King's Landing
98 AC (Seventh Moon—Day 29)
Viserra II
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."