestige and bloodlines over wits.

Smallfolk elevated to nobility gained little from foreign hands unless they tied their fates to ancient houses. Wiser yet was offering second or third sons of storied blood the chance to forge their own domains, cutting the tangles free entirely.

Gael would counsel her husband on this, urge him to ally with her ladies—those of her age, daughters of lords left with no sons to anchor them. She'd bind them to his men, forge them into a host, and mayhap resurrect her mother's legacy on the way.

Such thoughts drifted through her as the water lapped at her hand—court and its games, bargains struck in shadow, the oddity of their blood, and a future looming with little save peril.

A shadow slid across her, and she looked up—Dreamfyre settling at last, wings folding as Maelys leapt from her spine with a bark of laughter. He crossed to her, tugging off his helm, silver hair plastered dark with sweat, a tangled wreck of its once-neat braid.

"Gods, Gael, you ought to have ridden the wind with me," he said, blind to the snarl his hair had become.

"I saw it well enough from here," she replied, shifting aside as Dreamfyre lumbered to the river, gulping greedily. "You've grown deft with those twists, and Dreamfyre's swifter—stouter too."

He dropped beside her, easy as a hound, uncorking his waterskin and taking a long, thirsty pull. "You still wrestle with them, my aims?" he asked, voice carrying scarce a barb, eyes fixed east where the Velaryons sprawled in their gaudy halls.

She gave a nod.

"I don't fault you for it—truth be told, it's a comfort," he admitted. "I'd feared you'd turned thrall to my will, blind to my faults when I've sins enough for five men's lives." She was, in truth, thrall to a great deal of his whims. Maelys continued, "but this rejection, it eases me some."

She looked at him, that vacancy he nursed in his gaze. "Can you truly not think of a different way—less horrid than this you've chosen?"

Gael saw how it gnawed at him, twisting him into a knot of clashing truths despite the steel in his purpose.

He kept secret holdings in Flea Bottom, mean sprawls where he propped up maesters—men with chains forged in healing and a hunger to push the art further. There they carved into folk, worked blacker deeds on men and women, all to wrestle with ailments that plagued countless.

A handful of lives spilled for the gain of the many, he'd said.

"You mean Baelon's fate, I'd wager?" He swung his gaze to her, corking the waterskin as a frown crept over his brow.

She nodded, lips pressing tight into a seam. "You're still bent on sparing him."

She'd sooner he did, then cut loose from this snarl of plots and treachery, fleeing with her to some far-off shore where Westeros's folly couldn't chase them down. There they'd dwell in quiet splendour, steeped in all the ease and passion of romance and strife spun by bard's tale and singer's verse.

But what land might that be? Mossovy, perchance…

"Love turns us all to fools, my sweet," he admitted. "I don't pray for our brother's end, though it'd kindle the perfect spark for the chaos to usher us to peace and plenty. I'll save him if the gods allow, same as I'm striving for with our father."

So spoke the man honing his mount into a flawless slayer of dragons.

Gael knew his heart wasn't solely foul—it was a tangle of purpose. He saw the crown's whims as a rot, succession a dice game that left the realm teetering. His own sons, he'd sworn, would never scrabble through such mire. Law, he reckoned, should bind it—iron-clad, unshaken by a king's fancy…

He'd spoken those words as if there was naught but strife if his ideas failed to take form.

…yet words on parchment held no weight unless blood forged them true.

He'd stoke a war, he'd hinted once—rival heirs propped up like puppets, whispers sown to muddy the line, nobles set to claw at each other's throats.

Let the kingdom bleed, he'd whispered, till lords and smallfolk alike begged for a rule none could break. Baelon's life, their father's too, he'd save if he could—but not at the cost of a legacy filled with foolery and corruption.

It was a scheme laced with peril, yet he—they—shored it up by tilting the game their way. All the bonds they'd wrought, the smallfolk they'd tended, the merchants and craftsmen they'd propped up, and the Faith they'd swayed—still fond of their sister who'd poured herself into alms and sacrifice for others' sake—they'd be their when the chaos began in earnest.

Gael could at least take solace in that.

They tarried there another hour, her husband seizing the quiet to chase a dream he'd kept veiled from her till that moment. When they soared aloft again, her cheeks glowed rosy, her heart buoyed by soft stirrings, and her womb brimmed full.

They swept into Driftmark as the sun slid past its height, Dreamfyre's roar cleaving through the clamour of Spicetown below.

From her perch, Gael saw the town spill out like a vivid weave—docks thick with merchant galleys, sails snapping bright, unloading saffron and silks that gleamed in the light. The spice markets flared with golds and reds, the tang of cinnamon and pepper riding the salt breeze, while vendors bawled over pomegranates and herb barrels beneath striped cloth.

Smiths' hammers rang sharp against the grind of millstones, shaping steel and spice alike. Vines trailed from balconies, citrus peels drying in the sun, and beyond, golden domes crowned the rich quarters.

It had swelled since she last laid eyes on it, this young town now plump as some ancient hold of storied lords. And those ships—scores of them, crammed with folk of every root and purpose.

The people stilled and craned their necks as Dreamfyre and Silverwing swept low, and though Gael couldn't catch their faces, she fancied a ripple of thrill stirred among them.

Further up, High Tide loomed apart, perched on a jagged spur of limestone cliffs, hewn by centuries of crashing waves into a fortress no foe could scale from the water.

A thin ridge stitched them together, a spine of high ground twisting down from the castle's roots to the port's edge.

They swung upward toward the new keep, then dipped low, easing their dragons onto a wide ledge gouged into the cliffside. Three keepers in salt-crusted robes stood ready, and ushered the beasts elsewhere once they dismounted.

Gael was grateful to be on solid earth.

…servants hastened forward, gesturing them toward the main gates.

"Didn't reckon they'd turn our landing into a ceremony," Maelys muttered beside her, slipping his sword to a guard at his right with a deft hand. "Look, the whole brood's turned out."

Gael saw, impressed—thrilled. Before them stretched a welcome host—two dozen strong—knights in seahorse-emblazoned mail, servants in crisp tunics of green and white, and at their head, the Velaryons themselves.

The Lord of Driftmark loomed tall and wide as a galley's bow, his skin darkened by years at sea, silver hair clipped short under a band of gnarled coral. His eyes sat heavy, proud, though faint lines of weariness etched their corners.

Gael harbored no fondness for the man, and it wasn't just her mother's scorn she'd inherited. Nay, she laid much of the family's present rift at his feet—had he not lured Rhaenys to his bed, this fracture might never have split them so.

At his side stood Rhaenys, their niece by kin and lady by vow, marked by Targaryen blood—violet eyes glossed under a fall of dark silky hair, her frame having thickened some, draped in sea-green silk cut with black.

Motherhood had calmed her, it seemed—her expression less fierce and shoulders less stiff…

It suited her better, Gael reckoned. Too often women withered under rule's hard yoke. Rhea Royce stood a grim proof—chill, rigid, forever chasing the nod of lords who smirked and jeered behind her back.

…her eyes dipped to the white-haired children. Laena clung to her mother's side, violet gaze tracing their leathers with plain wonder. She'd sprouted some, this girl, though Gael felt a prick of unease at how she echoed Saera. Still, she cherished her.

Across stood Laenor, close in age to Viserra's Jae. She wished they'd grow thick as kin, these two—mayhap one fostered in the other's keep. But Corlys would never bend to it, his hunger for the crown still raw. Whispers held that his rift with Baelon sprang from spurning Laenor as squire to Viserys when the time had ripened.

They drew near, and the Sea Snake tipped his head in a shallow gesture, echoed by the welcome host—all but Rhaenys and the children, who scarce knew the dance.

"Prince Maelys, Princess Gael," his voice rumbled like breakers on stone, "you grace my hall with your coming. May your stay prove fair and fruitful."

A smile tugged at Gael's lips unbidden, though it was Maelys who waded into the courtesies. "I hope so, my Lord of Driftmark," her husband affirmed, his grin a mask she knew none could easily pierce for truth or guile, "though with what I've seen, I'd wager it's no hard feat to enjoy this place. You've carved out quite a hold here."

Rhaenys nudged a servant forward, the tray bearing bread, salt, and a chalice of wine glinting in the sea light.

"Share in guest right and find full welcome in our halls," the dark-haired princess said, her voice lifted by Maelys's bright manner, while Corlys remained untouched by it.

They partook, salt and bread sharp on her lips, the wine's spice coiling over the tongue. She pulled Rhaenys close, then the children, her arms folding them in with honest warmth. A year had passed since she'd last stood here, on this isle now the envy of many at court.

The greetings faded, and servants led them to their quarters, where she and Maelys washed the flight's grit away before trading murmurs with the sparse yet plump nobles of Velaryon's hall. More highborn should've thronged—envoys from every great house in Westeros—but few, it seemed, dared risk her father's wrath.

Yet she favoured this thinner throng over the Red Keep's crush—here the courtiers smiled freer, their hands open with kindness. Many were lesser houses, fattened by the Sea Snake's largesse.

So it was that Gael found herself laden with gifts before the feast in their honour even sparked.

"A veil of Myrish lace, fine enough to thread a maiden's ring. May it crown your grace, Your Highness, though Myrish craft falls shy of your own."

"A perfume from Asshai, steeped in shade and spice. They say it holds the night's own breath. May it cloak Your Highness in its riddle."

"Fruits plucked from the world's ends, dried and sugared, to sweeten your hours as you brighten those near you."

"A tome clad in dragonhide, its gold ink whispering of Valyria's lost days. Knowledge time forgot, now yours, Princess."

"Cheeses ripened in deep vaults, thick with their native savour. A humble offering for a princess whose step gilds any hall."

Victuals, gems, cloths, and sundry wares piled high—enough to swell three ships with just the wines, spices, and grains. Gael thought to shunt the surplus to Havenhall. The folk there'd welcome it, provided no pilfering thinned the haul.

"You've gathered some open-handed lords here, Rhaenys. I've not been heaped with such fine gifts—and so few knots tied to them," she admitted as they stepped from the hall into the cool evening breeze.

"Gifts always trail strings, Gael," Rhaenys said, shaking her head though a smile curved her lips. She'd donned finer garb than any, and it showed. "Still, plenty can loosen a fist, I reckon. And it's not every day a great lord—let alone crown kin—sets foot on Driftmark for a proper call."

The veiled jab scarce drew a flicker from her. She allowed that the rift might've stunted the Velaryons' climb a touch, but this vassal house had swelled too mighty already—letting them rise higher would've been madness.

Her husband saw it otherwise. He deemed it a wound to the realm entire when growth was choked by those who'd smother rivals rather than meet them stride for stride.

Still, it was quite a surprise for Rhaenys to admit that scandals have been happening aplenty here.

"Secret dealings, then?" Gael asked, her voice soft.

Her answer was a dry look and an unspoken warning.

She eased past that awkwardness by feigning no acknowledgement of her prior question. "Perchance the years ahead might shift it." It wouldn't. The Velaryons weren't barred from the royal court, after all. "Still, I'm thankful for the gifts. Would that I'd known a feast was brewing, though."

She might've prepared greater gifts then.

"I'd wager you should've foreseen it, but I know you chafe at scheming," Rhaenys said, gazing past the balcony, her gown dancing to the breeze. "This is a modest rite to cheer your husband's rise. Kept small, mind you—Maelys has scant taste for fanfare."

Aye, he did, and Gael reckoned this was bound to come to pass in time.

They spoke on, the pair of them, of kin and holdings. The Winter Princess dangled a thread of alliance with the principality once it took root with folk, and Rhaenys let slip how their push for mainland lands was faring.

"Slow going," the dark-haired princess admitted, a faint crease of frustration crossing her face, "but it's coming."

Maelys had urged the Velaryons to stretch their grasp so, though many lords balked at swapping soil for trade's glitter—fools, a lot of them.

"Is that why you've come, to grant us a slice of your new lands?" Rhaenys questioned, though it was obvious to see that the curiosity was absent. "It'd turn a tidy profit, no doubt."

Gael spied the gain in it sharp enough, but she caught the glint in Rhaenys's eye—the old princess was fishing, probing for something beneath the surface. She knew, or near enough, why they'd truly landed here.

"I came for you and the little ones, truth be shared" Gael said, keeping her tone easy, "and I'd wager Maelys isn't here to dangle holdings."

They scarce wanted for coin, stores, or paths to tread. This was Maelys's favouritism—scheming, most like—at play. Their father could loose as many ships as they'd take, and no debt would bind it—Havenhall's rise owed naught to the crown's purse.

There was a slant to Maelys's game, though Gael harbored no itch to unravel it.

The feast was summoned, a spread lavish beyond its modest name. Long tables stretched the hall, laden with sea's spoils—spiced crab, lobster slick with butter, and whole fish roasted golden, wreathed in citrus and herbs. Silver goblets glinted in the candle glow, brimming with wine black as the abyss.

Gael often matched Maelys's distaste for water's flesh, but this night her hunger swelled ravenous. They supped amid strains of music and soft murmurs, Maelys nudging her from the wine with a quiet word—wanting her sharp for tomorrow's talks.

It availed little. She woke sour and queasy come morn, vowing to shun sea fare, only to meet Maelys's bright laughter and a vigour in him she couldn't place.

"Rest longer, love," he said, pressing a warm hand to her brow. "I'll manage the talks fine. Steer clear of sea bounty and wine, though—I'll have the cooks whip up something gentler to ease you."

"I hate to spoil your hopes so, my love," she muttered from beneath the furs, irritation prickling at his easy air after he'd hoped for her to stand with him in the talks.

"Come, love, it's naught," he assured, leaning close with a grin. "Your health trumps it all—focus there. And you might spy a box of chocolates in your quarters." He winked.

"Stop coddling me like some babe," Gael huffed, cheeks puffing, though the promise of those sweets stirred a quiet eager in her.

Maelys dropped a quick kiss on her cheek and strode from the guest chambers, his eager step tangling the usual smoothness of his stride.

The Saint : A continuation of Gael's POV—a sky trip and whatnot. One thing that's always bothered me about dragon riders is how exactly they deal with the brutal air resistance. There's no way a person could survive that level of force for long. What do you guys think—should this be a point of interest?

Tell me what you think.

Chapter Text

Corlys Velaryon slumped in his chair, hacking at a roast capon with a silver knife that caught the dawn's thin spill. He chewed slow, jaw grinding, thoughts festering like damp rot. His eyes flicked to the empty seats—two fine hulks, sea-green velvet patched with dust. The quiet scraped at him.

Across the table, Rhaenys picked at an orange, peeling it with steady fingers, rind dropping in tight curls by her plate. She sucked a wedge, lips twitching at the sour sting, her gaze locked on her hands with a faint, soft smile. She let the silence sit, patient to it.

"They're late," Corlys growled, knife clattering on the porcelain as he tossed it down. He scrubbed his hands with a rag, rough enough to redden the skin, and leaned back, the chair creaking under him. His fingers drummed the table—once, twice—a tic from storm-lashed decks. "We set a time for this."

Rhaenys met his glare, her gaze cool. She rolled the wedge between her knuckles, careless-like. "A prince and his bride, fresh to the marital bed," she muttered, voice a low rasp. "I doubt it's spite keeping them."

Corlys gave no whit for the why of it, nor his wife's smooth-tongued reasons. He'd sooner be shut of the prince's newest whim than let some half-sworn vow hang over him like a storm cloud.

"It's a matter of courtesy and honour," Corlys rumbled, voice thick with grit. He slid a hard look toward the doors, his scowl digging deeper. "A man's word should hold weight, not bend like reeds."

"How noble of you," Rhaenys replied, a flicker of real mirth painting her tone. She tilted the oyster shell to her lips, downing the slick meat in one smooth swallow, her eyes never leaving him. "But spare the gallantry, husband. It's not their tardiness gnawing at your patience—it's something meaner, and you'd do well to own it."

Aye, it was so, though Corlys cared little for his wife's keen eye or her prodding tongue naming it plain. Truth gnawed at him—he hadn't a damn clue why the prince had dragged himself here. Suspicions crawled in his gut, some skittish and small, others bold and black as tar, but none with meat enough to grip.

Debts never rested light on him, gnawing like salt in a fresh cut.

The prince's counsel had seemed a trifling thing at first, a whisper of words brushed off easy. Copper sheathing—hells, he'd near laughed at the notion, a madman's fancy. But once he'd set it to the hulls, the truth hit hard: ships cutting waves like knives, barnacles be damned. Revolutionary, aye, and he'd been a blind fool not to see it sooner.

Now the sharp-edged prince was slinking back, come to call that debt due—Corlys could feel it, a prickle deep in his marrow. Only hitch was, the Sea Snake hadn't a guess how steep a price the boy would carve from him.

"I'd wager it's queer you're not stewing with me," he said, fishing a wine glass toward him with a lean hand, his eyes slitting tight on his wife. "Or do you reckon the prince won't upend one of our calls with a single crooked word?"

Rhaenys snorted sharp. "Your petty call, you mean," she shot back, her face a mask, not a twitch to betray her. "And why do you growl it like you've no spine to shove back if his ask rubs you raw?"

Truth was, he hadn't the room to balk, not without souring the thin thread of trust and good blood he'd won from the prince. That boy's counsel had spared him a fat purse of coin, and Corlys knew he'd be wise to keep it sharp in mind—he'd cough up what was asked, or weigh the cost if the demand tipped too far.

And the lad held sway now—no mere coin-grubbing prince anymore. Corlys figured he could knead him a bit, slip some words to bind his son to that lackwit prince's girl and his Laena to the Rogue Prince.

And, if the gods spared a scrap of favour for his line, such would be enough to see his blood atop that thrice-damned throne within the decade.

But he didn't spit that to his wife. Nay, he snatched at her words instead, the ones hinting the prince might come with some wild, grasping want. She'd never had a nose for cold-eyed doubt, not when it came to those she clutched close.

"What do you figure he'll want from us, then?" Corlys muttered, slumping back, the question more a shove at the unease gnawing his gut than any real hunger to know.

"A trade pact, like as not."

Plausible, aye, and better still since he could meet that ask without breaking a sweat. Yet Corlys doubted it'd be so simple. The crown's ships might be few, but they'd suffice for the prince's voyages—especially when the lad's trade clung tighter to the mainland than the open sea.

Nay, his gut whispered the prince was after coin—raw wealth to sink into those scraps of land he'd been handed. Or maybe artisans and shipwrights, for there'd surely be a port rising there, and the lad might fancy aping the Sea Snake's own game.

It'd sting him some if the lad turned rival, carving out his own slice of the sea, but Corlys had scant means to choke it off.

"Think he's just the king's tongue now?" he ventured, a hand rasping over his shaved jaw. "Old man's got a fresh gust in his sails these days, hasn't he?"

The sewers, the tightening of the cloaks, a flurry of decrees, and the prince's rise—all spilling from the old king's hand. Pity every sharp mind knew Maelys drove the sewer works, else Viserys might've reaped more clout and cheers for it.

Rhaenys's brow pinched, a thin furrow cracking her smooth mask—proof she hadn't weighed the odds as he had. He knew she still harboured an ember of hate for the old king, smoldering deep—took his shoving her from the succession as a slap to her worth, a wound that never scabbed over.

Corlys had let that rage gutter out long ago. Nay, he'd sussed the cold sense in the old man's choices, grasped them, even gave a grudging nod to their steel. Didn't mean he savoured the taste of them, though.

"Maelys isn't the sort to wittingly dance on another's string," she said, a certainty in her tone, "not for some low, craven game like this."

Corlys begged to differ—differed fierce, in truth. The prince had a mind too old for his skin, honed sharp as a flensing knife, and Corlys would bet good gold every move the lad made was weighed thrice over, especially the big ones.

That's why he'd dragged his feet on swallowing the boy's counsel whole—too much cunning in it to trust blind.

They fell into a heavy hush, the clink of knife and plate fading to naught. The Sea Snake seized the quiet, letting his focus drift from the looming talks with the prince.

His mind snagged on thoughts from the east—merchants bleating about pirate blades cutting too close to their hulls. More than the usual roving scum, they swore, and all tied to that bastard Craghas Drahar. The Crabfeeder, he was demanding tolls steep as cliffs from any fool who sought passage through the routes that cut close to the Stepstones.

Corlys had seen this storm brewing years back, a shadow on the horizon he'd marked plain. Honour from Essos? A fool's dream, that—those dogs would slit their own kin for a handful of silver, let alone keep faith with Westeros.

He gnawed on that thought, the old ash of spite sparking hot. He'd bent the king's ear over it once, back when he still had a perch on the council. But nay, the old man just sat there, rooted to that jagged throne, letting those Triarchy dogs swagger and prance. It'd chafed him raw then—still did, a thorn festering. All that coin, bled away to those slaver whoresons.

Why hadn't the old man smashed those islands flat, or at least humbled those sneering bastard daughters of Valyria? A fleet or two, a few pyres—done and dusted.

He drove the knife into the capon again, steel biting deep, and let his thoughts wander jagged paths. These were the barbs he'd have torn out, root and all, if he'd ever sat consort at Rhaenys's side. No weak-kneed stalling, no mincing steps—he'd have forged the crown's grip iron-hard.

Dornish snakes with their venom-dipped steel and twisted lords? Burned to cinders. The Stepstones, that oozing wound? Scraped raw, seahorse banners choking the life from every pirate den.

Westeros would stand taller, freer—cut loose from Essos's grasping paws, its trade bleeding gold into the realm's own veins.

Prosperity—not this limping peace the king nursed, letting foes nibble at the edges. Corlys could see it clear as a noon tide: ports thick with hulls, coffers groaning, the smallfolk fattened on work instead of scraps.

All the things he'd have forged, if the old man hadn't shoved Rhaenys aside and left him to stew on Driftmark. His jaw tightened, the meat turning to grit in his mouth.

That chance was—

The doors groaned wide, and Maelys strode in, boots striking the stone with a sharp, steady rap. His indigo cloak swayed, silver thread glinting at the edges in the dawn's weak spill. A dragon-claw clasp, clutching a fat pearl, pinned it tight at his throat. White hair, slick with sea mist, fell free, and his grey eyes raked the room fast.

"Forgive the delay," the boy offered by way of greeting. The Sea Snake clocked the prince standing lone as the doors thudded shut behind him, no bride in tow. "Some unlooked-for snag clawed up more of my morning than it had any right to."

A wisp of mirth flickered in the prince's tone, faint as a dying ember, but it gave up little else. Strange, that. Rhaenys seemed blind to it, though—a sly twist tugged her lips, mischief brewing there.

"I'd wager that twist's tied to Gael's absence?" His wife said, masking a rare grin behind her words. "Take a seat."

"Aye," Maelys replied, easing into the chair with a touch of care. "Though it's not the sinful notions you're cradling—it's simpler. She woke sour in the gut. You'd think you'd ken me well enough by now, Rhaenys, to know I'd not ditch this meet for some idle romp."

Queer that the prince figured they'd sniff out his purpose plain, without him spilling it. Damned odd, that.

Rhaenys let her shoulders lift in a rare, loose shrug, her calm mood spilling out plain as day. "Time turns friends to strangers, or so the saying runs—your saying, unless I've muddled it, Maelys. Still, here's hoping Gael mends quick."

"Quite," Corlys sliced through the chatter before it could thin long. "But I reckon we'd best not dawdle on small talk and hack into the guts of it, yes?"

"Seems so, Lord Velaryon," Maelys said, locking eyes with a smooth, easy grin. "Though first, let me tip my thanks for that ball you threw in my name—rare as honest men in these parts."

The Sea Snake reckoned it a fine theft of a custom, seeing as the isles lacked the sprawl and throngs to warrant a snap tourney without months of sweat beforehand. This little rite carried its own weight, a sharp kind of sheen all its own.

Knowing the prince took to it warmed him some, though Corlys buried that spark of ease deep, cloaking it under a stony face and giving a curt nod instead.

"Truth be told, I didn't ride here with one lone ask, but a fistful," the boy confessed, his violet eyes darting quick to the spread of meats and the wines nestled close.

He continued, "still, I've got a chief want, and I'll lay it bare. I need your ships to ferry folk, men and women both, and goods from my storehouses scattered across the realm. A year's work, that, and when it's done true, I'll hand you a game-changer of a trinket and a clutch of ship designs to call your own."

The Lord of Driftmark cocked a lone brow, a flicker of mirth tugging at him. This wasn't a gut-punch of a demand, not truly, so long as they hashed out a fair tally of ships to bind to it—plenty sat idle in his docks. Nay, what tickled him was the bait dangled after: rewards, a leash plain as day if he ever saw one.

Still, that didn't mean he'd spit on the deal—couldn't, not clean. Plenty of sea-dogs out there'd leap to haul for a fat coffer or a trade pact. The lad picking him showed some trust, favour-debt aside.

The ploy was bare as bones. The lad knew he'd sniff it out, and likely reckoned Corlys'd know he knew it too—a tangled knot of wits that left naught but to play out this mummer's farce.

"And what's this trinket, then?" Corlys asked.

Maelys dipped a hand into his cloak, fingers fishing deliberate, and drew out a prize—an item, wrought from ironwood and gold, its surface etched with swirling patterns that whispered of the steel of the freehold, if a man trusted his eyes. Atop it, the seahorse of House Velaryon reared proud, carved deep into the casing, glinting faint in the dawn's spill.

Then the boy flicked it open with a soft click, revealing its guts. The face gleamed, a disc of polished obsidian, smooth as a still sea, with fine silver runes etched at the edges—north, south, east, west—each glinting like a blade's edge. A needle, thin as a whisper and red as blood, hovered steady, trembling only a hair as it locked true.

"A Pathor, I've dubbed it," Maelys said, voice low with a hint of pride, "a better name than what those maesters had thought for it…"

The prince slid it across the table, and Corlys took it up, turning it in his hands. He gave it a long, hard stare, the craftsmanship dazzling at first, but it took a stretch of breaths for the weight of it to sink past the shine and settle true in his skull.

He hoisted himself from his seat, stalking the room slow, eyes riveted to the item. His heart thumped wild in his chest and a quiver sparked in his arms. He pivoted, and the needle swung with him. The cardinal runes held firm, the "N" jutting sharp and true toward the North, just as he knew it lay.

"What is it, husband?"

Corlys half-turned to Rhaenys, eyes elsewhere, lost in the churn of his skull. He shoved the trinket her way all the same, mind clawing at the chances this thing cracked open—new veins of wealth, sure as salt, if the boy could churn them out like shipyard planks.

"Is this some witch-work, Maelys?" His wife asked with a touch of… something in her voice. Disbelief, most like. "This what had you scampering through Essos like a whipped cur a year gone?"

The lad twitched, hand stalled mid-reach for a pastry. Corlys didn't flinch at Rhaenys' jab—her game was plain as a tide chart. He chewed on it, sour, wondering again if she'd truly let the years blind her to the growth of her younger kin.

Maelys, bless the lad, didn't bristle, his face easing gentle. "No witchery here, though I see the mistake." His eyes flicked to Corlys, holding a breath, then pressed on. "But stow the loose talk of sorcery—won't get you near the guts of how this Pathor ticks."

The lad's brag stoked a itch in him to chuck the trinket to his crew—let them gut it, see if they could hammer out a twin. But then the ghost of those piss-poor fountain pens crept up, botched copies of the prince's craft that'd sloshed around years back.

Darklyn was a right fool.

"How many you got stashed for this pact?" Corlys kept his eyes locked on the haul. "And why us, eh? Plenty of sea-dogs and coin-grubbers among the lords—Hightower'd snatch this up right quick."

That wasn't the true cut of it—what gnawed at him was whether the king had blessed this scheme, or if Maelys was playing at Daemon's swagger. His house groaned fat with gold and sway, aye, but the cold grudge simmering between them and the crown stung deeper than it did the throne—and any wider rift would spell rot for the Velaryons.

"A hundred, give or take, plus some tricks to sharpen the helm's eye," the prince said. "And blood's why I'm here—this haul's fit to split with kin before strangers."

Plenty lurked unsaid in that, a sly twig of peace half-buried. Corlys caught Rhaenys' gaze, a quick, wordless parley flashing between them.

"That's scarce enough," the lord told, easing back into his chair, bones settling heavy. "Why not carve a pact for more down the line while we're at it?"

His coffers ran deep—coin wasn't the hitch. This was the whole damn sea bent to his will, served up on a silver tray.

"Make an offer."

"Five years, ours alone—like those ceramic plates." Rhaenys laid it out. "Ask what you will, and we'll stitch a deal that fattens both our hides in time."

Maelys shook his head. "Nay, there's little I crave from you, and the scrap I do, you'd not stomach easy." The want hung plain. "Trim that greed down some, and I might bite without clawing much back."

"Workers, then—fed and funded—to drag out to your fresh dirt and prop up the works. I'll toss in shipwrights to kick your hulls along." Corlys pitched the bargain he'd mulled not an hour past. "All that for first grab and a cut price on the lot, same stretch of years."

The prince let out a gust, sharp and weary. "That's the same meat, just carved different. How's this—I'll toss a new bone?"

"What's your cut?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Same deal, numbers to be scratched out later. I'll crack Essos' trade open for you, ten years' worth, and in trade, I want a vow—inked on parchment, thrice copied." The lad stilled, breath held a beat. "I'm bound for Essos in five years' turn. A scrap with the Dothraki—some of them, leastwise. Swear House Velaryon'll back me when the hour strikes."

Shoving aside the lunacy of crossing blades with those horse-rutting wildlings, it was a hefty demand. The coin would gush like a slit throat, and the men, the greasy handshakes with those slaver dens—fuck, Corlys despised the lot of them, but their weight in this wasn't chaff to sneeze at.

"That's a steep haul and daft to boot, Maelys. What's rattling in your skull to think brawling in the Free Cities—let alone with the Dothraki—isn't a fool's errand?" Rhaenys' face was all creased.

"A fair question, but chances strike when you're half-blind to them. I was in Myr, jawing with merchants and magisters, when a Dothraki pack—Khalasar Hozar, reckon—came howling down. The coin-grubbers tried to grease the savages off, but I threw them a better deal: dragonfire to scour the filth."

Corlys frowned but held his tongue.

Maelys pressed on, "This isn't a bard's yarn of guts or swagger, nor a sly threat, so I'll skip the blood and blaze. When I'd roasted the horse-humping dogs and their loot was scraped up, they handed me three Valyrian-forged trinkets—a spear, a helm, a wristband—stripped from the charred corpses of the outriders. Got me thinking: if that's the take from a scrappy band, what's waiting in their cursed strongholds?"

The prince edged closer, voice soft as a breeze, like he wasn't scheming to gut a whole people. "I trust you smell the wind I'm blowing, my Lord of Driftmark."

Corlys tilted his head, not quite doubting, but probing. "You reckon you can break the Dothraki?"

"With Daemon, aye, I could—but that'd torch the poor sods chained by those wild-men. Nay, I need a Westerosi host, and ships to haul them. I'm handing you a seat at the helm of this war I'm brewing—good favour, fat coffers, and a taller shadow for your house."

Corlys' brow knotted, sifting the prince's words. This looked a gift, aye, but it could twist to a command if Maelys turned spiteful and cunning.

Say he balked—Maelys might whisper through the Faith and the highborn that he, the Sea Snake, spurned a chance to flay a hated scourge. The lad could spin it holy, a crusade, piling weight on the deed until it crushed.

House Velaryon would bleed clout and sway if he turned it down. The others—Redwynes, say—wouldn't need a nudge to leap at the chance, swords out, especially with dragons snarling at the van.

That sucked the marrow from his mirth. This wasn't a plea—it was a yoke, or damn near could be.

He pinned the lad with a slit-eyed glare, jaw grinding slow. Inked oaths weren't the sort you could just shrug off. "I'll want more iron in this vow."

Rhaenys shot him a look, but he let it slide off. She didn't clock it—didn't see how the whelp was working them like a tide. Or maybe Corlys' own mistrust was fouling him, blinding him to a gift with no barbs? Nay, didn't matter—this wasn't a throw they could dodge if the prince was dead-set on the haul.

Maelys dipped his head, like there was still haggling to be had. There bloody wasn't, and the pair of them damn well knew it.

The Saint: Corlys is a bit hard to write, but I gave it my best. I'm trying to go for internal views vs external views, make it so individuals are more understandable or relatable when the perspective is theirs.

What do you guys think?

AO3 is enforcing some strict no affiliated links.

Chapter Text

Tobyn was a right muttonhead, luck so sour it would curdle milk. Come from a piss-poor patch of dirt west of the Vale, scrabbling under them fancy Templeton lot. Lad of six and ten winters, he up and scarpered, dreaming of big doings in Gulltown.

Big old train of traders and ragtag folk come tramping through, and he flogged two of his folk's five goats quick-like. Got ten stags for them—bloody robbery, he knew now that he could tally past his thumbs.

When he got there, he was a filthy beggar, coin all gone to dice and some farmer lass who'd spread her legs for any sod with a couple coppers. Running home to the village'd mean his old man'd have his nuts for such daft buggery. So he mucked about Gulltown's streets for moons, till he landed a gig scraping decks. Clever trick, that—scraping free for whoever'd pay.

That work put a few silvers in his pocket—whatever he didn't piss away on whores or lose chucking dice.

After a year and a thrashing from some peddler—on account of Tobyn bedding the man's daughter—he set off for King's Landing, dead sure he'd strike it rich there.

Paid his way with a dozen coppers and a dull sword he'd nabbed from a drunken blackguard. He bashed the hilt something fierce, mind, so it wouldn't look a lick like them half-arsed blades Lord Grafton handed his bent guards.

It was half a moon's sail from the Vale to the king's city, but it dragged like a damn year. The captain and his lads worked him like a whipped dog, tossed him scraps to eat, and he'd shake till dawn under the skimpiest rag of linen to keep the chill off. Proper bastards, that crew, and Tobyn couldn't do a thing to stop them.

He was glad as hell when he finally hit King's Landing—place stank like a cheap whore's cunt. He'd been dead sure them sailors were fixing to sell him off to some slaving scum in Essos.

He scarpered fast—before them sails were even roped down good.

Took a sennight for him to turn beggar again, but things weren't so bad in King's Landing, shit stink and all. The twin royals liked chucking grub to them sorry lot, and dangled jobs for extra bites. Plenty of folk spat on them offers, but Tobyn was missing one shoe, his rags barely clung on, and he was one gust from keeling over.

The prince had seen them himself, Maelys Targaryen, he'd learned later. First time he clapped eyes on a noble up close, never mind one who looked like he'd strolled out a lass's daft dream. The royal had his lads count them proper, herded them to some fresh corner of the city, and handed out real rooms to crash in and decent rags to cover their bones.

Six moons they stuck there, learning to scribble, read, and tally numbers. They showed how to slap together stuff with some cursed stone, shape wood, hammer metal—a bit of it, anyhow—and fix damn near everything. It was pure hell, and the pay was a bloody insult, one silver and eighteen coppers a sennight—daylight thievery, that.

Still, no sod had the guts to thumb his nose at the prince—plus the grub was decent and the rags came free. Took Tobyn a spell to figure it proper, that the coin they got wasn't what kept them breathing.

After them moons, he got two paths laid out: shove off and hunt work elsewhere—he knew his sums and could work wood slick—or take a job under the prince. Pay'd still be dogshit, but the perks'd be fatter.

Tobyn would've grabbed the first choice, scratched it out in the city with them fresh tricks he'd learned—tucked under his new belt, not that rope he'd nicked off the fishmonger. But then he crunched the sums and had a yap with his mate Corren.

"It's a right rotten scheme, Tob. Them crafty bastards'd cheat you blind on proper coin, and if you did land a fat purse, the innkeepers, whores, tailors, and merchants'd bleed you dry with their damn prices," the older lad laid out. "And the prince's lot'll snatch back your gear—you'd be stuck with them piss-stinking rags again."

"I knew that half-arsed, maiden-faced prick of a prince was up to some filthy game—he grins too bloody wide for it to be honest," Tobyn roared, only half meaning it.

Corren whacked him square on the noggin with a wooden mug. "Watch your gob, you thick-headed fool. You'd get your guts sliced open if one of them Essos dogs heard you slag off the prince—more loyalty than brains in that lot."

Tobyn knew them sorts, so he shut his trap. Him and Corren guzzled ale till he pissed his breeches—damn fine brew here in the king's city.

When the time came, he picked to stay, and his mate did too. He got lumped with builder work—messing with that quick stone—though he tinkered with wood on the side for a few extra coppers.

Corren turned guardsman, keeping watch over the prince's piles—stores, caravans, farms, orchards, vineyards, distilleries, and them "factories". But Corren was fast to moan it was just a heap of standing about.

Tobyn wished his job was that easy, but it was all sweat and grief. Always something to slap together, and the prince's crew were picky as hell—nothing ever went astray.

Still, it wasn't all graft. They got breaks, twice in a sennight they'd flop about in them new inns the prince fixed up near the Street of Silk—right by them pricey whores. Good fun, that. He'd duck in once a moon, splash out some of that heavy coin he had sitting about.

It rolled on like that for two years—nabbed himself a decent lass in that stretch, some girl from Rosby who'd bolted her uncle's bed after the Stranger snatched her folks. She was headed for the brothels, set to flog her maidenhead for a plump sack of coin.

Princess Gael snagged her first, handed her a softer gig in the kitchens.

For that kind turn, Tobyn swore off choking his cock to the thought of the princess's fat tits bouncing around.

Then the twins' wedding rolled in, and his rotten luck stuck its ugly mug up again. Nobles swarmed the big to-do, most hailing from his old stomping grounds 'cause Prince Maelys torched some mountain rabble during the paramount's scrap with the true bastards. Smashed one of them big clans flat, he'd heard, though Tobyn reckoned Templeton would've dragged him into the muck if he'd been around for that whole bloody mess.

Aye, the Warrior must've been humping the Maiden while his mam was shitting him out, 'cause Tobyn hadn't a scrap of fighting knack in his bones. Them mountain folk would've slit him open fast as spit.

One of them highborn guests was a Templeton, from the lesser kin squatting near his old stomping ground. He clocked them when they trundled in, hauling a swarm of smallfolk and peddlers. Mixed in there was his uncle—the cuckolded old prick—with his "daughter" and lad in tow.

Anthon nabbed him fast—that sharp-eyed bastard. Had him slammed up against an alley wall in a couple breaths, his old man hulking close behind.

"You little thieving shit of a whore, where are they? Where's my fucking goats?!" Uncle Jorren bellowed, red-faced. "Your craven father reckoned some mountain scum snatched you, but I wasn't fooled. Them wild folk would've slit you open and took all my goats. I know you flogged 'em, you proper cunt."

Tobyn had been damn near shitting himself with fear, but he still tried to wriggle free of his lunatic cousin's blade. "Th—they're gone, uncle, but I'll—"

A hot sting cracked across his cheek, eyes all blurry and wobbling.

"Wrong words, you gutless mutt," Anthon cackled sour. "We're hauling your sorry arse to Lord Jorah's tent, spilling the whole tale—how you and your twat of a father cooked up a plan to flog the village's goats and scarper with the coin."

The scheme was bloody stupid, but when he flicked a glance at his uncle, he caught him eyeballing Jenna, and Tobyn twigged the sly game afoot. Jorren was fixing to whore the girl to Lord Jorah so the half-baked story'd hold water.

He got thumped again, and that bash scattered his brains.

When he blinked awake, he was dumped in one of them rooms for folk all battered or sick as dogs. He'd landed here once before, after a mad tussle in a tavern. Corren loomed big over him, brows scrunched tight, lips drooping sour.

"I saw you getting lugged off by two sods what looked damn near your kin. I nabbed 'em and yelled for Captain Lem," his mate growled. "It's a proper shit-storm now—something 'bout nicking goats and all that muck. They hauled in the maesters, the overseers, the whole bloody crew—it's a right tangle out there, Tob. Why'd you have to cock it up this bad?"

He damn near croaked right there, so he spewed it all to his mate. All the thieving—goats and that sword—and the near endless string of bastards he reckoned he'd planted in them sad whores down Flea Bottom. Corren smashed a fist into his left eye for that.

"You ain't got no bastards, thank the Seven, but you might get shunned for all this shit," his mate snapped. A pouch of coin landed in his lap. "If it all goes rotten, take this and build a life with that lass of yours—stay straight, do good. No more whoring and boozing till you're pissing your breeches."

When the day followed, Tobyn got hauled in, plonked down before his overseer Gorm, some fancy folk, his snarling uncle Jorren, and Lord Jorah's helper, Ser Pate. Jorren raged about the goats, waving a crumpled tally, and Tobyn owned it—aye, he'd nicked 'em and sold 'em off. The sword he'd pinched from that drunk guard came up too, no dodging that.

One of the fancy folk squinted, then laid it out flat. "You're one of the first of the prince's man, Tobyn—goat-thief or not. You'll cough up seven gold dragons to your kin, slow-like, and three years' tax coin to Lord Templeton. That stolen blade? You're buying a dozen proper ones for Lord Grafton—call it sorry. Keep your nose clean, or next time you're proper fucked."

Jorren grumbled but took the deal. Gorm just glared, and the fancy lot shuffled off. Tobyn's arse stayed unwhipped, but his purse'd be bleeding for years.

Eyla whacked him hard, left his cheek blazing when she heard the mess, but she dug out some coin she'd stashed so his debt wouldn't eat his work pay. He was wedding the lass. They got to yapping about his kin, and he spilled it straight. Aye, he was a right bastard, but his family weren't no saints neither.

His old man was a boozy wreck, rutting his brother's wife three times a moon—Jenna was his half-sister, Tobyn knew it plain. Didn't mean he cared a lick for her. His brothers were mostly arseholes, and his mam up and died pushing him out. Uncle was a cuckolded shit, and his cousin Anthon scared the piss out of him.

He copped another smack from Eyla for not aiding Jenna—he weren't no bloody knight, damn it all. Still dug out some silver for the girl, and Eyla sorted her some decent work in the city. Tobyn reckoned their lots weren't much different.

The twins' wedding went off, big tourney and all. He chucked some coin on bets, came up fat, but shoveled most of it to Corren—his mate had a babe on the way. Time dragged on, and Tobyn stayed straight, wedded Eyla after a year and rutted her proper since he'd quit the whores.

Two years slid by, easy-like. Tobyn tagged along with the work crew a few times—tramped to the Riverlands to slap up dams and sawmills, even hauled arse to Braavos for half a year.

Start of the year, Eyla pushed out a boy, all squirmy and loud. After that, he took to whittling little warrior figures, small enough to fit in his palm.

Corren clocked them carvings, yapped with some trader mates he knew, and they hashed a deal. Soon Tobyn was pulling in more coin from flogging them than he ever did slapping stone for the builders.

"I'm mulling over ditching this stinking city, heading to some quiet village to set up proper—I've got the purse for it, reckon," he told his mate.

Corren weren't roaming much no more, stuck close to the city now, raking in fat stacks of coin—called it a step up. Him and that Lyseni woman of his even started hitting them posh eateries, all gleaming and new, cropping up this past year.

"Stick around a bit longer, Tob. Least another year or so. Word's floating round the workhouses that the prince is gearing up for some big job," Corren said, leaning in. "You're a seasoned hand—bound to get a leg up. Plus, Eyla's been stitching them fancy rags that's all the rage, pulling in decent coin from what I hear. You reckon she'd chuck that to break her back in some nowhere hamlet?"

Tobyn scratched his beard, mug of ale half-drunk in his fist. Corren weren't wrong—Eyla'd been sewing them frilly bits for the city folk, her fingers flying faster than a thief in a market.

Coin was trickling in steady, more than his whittling brought most days. And the prince's big job? That perked his ears. He'd slogged long enough under them overseers—maybe a step up meant less sweat and more purse.

"Alright, you bastard," Tobyn grunted, sloshing his ale. "I'll hang about, see what the priced royal is cooking. But if it's more bloody dams or some fool tower, I'm off—village or not."

"Good man," Corren whooped. "Now let's go fishing off them docks, maybe nab a couple silvers for some plump hauls."

"Aye!"

They didn't get far—took a left down the lane and ducked into that posh no-rutting whorehouse where big-chested lasses pranced about in next-to-nothing scraps.

He dropped a silver stag on one of them dames, and his woman clouted him a few good ones for it.

A sennight later, the big word dropped—Prince Maelys got handed lands up Massey's arm. The city went wild, hollering and stomping loud enough to wake the dead. Eyla was all smiles too. Then there was talk of some other prince—Tobyn didn't know a damn thing about him—fixing up the sewers, making 'em new.

He got the leg-up he'd been itching for.

"The job's thin on lads who can handle quick stone and stack bricks proper," Gorm said straight, belly wobbling fatter and his grin wider than years past.

"You've been kicking round nigh on five years, Tobyn, and the only reason you ain't got a fat purse or a higher spot is that goat-shit mess three years back—you'd be missing a hand if His Grace hadn't stepped in. So, what's it gonna be? You taking the gig to whip new hands into shape on this sewer muck? Five gold coins a moon in it for you."

Aye, that was a plump deal, and he damn near jumped at it like a starving dog. But good sense yanked him back—he weren't no green lad no more, one-and-twenty now.

"What's the play when the sewers are done?" he asked Gorm, wary.

"Another job'll pop up, like as not," Gorm said, brow creasing. "Ain't got the full tale—Prince Maelys is shifting most builders to his new lands. Might leave a crew here, like in Riverrun. But you'll be under Prince Viserys's thumb—he could drag a heap of you to Dragonstone once this mess is wrapped."

Piss on that, Tobyn thought. He weren't slaving for some nobody prince who'd likely work him like a two-copper whore. Only that sister-rutting prince did things right, and he'd be damned if he'd break his back for any other bastard.

He laid it so for Gorm, but with sweeter talk than he felt. The fat man grunted, stamped some parchment, and shoved it at him. "Show this when the ships roll in," Gorm said, waving him off. Tobyn didn't get it, scratching his head, but when he trudged home and flashed the vellum at Eyla, she set him straight.

Turns out the blessed royals were picking decent folk from the city to settle proper in their new lands. It was a tight squeeze—half the city was scrambling to buy their way onto them ships. The shouters were swearing up and down about solid roofs, steady work, heaps of grub, fine rags, and all them fat perks puffed up even bigger.

Eyla'd been clawing for them permits, thought that soft princess had let her slip through the cracks. But there it was, scrawled plain—her name and little Brynden's, hitched to his pass.

That earned him a proper fucking, his hips waking up like they'd taken a rock to 'em—he was half-certain he'd planted another babe in his wife. Best damn decision he ever made, tying the knot with the lass.

"It's a bloody shame how they're prodding us to get stuff done so quick, I'm telling you."

Turned out Corren was slogging off too, and he weren't happy about handing over half his gear to the charity shed 'cause the ships had a baggage cap. He even tried tossing thirty stags for extra space, but they just laughed him off.

Tobyn didn't mind much—he was only ditching his oldest junk. "Why you even leaving, Ren? Weren't you the one guarding them snotty masters from nosy bastards? Heard the gold cloaks whipped some dirty spies a few sennights back."

"Maesters, you daft cunt, and I'm done with the guarding racket."

"Why, though? You were hauling in sacks of coin for sitting on your arse—that's work to envy right there." The Seven knew Tobyn'd jump at that chance fast as a flea if it came his way.

"Nessari follows them twins, and she's fixing to start a cooking crew once the settlement quiets down—got a whole scheme brewing." They swung round a corner, mixing in with a mob of folk trudging to the spots where they'd grab coin for the stuff they were dumping.

Tobyn even spied some chaps lugging fancy bits, flogging them to the crafty merchants who'd plonked themselves along the pathsides.

"What about you, huh? You just gonna squat there, letting your lass rake in the family coin like some gutless slaver?" Tobyn jabbed.

"Piss off, Tob, I ain't gotta bust my arse shoveling horse dung just to feel like a real man," Corren shot back, laughing, though he simmered down fast. "Had a chinwag with some copper-counters and hashed out a solid deal—tacked you on it too. We'd chuck some of the coin we've stashed over the years into backing new trades. When they start turning a profit, we get a cut. The prince's lads'll sort the proper papers for us."

"Sounds like a daft bloody plan, that does. Ain't got no coin to piss away on some crack-brained fool playing merchant," Tobyn growled. They hit the building and queued up.

"You've got heaps of it shoved under that bed of yours, you thick-headed git," Corren fired back. "What you gonna do with it all, huh? Buy more wine?"

He'd been fleeced proper a few moons ago, trying to snag some high-end wine off Flea Bottom scum who swore they knew the smugglers hauling out to the red castle.

"Well, I'd need to chew it over with Eyla first—count up the numbers so we don't end up poor as beggars where we're headed, before tossing all this coin about," Tobyn muttered. He weren't near as flush with coin as his mate, and he was dead sure his woman'd snip his balls clean off if he handed over their whole stash without a word to her first.

The line shuffled fast, and by day's peak, he'd a pouch jingling—three golds and fifteen silvers. The prince's swords and them gold cloaks watched over 'em tight and proper, so none of them went missing to some foul folk.

They got a break from stacking bricks, a good rest before this big move they was all on about—what them bookish types called a "migration". The sewer job kicked off, and it dragged half them slum rats along with it. They set to clawing up the dirt—heard them smithy lads were bashing out fresh picks and shovels by the heap.

Tobyn went to gawk at them sorry sods two days before he legged it from the reeking city. The holes they'd dug were proper big, like corridors. He got nabbed by one of his old workmates who'd picked to hang back and muck in with the job here—a handful of them builder lads stayed put.

"They've got it locked down tight here, eh, Mord?" Tobyn asked the sour-faced bugger from the Saltpans. "I seen some cloaks prowling 'round them skinny iron rods and them quick-stone sheds."

"It's decent guarding—I had to smash some thieving arse's teeth in yesterday when he tried scampering off with a shovel," Mord grunted.

They stood by them sweating bastards working away, close to one of them backed inns. A quick shit-chucking pit was getting dug—word was, a gang of shit-shovelers'd haul the filth off somewhere it wouldn't gag folks.

"What about them plans then?" He prodded.

"Tobyn, you know I can't spill nothing important to you."

"I was on about time and coin, you tight-fisted bastard," Tobyn growled, faking a huff. "Plus all that fancy schematics rot's clear as day to me—it's like slapping together them dams, near enough."

The bastard caved and spilled the rundown—said it'd take a year, maybe half more if things went rotten and folk started cheating once the prince cleared out. He pulled in the same coin they swore him, but the Saltpans git loved chucking dice, bedding whores, and guzzling ale, so he never had a copper to his name.

It was half the reason the bald bastard was sticking 'round the king's city. That Princess Gael was a pious type, wouldn't let no proper whorehouses crop up in Havenhall, most like.

Then they got to jawing about the sewers for real. There'd be big tunnels, little tunnels, and some wide pits out by the city's rim where all the shit'd pile up.

Mord even let slip that them maester types were scooping up the muck and messing with it somehow. Them learned sods were a pitiful bunch, Tobyn reckoned.

"Think they'll have them same sewers in them new lands?" He asked.

"Better ones, I'd wager," Mord said. "It's the prince what cooked up all them clever sewer plans—any sod with half a head knows it." Tobyn didn't know that, but he weren't about to admit it. "You recall Marsea—that eating spot we worked on a few moons back?"

He gave a nod.

"It's all fixed up proper now—porcelain tiles, marble and wood walls, clear glass windows, leather-wrapped chairs—looks like a bloody dream hole…"

The midday meal got hollered, and them cooks rolled in with wagons packed tight with heaps of grub. Tobyn hung about a bit, eyeing how the work went under this new prince. The slum rats fell into lines, some cloaks lurking 'round to make sure no ruckus kicked off.

They scrubbed their hands in soapy water, snatched up plates, and got served by women he ain't seen before. Mord ate alongside him—no fancy treatment for the overseer. Tobyn shoveled it down too, reckoning the food decent enough. He didn't go back for more, though.

The work kicked back in fast after, and them servers cleared off.

"You do a full day's graft, eh?" Tobyn remarked. "Do you get to eat then too?"

"Some bread and a mug of ale—it ain't the fancy spread the good prince lays out, Tobyn, but I ain't griping much," Mord told. "The coin's heaps better than what them stuck-up knights pull in, and Prince Maelys' favour ain't dried up yet, so I might be pocketing more than some poncy lordlings."

Horse shit, the end-of-day grub was the real prize—Tobyn had a whole wooden box he'd knocked together to haul some back for Eyla to share. This work having no fancy extras was horse piss.

He split off from Mord, swung by a sweetshop to nab some candies for his lass—blew a stag on some chocolate—then trudged home.

Come morn, a mess of ships with them seahorse flags pulled into the harbour.

The Saint: Sorry about the wait, y'all. But here's a proper chapter from an OC. Rate his intelligence and medieval villager's authenticity from one to ten.

What do you guys think?

Chapter Text

His Hand was dying.

It should have clawed at his heart, yet Jaehaerys felt scant grief—only the sharp vexation of seeking another mind as keen. Barth was a rare soul, and the king harboured no hope that his successor would match the old septon's blunt wit or steady hand.

"Strange to see you so frail, I confess," he did say, gazing at the man abed. "I thought your end would come sharp, your fire and gall yet unyielded."

Barth lay weak, limbs quivering, flesh slick with sweat. The sight stirred memories of the Shivers of 59, that cruel plague that had taught Jaehaerys the true weight of loss—the kind that breaks a father's soul. Barth bore those marks, though the maesters swore it was no such pestilence. Death loomed certain, and Jaehaerys cared little for its guise.

The septon stirred, one eye creaking open, a faint haze dulling the once-sharp black of his gaze. "One might reckon you'd be buried in duties, Your Grace, with my sickness stalling my aid," he rasped, voice rough as gravel yet laced with a familiar bite.

Jaehaerys allowed a faint smile. "Aye, one might." He straightened, crossing one leg over the other, sinking deeper into the chair. "Yet work has been light of late. Fewer lords beg audience, despite the realm's stirrings."

"Delegation, as your lad would name it." A spark of mirth coloured Barth's tone.

The king's brow lifted, caught by the septon's rare flicker of emotion. The Hand was ever a man of grim restraint, sparing with sentiment—a trait that had bound them as kin in spirit. This glimpse of levity was queer, and Jaehaerys found it oddly stirring.

And, perhaps unsurprisingly, he did agree with the wisdom in his youngest son's approach to rule—a king of his stature need not drown in petty scrolls when able hands could bear the load. Yet he held misgivings.

Entrusting tasks to others risked errors and a fraying of authority in matters great and small. Such was why the lords of Westeros shunned the ways of distant Essos.

Still, Maelys had shown safeguards could be woven, and deftly so. The old king was not set to fully embrace these ways, however.

Barth hacked, a dry rasp that betrayed anguish in his chest. Jaehaerys poured water from a flagon and pressed the cup into the septon's trembling hand. "A wretched state this sickness has wrought," the man said after a sip. "Yet it grants me the rare honor of a king's service."

Jaehaerys tried for a smile, but it faltered, thin… fleeting. He shook his head, his gaze settling on the ailing man as he voiced a thought long held.

"Had you not sworn to the Faith, old friend, I'd have heaped greater rewards for your counsel and loyalty through these years," he said. "Lands, perchance, a keep of your own. Had you sired children, they'd have known my favor, I wager."

A subtle truth lingered in there, a whisper of the septon's quiet tryst with a certain servant—a secret Jaehaerys had long discerned but left unspoken.

Barth's breathing continued unchanged, yet his clouded eyes lifted to meet the king's. "Ever late to matters of weight, my king," he said, pausing to gather breath. "Though it was no small thing that held your gaze. I've no complaints of my time in your service—dare I say it was a life well spent. As for legacy or favour, your lad's already seen to that. Not so grand, mayhap, but what kin I've left have found fortune and place through him."

The words stirred scarce a ripple in Jaehaerys, though a familiar bitterness coiled within. Of late, he had come to see the full measure of his youngest son's reach—threads spun with cunning, each move weighed for the morrow. He'd even learned the truth of Maelys' dealings with the Essosi slavers, stripped of any tender motive.

Too much mummery in that boy, a courtier in the truest sense.

Jaehaerys wished the lad had been his heir. Had it been so, House Targaryen's strength would stand threefold secure.

Aye, even without the lad's newfound hunger for war—if it was hunger in earnest—Westeros' fate might have been certain.

"I reckon he would've, that boy," Jaehaerys sighed. "He's a knack for fairness and stirring men's hearts. If you've set down words on him, as you have on me, I'd fain read them—to see what your sharp eye caught that mine missed."

Barth's brow quirked, a ghost of his old wryness. "My quill's not been idle, Your Grace, though it's not half so kind to Maelys as you might hope. The boy's a riddle—benign in one breath, ruthless in the next. I've scratched some musings, aye, but they're no gentle chronicle. They're tucked among my papers, if you've the stomach for them."

"I'd have them brought to my solar by eve, and if it can be done, copied and shared before the lad spins a hero's saga of his own making," Jaehaerys said, an his words were no idle fancy.

Only yesterday, Maelys had spoken of wielding information as a blade—the ship boarding had sown chaos in the city's peace and prospects.

Seeing how many smallfolk yearned to sail to lands scarce fit with little but tents, Jaehaerys feared for King's Landing's survival should his son muster the will and vessels to ferry all who dreamt of his domains.

"You give much villainy to the boy, I fear," Barth shared in a voice that rasped faintly.

Jaehaerys' gaze lingered on the septon. "You think such feats he would not try? You heard how they speak of him, those smallfolk, the praises they heap, the loyalty they nurse…"

Jaehaerys held no true fear that such deep deceit ran in the boy. True, Maelys bore scant love or reverence for the present lords, but that fault he cast upon the Conqueror and Jaehaerys' own hesitations.

The king knew well they could have forged an iron grip over Westeros with little strain. Yet rulership was no mere game of wants and commands—care was needed, lest the Targaryens wear the tyrant's brand.

In truth, Jaehaerys had stayed his hand not from weakness, but from necessity. His uncle's madness had stained their name, and to demand more war, more coin, more toil for growth and glory—however grand for the realm—would have broken the backs of lords and smallfolk already bowed by nearer woes.

…And the Long Night's defeat demanded a realm steadfast and whole.

Yet now, watching his son's designs unfold, Jaehaerys owned there were paths to that strength he'd not seen—his mind had simply lacked the cunning twist of Maelys'.

Nay, this was a test. Jaehaerys meant to gauge the depth of the veil the Hand had drawn across his eyes, aiding Maelys in shadows while keeping his king blind.

Barth's lips twitched. "Oh, he's capable, no doubt. But your misgivings, my king, stem from a stranger's distance, not a father's sight. You see shadows where there's but light bent clever."

Jaehaerys leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. "Speak plain, old friend. My patience for riddles wanes."

The septon's clouded eyes never dimmed in their amusement. "Maelys craves the smallfolk's love, aye, but mark how he wins it. It's no mummer's show, no gilded lies spun by bards. His is a craft of deeds, felt in the hand and belly. When an urchin clutches a bowl of oatmeal, warmed against the morn's chill, he's told it was Maelys' coin, Maelys' will that filled it. When a mother wraps her babe in fresh linens, she knows they came from his looms..."

Resonance, was it?

Maelys' craft was a study in grandeur. The way he bound the smallfolk's hearts to him was masterful, if faintly unnerving. Jaehaerys would not call it revolutionary—lords tending their people was no strange deed. The Red Keep held stores against famine or plague, as any wise seat would.

Yet Maelys went beyond, giving not in the teeth of calamity but freely, for its own sake. With honeyed words, he sowed devotion in those who'd once bedded down with hollow bellies, ensnaring simple minds.

Now the smallfolk hailed him as a blessed prince, a noble destined to lift life's burdens. Jaehaerys knew no deed or favour could make this generation, or those before, see another lord as Maelys' equal. The effort in itself would be folly.

Barth's case stood proof.

His lips twitched, a wry amusement flickering as he noted the subtle favour in the old septon's tone. "Your words lay bare your own slanted heart, old friend," he said. "Have you not heard the madness he brews for the Faith and the Hightowers both?"

The king held no deep piety, so he could not brand his son's schemes profane—practical, more like. To weave the Faith's own holy writ, thick with folly, into a chain binding Targaryen rule would stifle many a rebellious whisper. And with Maelys' scribing device, the task would be near effortless if unhindered.

Barth laughed, a frail sound breaking into a cough. "I'm of a practical bent, my king," he said. "A glance at the Andals' exodus tells of a folk fleeing your kin's old cruelties, crafting a faith that damned such deeds for the sake of order and safety. A clever stroke, masterfully done, I'd wager. But the Faith is a creed of expedience, so I'll shed no tears if Prince Maelys bends it to his will."

This was another cause for Jaehaerys' high regard for the septon. Barth's loyalty lay not with him alone, but with House Targaryen—that jagged throne of blades. His mind was honed by reason, his tongue bold enough to speak hard truths, even of the king's stark failures as a father. Jaehaerys still nursed a quiet grudge for that.

He shook his head. "What of the boy's scheme, then? Think you the Faith will not rail against his designs?" He knew they would, especially if Maelys moved without stealth or subtle bargains.

Yet he craved Barth's judgment—whatever wisdom the Hand might offer before the Stranger claimed him.

"It will be no easy path," Barth said, "not unless he plays upon the rot festering in Oldtown's septs—something I wager you've weighed, given your house's incestuous ways."

Jaehaerys' frown deepened at the septon's bluntness, though no malice colored the words.

Aye, he'd kept a grip on the pliable septons in Oldtown—folly not to. Yet he'd stirred those waters little, the Faith's influence too slight in years past to merit meddling.

Now, though, the Faith loomed large, and Jaehaerys pondered if slaying septons might truly be justified…

Barth pressed on. "The Lord Hightower's backing would smooth the path. They feign modesty, but their grip on the Citadel and Faith is plain. A single word from them, and loyal maesters, septons, and septas could murmur or twist records, none the wiser. Did Prince Aemon not warn you of this shadow?"

Jaehaerys' face tightened, but he gave a curt nod. Aemon had a keen mind, though much of it was shaped by Corlys' whispers.

Yet, sound as the notion was, the king saw no way to curb that power without rousing the wrath of the mightiest house this side of the realm. Worse, the nobles clung to tradition like a sacred relic. Had he dared, they'd cry Maegor reborn—or worse, claim he sought to remake Westeros as a new Valyria.

There was a reason his grandsire, for all his flaws, embraced the Andals' ways.

"I'd hear your plan for this shift," Jaehaerys commanded, eyeing Barth, whose frail form seemed to teeter on the edge of life. The king doubted the septon would greet the dawn. "Maelys means to wield his device and wines as a bridge. He reckons he's got the measure of Leyton—mad for legacy and glory, that one. The devices would draw eyes and wealth to Oldtown, fixing it as the heart of learning. Had the boy sought only to bend the Faith, I wager he'd have won leave with scant trouble. But he craves the Citadel's archives too—he'd have knowledge loosed, not hoarded."

Barth's voice held steady. "Mine would be a long and chancy path," he confessed. "I'd counsel a slow entwining—wed a lesser Hightower son to a Targaryen daughter. Shape the heirs of that union, and pave the way for them to claim Oldtown should the main line falter—"

The septon hacked again, a cough that seemed to drain what little vigour clung to him. Yet he stilled, gathering himself.

"Honour is a chain on rule, I've found," he wheezed. "Better to don its mask than heed its sermons."

Jaehaerys' brow furrowed, both at the words and the septon's waning state. His eyes flicked to a flagon of wine on a nearby table. He rose, swift, and poured a cup. "Best you meet death with something sweet in your gut," he said, offering it.

Barth took the cup without a nod to the grim jest, drinking deep with a thirst that belied his frailty.

After a pause, Jaehaerys pressed on. "Your plan holds merit, but you know as well as I why it cannot be."

"Aye."

Jaehaerys loathed to confess it, but he held scant trust in his descendants' mettle. Viserys was a stark case—a lord of middling spine, shrinking from strife, cut from the same weak cloth as the king's father, Aenys. Even now, with every chance laid before him, it was Jaehaerys and his youngest who drove the sewer works.

Baelon's son waded in indecision, a hesitance so stark it chilled the king. Aemma all but judged in his place, and once, Jaehaerys might have taken solace in her strength. Yet her frailty was plain, and if Viserys held to his ways, the birthing bed would claim her.

Already, fissures marred the throne's foundation. Jaehaerys knew his son would spurn any talk of binding his unborn boy—should Gael's babe prove male—to Rhaenyra.

For all Maelys' cunning and ruthlessness, he guarded his wife and children's future with a fierce devotion. It was a strange sight, the lad so wholly given to love and kin. Jaehaerys prayed the boy would triumph where he and Alysanne had stumbled.

And by all signs, it seemed he might, if fate didn't strangle him.

Maelys lingered often in Gael's presence, more than ever before. Havenhall boasted a fledgling port, though its shelters were but tents. The land was tamed swiftly, materials flowed in, waterways carved, and fields marked for sowing.

He'd soared there on Vermithor's back, keen to see how his son's bid for independence fared. It still stung that Maelys chose trade with the Sea Snake over the royal aid Jaehaerys could have granted, free of heavy strings. Too many plots swirled in that lad's mind—too many for all to end well.

He supposed the failure would be good for him, lest the continued successes make him vain and arrogant.

Still, in regard to the settlement, all was well. It seemed every soul in his domain would have proper labour, and Maelys had spoken of a system to track each subject by name—an archive for the smallfolk, no less.

Jaehaerys deemed it shrewd, though he doubted King's Landing could withstand such a scheme.

Dragonstone, though…

He glanced at his friend, only to find Barth lost to sleep. Rising, the king felt the weight of his years press upon him. He wished for a quicker end than the lingering fade awaiting the septon.

"May your path beyond be no bleak void, old friend," he murmured in parting, striding from the chamber.

Ser Ryam fell in step behind as Jaehaerys wove through the Hand's tower toward its threshold. "How's he faring, Your Grace?" the Redwyne asked, his tone laced with little more than courtesy.

Servants bowed as they passed, many bearing linked chains and robes akin to the Citadel's. Maelys' men stood out, their presence here not to tend the ailing Hand, but to study the malady that gripped him—Jaehaerys knew it well.

He misliked their ways—experiments, dissections, and the like—yet Maelys had argued their worth, especially for curing common ailments and easing the perils of childbirth.

"He's dying," Jaehaerys replied after a pause. "He'll not see the morrow."

"A pity," Ryam said. "The good septon was a wise voice."

It was just as well that the knight spared no false warmth for the fading Hand, for Barth had garnered little love beyond the Targaryens. Yet that very detachment—his lack of noble entanglements—had made him so able a Hand.

"Any fresh tidings while I sat with Barth?" Jaehaerys asked as they emerged from the tower, a new knot of guards falling in to shield him.

A grim jest, that a king should need safeguarding in his own city, let alone his keep. Yet such was so.

"Little, if any, Your Grace." was his answer.

He had suspected it, though it cost little to inquire.

Jaehaerys glanced aside, where laborers toiled at their digging. All was work and progress now, a steady march toward betterment. Even Viserra labored to uplift Sweetport, and the king had eased its taxes to lighten her burden.

He could have given more—the royal vaults brimmed with gold, even amidst the sewer works—but the ember of Viserra's resentment still glowed fierce.

Still, he found ease in most matters. Those of his children who remained were finding their way and flourishing still. Perhaps it was time to bridge the rift with his granddaughter at Driftmark as well…

A stirring notion, yet one Jaehaerys knew not how to shape into truth.

…Thwarting those pirates, mayhap? Yet such a move would only swell the Velaryons' might and sway—a truth that underpinned his restraint against the Triarchy.

But was there cause to harbour such caution toward Corlys? House Targaryen need only match or outpace the swelling might of the naval house to quell that fear—and Maelys had shown many a path to do so.

Jaehaerys hummed as he stepped into his solar, a plan taking root.

"Ryam, fetch the Grand Maester and call Maelys to me," he commanded.

The kingsguard bowed and set off.

With Barth's end nigh, Jaehaerys meant for Baelon to don the Hand's chain. It would temper him for the throne. And he wished to bind the brothers closer, lest his youngest deemed manipulating his brother the right course.

The Saint: Addressed developments. Addressed worries. I really tried to give more than just coldness to Barth—I like humanising characters.

What do you guys think?

Chapter Text

This was supposed to be chapter 13. Sorry y’all!

Jaehaerys sat still, his back melded to the cushioned chair, its familiar embrace easing the gnaw in his spine. For a moment, he let himself savour the small comfort—such indulgences carried more weight than they once did. Mayhap tonight he'd sink into the hot waters, let the warmth knead away the day's rigour.

A tempting thought.

He huffed through his nose, shaking his head once. Nay. Kingship spared little room for luxuries, and less for wandering thoughts. With effort, he turned his mind to pressing matters. The foremost was not complex, yet demanded precision: Daemon's future—or rather, his lingering unwed state.

Alysanne had often spoken her worries, urging a fitting match for their untamed grandson. She knew, as he did, that the family's pool of suitable brides dwindled.

The Royce girl had once seemed apt—steady, highborn, and like to weather Daemon's fire. But that path had closed; she was betrothed to one of Lord Arryn's heirs.

No true loss to the crown, in truth. The Eyrie stood fast with House Targaryen, tied by his late daughter's marriage to its lord and strengthened by Maelys' valour against the mountain clans. Respect there was hard-won and held firm.

Yet the Vale's mention tugged his thoughts elsewhere, not without cause. The mountain clans were a plague that needed ridding. Jaehaerys' brow creased, annoyance in it. Their very presence frayed the region's peace. Worse, they choked its potential.

He'd long held that those clans were why the Vale's rich veins lay fallow. Mining faltered where it should have thrived. Yet of late, the lands near the Eyrie showed signs of growth—slight, but clear to him who watched closely. It all pointed to one thing: purge the mountains of the clans, and the Vale would bleed iron and wealth.

He could pictured it yet. Ore streaming from the peaks, feeding forges, arming soldiers, building bridges. A tide of metal and coin, feeding into the realm's development.

The idea settled, patient. Not for now. Later, mayhap in Viserys' time. A campaign the second heir could launch early, shoring up his rule and name. Viserys, that simple boy, would need such triumphs laid before him—crafted, just bold enough to seem his own.

But Daemon.

Jaehaerys pulled his mind back, sharpening his focus.

Truth be told, the king had yet to settle on a house for the match, but the choice could not be long delayed. Daemon's unwed state must end, if only to tame his wayward spirit. Under Baelon—or worse, Viserys—the lad might be coddled, left to wander free out of fond misjudgment.

And Daemon, unbound, would weave that liberty into chaos. Of that, Jaehaerys held no doubt.

He would see that peril smothered before it drew breath.

What he was to set in motion promised heavy consequence—perilous weight. It would stoke Daemon's ambitions, sow seeds of presumption, kindle hopes. Once loosed, such sparks could not be easily quenched. That was the true danger—not the deed itself, but the wildfire it might ignite under weaker hands.

His intent must be ironclad, clear beyond misreading. Any command given now must stand resolute, proof against the softer kings to come.

A slow, tired breath slipped from him, and he dragged a hand down his weathered face, the motion raw, near unbecoming. He cared not.

Maelys had spoken true, in part, about Aemon. There, Jaehaerys had faltered.

Yet what his son failed to see was that the king's name still carried might. His will yet swayed the great lords. The throne's strength had not ebbed far. It was not too late to mend the course—arduous, aye, but far from beyond reach.

Corlys would get his due. His voyages had set half the world murmuring Westerosi names, and the lords, vain as they were, bowed to such renown.

But Rhaenys…

Jaehaerys sighed.

…she would demand deft words, firm assurances, maybe a vow or two veiled in decorum. Pride had sharp edges in that one.

Yet what he planned was no small thing—a princely title, a seismic shift in rank and precedent. House Velaryon, with its ancient loyalty and untainted Valyrian blood, made the honor less abrupt. It would not seem wholly alien.

The challenge lay not in bestowing the title, but in what it carried. And what it whispered.

It differed from Maelys' case. His son's principality, for all its promised grandeur, would remain a limb of House Targaryen—a branch, but bound.

The Velaryons, though? What Jaehaerys weighed would grant them freedom in all but name. That distinction was vital. They would not kneel to the Iron Throne in daily matters, not truly. And for that alone, the thought of dragonriders among them was a threshold he would not breach.

Dragons were the heart of sovereignty, and such power could not perch beyond the Red Keep's shadow.

The notion clung. Mayhap the hour had come to bind dragonriders not merely by tradition, but by law. Clear statutes: who might claim a dragon, their rights, their limits. The idea felt like a seed cast on barren ground, yet given time, it could take root. Someone needed to draw these lines before ambition outran sense.

A knock at the door broke his reverie.

"Enter," Jaehaerys called, his gaze scarcely lifting, still caught in visions of dragonflight and scorched earth.

The door swung wide, and Maelys stepped through—clad finely, yet not flawless. Jaehaerys marked the faint flush at his neck, the slight muss of his silver hair. Not quite polished. A moment seized, mayhap, or company freshly parted.

"You summoned me, Father?" Maelys said, settling into a chair unbidden. A flicker of relief crossed his face… fleeting. Jaehaerys caught it, wondering what peril the lad had braced for. He let the thought slip.

"I did," the king replied, his tone even. It ran to neutrality whenever he hosted his son. "Though I scarce expected you so swift."

Maelys' brow creased, though irritation flickered by his face. "I was made to believe the matter was pressing."

Maybe it was, depending on the angle one took.

"Not direly so," Jaehaerys said, hands clasping in his lap. "Yet your speed is no ill thing." He studied Maelys' face once more. "Unless I've torn you from something… untimely?"

Maelys faltered, teeth grazing his lower lip. "You might say so. Though it's not a matter I'd share with my father."

Jaehaerys weighed the words, sifting them with a seasoned eye. When their meaning settled, his brow creased—not in scorn, but with a blend of interest and faint mirth.

"'Tis unwise," he began, a dry humor threading his voice, "to dally so with a woman heavy with—"

Maelys halted him with a raised hand, the other pinching his nose's bridge. The gesture carried strain, aye, but something more—embarrassment, rare for one so proud.

"Father, please."

No denial, Jaehaerys noted, a spark of amusement curling his lips. How often had courtiers murmured, ever cautious, of Maelys'… tastes? Japes cloaked as gossip, smirks trailing whispers of sword-swallowing. Yet here he was, his fervour undimmed by his wife's swelling belly.

The king deemed it no ill thing. Better fierce devotion to a lawful wife than a tepid heart.

"Then I'll hoard my counsel," he said, brow arching wryly as he shifted in his seat. "As to why I called you—I find I'll need your schemes, your ways, and your wisdom more often in moons to come."

Maelys fell silent, the pause not weighty but pensive. His eyes held Jaehaerys', searching, measuring. When he spoke, his voice was level.

"Is the good septon dead?"

Jaehaerys' brow lifted at the query, though his reply came swift.

"Not yet," he said. "Still drawing breath, but I wager he'll not greet the dawn."

A flash of surprise crossed Maelys' face, brief but telling. Jaehaerys watched, unsure if the reaction was genuine or a mummer's farce. With Maelys' men lurking about the Hand's Tower, the king doubted his son was blind to Barth's fading state.

As if sensing the unspoken doubt, Maelys offered his defense. "I've a score of ventures in motion, Father. If I sought to track each detail, I'd have no hours for sleep or thought. I prize outcomes—especially when the task needs not my constant gaze."

His tone was open, the reasoning fair. Jaehaerys dipped his head, a slight acknowledgment. A rare one.

"Still," Maelys said, his voice softening, "it grieves me to hear. Gael will take his passing ill."

"Aye," Jaehaerys concurred. "But to the matter at hand. I'd have your answer, Maelys."

"I'm not loath to share," the lad replied, maybe too quick. "But might I know your intent, Father?"

The king minded not the boldness. "Many things," he said, then paused, jaw working. "Your words—those old ones—linger. They haunt me, truth be told."

No mere ornament, that. In the dead of night, he dreamt of Alysanne and their children: heads shaking, eyes accusing. A king should weave legacies, not regrets. He shifted, the air growing thick.

"I'm striving," he confessed, measured, "to right what I may."

Maelys parted his lips, then stilled. His eyes closed, brow furrowing, before he loosed a breath and spoke. "That's… noble, I grant. But I confess, I see not how such mending can be done now."

No unjust retort. Maelys' mind cut sharp through systems and their cracks, but he lacked the years to grasp how feeling could unravel cold reason.

"I mean to raise House Velaryon," Jaehaerys declared. "For their steadfast loyalty and the Valyrian blood in their veins. I'd grant them a princely title. Mayhaps even a Valyrian blade."

Silence fell, heavy. His son watched him, lips parted, his eyes now wide with naked disbelief. The king deemed the reaction just. It was a grand promise, with yet grander aims beneath.

A Valyrian blade alone was a gift beyond measure, though Jaehaerys pondered how he might procure one. House Targaryen wanted not for Freehold steel, but Valyrian weapons could only be reforged from their like. And such blades were rarer than dragons' tears.

No trifling boon, this. It was no mere sop to soothe egos. The act bore a weight fit to tilt scales. If Corlys and Rhaenys took it with grace, it could bind the realm tighter. But should they chafe or grasp too far, the gesture might kindle more discord than it quelled.

Yet the throne would soon pass to Baelon, then Viserys. Jaehaerys must blunt what thorns he could before that day.

"I…" Maelys started, then checked himself. He drew a slow breath, eyeing Jaehaerys with a guarded mask.

"It seems rash, Father. I'd counsel strongly against it."

"You see scant profit in it?"

"Nay," Maelys said, swift. "There's profit aplenty. But…" His lips tightened, fingers flexing at his side. "I mislike it."

A king cared little for personal qualms.

Jaehaerys had scant patience for such sentiments, least of all from one so woven into the realm's workings. Likely this move of his crossed some thread of Maelys' designs—it ever seemed so. Such was the cost of spinning ceaseless webs.

Yet curiosity stirred. What had Maelys planned for the Velaryons? Did it tie to that sea-craft he'd devised? Jaehaerys had never fathomed why his son yielded so precious a tool for what seemed paltry gain.

It rankled him. Yet Maelys' standing granted him certain freedoms, and that, too, was the yoke of kingship.

"Your fondness for it matters not, son," Jaehaerys said at length, his tone calm. "The choice is set. Only the finer strokes remain. This act will strengthen our houses' bond—without any open nod to Rhaenys' spurned claim."

Maelys' face held fast, though his eyes tightened faintly.

"You honor their lineage and shared blood with ours?"

The king permitted a thin smile.

"Aye," he said. "Precisely so. Cast thus, it's a homage to ancient ties, not recent rifts. Naught to do with Corlys' sails. Naught to do with Rhaenys."

He left unspoken the rest: even if some lords sniffed a salve for old wounds, few would dare contest it.

A princely title was no trifling boon, yet not one easily mirrored. None would cry out too boldly—they'd bide, observe, mayhap dream of like favor, though Jaehaerys doubted any would dare seem so bold.

"Corlys will hunger for more," Maelys said at length, his voice free of censure, only the calm clarity of one who saw every facet. "He'll read this as an opening to bargain, likely pressing for a betrothal between Laenor and Rhaenyra."

"Then it's well I mean to mend the murk of succession," Jaehaerys replied, unflinching.

Maelys blinked, a rare glint of surprise flickering in his eyes. "Truly?"

"Aye. A true structure—clear lines, safeguards for misfortune." Jaehaerys leaned forward, voice resolute. "Runciter will shape the formal writs. I'll weave in your ideas, quicken them, and root them in law's strength. A council of lords will swear to these edicts—a touch of pomp to burnish their weight."

No sense veiling it from Maelys. Still, the plan's success would hinge on sleights—veils thick enough to sate the Faith, cloaking deeper aims in a guise of divine will and royal caution.

Maelys went still, his form anchored while his mind roamed. Jaehaerys saw it: the cogs turning behind those pale eyes. Then, a grimace tugged at his lips.

"That's… cunning, I'll grant," he said, words measured, not grudging. "Not as unyielding as I'd wish, but stout enough to stand."

A beat.

"Yet indulge my curiosity. Have you weighed the risk of fools claiming the throne?" His gaze locked on the king's, keen once more. "If the Faith weds your succession to doctrine, a vain but witless heir could ascend, crowned with lords' assent—none daring to defy one blessed by creed, lest they be named heretics."

Jaehaerys hummed, thoughtful. A sharp point, and a vexing one. He shook his head. "The matter's not yet fixed, Maelys. There's time to hone it, to thread those subtleties." He shifted, straightening. "But this wasn't my sole aim in calling you."

Maelys' brow arched.

The king pressed on. "I sought to speak of ways to tighten House Targaryen's grip on Westeros, to ensure our dominance across all fronts—not merely those we alone command."

Maelys' face sparked with eagerness, like a child before a honeyed treat. Jaehaerys, for a heartbeat, was caught aback. The lad was rarely so unguarded—his thoughts laid so bare. A quiet amusement warmed the king's chest.

"It seems this prospect stirs you," he remarked, voice gentle.

"I'd deemed you too wed to prudence for such bold aims," Maelys confessed, a trace of astonishment in his tone.

Mayhap that explained the boy's penchant for shadows in his dealings—the half-truths, the veiled designs. The Riverlands' dams sprang to mind. The grumbling of slighted lords still echoed, each now clamouring for the same works that had enriched their rivals.

Those structures had reshaped the region in silence. Fishing flourished, floods were leashed, and irrigation now threaded steady through lands once prey to the sky's whims. Sawmills, granaries, and sundry trades sprouted in their wake, drawing wealth and merchants even from the North to the Riverlords' halls.

The realm had gained, no question.

Yet every boon bore a shadow. Jaehaerys knew that better than any.

The imbalance it sowed lingered. Maelys' pact was with Lord Grover Tully alone, and only his favored vassals drank deep of the bounty. The rest stood sidelined, chafing, their envy sharp. That no blood had spilled was near a wonder…

…Bracken and Blackwood notwithstanding.

"What would you see secured first, Father?" Maelys asked, his voice keen. The boy's eyes were intense upon him.

"The Crownlands' wealth," Jaehaerys replied, running his tongue across his teeth. "I'd have their lords and smallfolk stand apart, unyoked from other realms—self-reliant, proud, sustained by their own strength."

Maelys' eyes tightened, his frown pensive. "No trifling task. Decrees and goodwill won't suffice. You'll need works—many—for the smallfolk. Laws, too. Learned men to draft them. Lords' accord. Halls raised. Workers schooled. And…"

He broke off, not lost but caught in thought's current. His words quickened, no longer aimed at Jaehaerys but drawn from some inner forge. He spoke of trade guilds, royal monopolies, chartered ventures granted sole rights to curb waste and rivalry. He sketched ministries for tillage, funds for mining, spurs for artisans, and a central hand to stem squander.

Jaehaerys sat, silent, letting the torrent of ideas flow unchecked. He'd long learned that when Maelys' mind blazed, it was wisest to let it run its course.

After hours of debate, exchanges, and refinements, they settled on a single, weighty stride: a royal Crown Bank.

It would be the bedrock. A treasury free of lords' caprice, able to fund great works, steady the realm's coin, and lend to Crownlanders for their own rise. A slow, arduous birth awaited it. Yet once rooted, it would brace all else.

Jaehaerys felt its heft and knew, in that moment, it would likely outlast him.

Then came the unveiling.

Through nudging—soft at first, then sharper—Jaehaerys pried loose Maelys' hidden stores of wealth. With a cool detachment, the lad confessed to commanding a fleet: thirty trade ships and ten warships, all of foreign make, now being wrought by Braavosi hands.

Jaehaerys near choked.

Then came the tally—a breezy reckoning of his assets, ventures, and ready gold.

The king felt his blood surge.

"You're certain of that sum?" he asked, voice a hushed rasp.

Maelys still held his poise, but the forcefulness of it was bare. Still, he gave a slight nod. "Aye, Father. A cautious count. It shifts with harvests and trade winds, naturally."

Jaehaerys fell silent, hands clasped before his lips, gaze locked on the hearth's dying embers. Thirty trade ships. Ten warships, foreign-crafted. A fortune to rival great houses, yet veiled—whether by tact or guile.

All from the boy who'd once wept at Aemon's pyre.

"…A bank," he murmured at length. "Solely the Crown's."

"With its own books, independent rates, and stewards chosen with care," Maelys added, voice held steady. "It could lend to noble houses, fund great works, govern coin, even steady prices with grain stores. In time, it might stand as a royal reserve—freeing us from Free City moneylenders."

The polish of it stung. Jaehaerys knew then this was no new thought, but a scheme long nursed, mayhap even set in motion unseen. Yet its promise was undeniable—for the Crownlands, aye, and the realm entire. Such a bank could redraw the throne's reach.

And its burdens.

"When did you mean to speak of this?" he asked, tone flat.

"When it weighed enough," Maelys replied, plain and true. "Which, it seems, is now."

Jaehaerys loosed a dry, weary breath. Then nodded.

"Aye. Now it weighs indeed."

The Saint: What do you guys think?

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