King's Landing
Seventh Moon (98 AC)
Jaehaerys I
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.