After the Dragons Danced (A Rhaena Targaryen SI) -- 18. Faceless Conspiracies

Seventh Moon, 132 AC | Braavos

GYLORO OTHERYS - THE SEALORD OF BRAAVOS

The dinner arrayed on the trestle table made him salivate. Two maid-servants and the head chef of his residence were in the intimate dining room next to said trestle table, ready to serve them. Gyloro and his family took their seats around the dining table. As their patriarch, he sat at the head, his pulchritudinous wife on the left of him. On his immediate right sat his eldest son, and heir to the Otherys fortune, Garesso, and beside him was his little brother Ternesio.

The head cook came in front of them to present them with the details of their supper, as he did every night, “Your Excellency, for our main course tonight, we shall serve goat, roasted with sweetgrass, onions and firepods. It was basted with honey and ground mint as it cooked. That’ll be served with flat-bread, made in the Dornish style. After that, a salad of melons, pomegranates, plums and pineapple from the Summer Isles.”

That got approving looks from all around the table. Food was one pleasure in the world that Gyloro could not get enough of. He didn’t mind that Chatana had remarked on how fat he had become since his ascension to the position of Sealord. He didn’t mind, she loved him all the same. 

Gyloro had his gaze wander at his wife once more, with her ebony skin that seemed to shine in the torchlight, her hazel eyes that never failed to entrance him. In his humble opinion, she looked even more stunning now, with her belly swollen and prominent. Their third babe; Gyloro’s eyes misted at that notion. He so wanted a daughter to dote on and spoil senseless.

Food being put on the table right before him broke out of his reminiscent musings. A goat haunch was placed on his plate, drowning in a thick brown gravy that smelled of pepper and garlic and rosemary. Two pieces of the Dornish bread accompanied it.

Just as he was going to begin his meal, his wife let out a gut-wrenching scream.

Gyloro was alarmed, “What is it, Chatana?”

She replied in her Summer Islander accent, “The babe is coming!” Her voice high and shrill.

“Get the healer at once!” he bellowed at the nearest servant, who, in her shock, dropped the plate meant for his son. It shattered on their exquisite floors. Fortunately, he had no time to berate her for her carelessness. Gyloro was careful not to step on any of the spilled food as he carried his frantic wife to what had been designated as the birthing chamber in their palace.

Thankfully, they made it without much fuss, save for Chatana’s periodically ear-shattering screams. The healer was upon them immediately, trying to remove him from the room.

“Stay!” Chatana ordered, in between two more wails, “Gyloro, stay!”

Gyloro swatted away the healer’s hand and moved to his wife’s side, kneeling on the side of the bed that was nearest to him. Though he gave him a piercing glare, the healer knew that attempting to have him leave was a futile endeavour, and instead decided to focus on his patient. 

Chatana let out another howl of pain, her grip on her hand tightening considerably. Gyloro stammered out encouraging words to try and sooth her, but the shout she let out next let him know that she was not relieved in the least. He took a cloth given by one of the healers and attempted to wipe the sweat gathering on her brow. After another scream, she grabbed that cloth and threw it away, cursing colourfully in her native Summer Islander tongue. 

Gyloro did not register another person in the room until he heard a foreign breath and a foreign voice in his ears, 

“Your Excellency,” the voice said gently, although it was loud enough to be heard through his beloved’s screeches, “One of the members of the House of Black and White is here to see you.”

“Now!” he exclaimed. The man nodded in affirmative. 

A deep sigh left him as his wife let out another wail. Faceless Men were not ones to be kept waiting. Those bastards knew of their power and were not afraid to use it, even on them, their hosts, if angered. Braavos being their headquarters did not mean they were averse to using their abilities to dispatch them if they perceived themselves slighted.

Gyloro kissed his wife, “I’ll be back, my love,” he tried to assure his wife as he made to stand up, only for his hand to be held in an even tighter grip than before. He thought he had some cracking of bones on said hand.

“Where are you going?” she asked, in between screams, as she laboured with the encouragement of the healer. Her face was full of rage.

“I have to go,” he replied, “I’ll tell you once I return, I promise.” 

Chatana went to respond, but another scream tore from her throat, giving him enough time to tear his hand away from hers and managing an escape after kissing her on her wet brow one last time.

Outside the birthing chambers, he found his two sons pacing from one end to the next, their faces filled with worry. 

“Is mother okay?” Ternesio, the younger and ever-more courageous one, asked.

“Aye,” he replied, though the cry that emanated from the room behind suggested otherwise, “Birthing a babe is hard work. How about you head into your quarters, try to get some sleep?” He then signalled for two of his servants and swords to accompany them there. Even with the considerable size of the Sealord’s Palace, Gyloro rather doubted they would sleep through the night with such noise. Briefly, he considered having them spend the night in his brother Thoren’s manse, but decided against it. Like as not, his younger brother was entertaining some courtesan or another, and he did not wish for his sweet boys to take after him. They would have to endure the night as their new sister was being born.

The way to his solar was not long. Like he suspected, he found the man seated on his chair, looking directly at him, his eyes eerie and his posture haunting. Gyloro had to put effort in not squirming under his steady gaze. Those fuckers from the Black and White always sent a different man to meet with him; or was it the same man with different faces, he did not know. 

“This one has updates from Tyrosh,” he said, getting straight to the point without offering any greeting or using any honorifics. Unlike lesser men, it seemed Faceless Men did not kowtow to anyone. He did not know how to feel about that. He shook those thoughts from his mind. T’was not the time for his mind to wander.

“Couldn’t they have waited a day or two?” he asked, after another distant shout of his name reached their ears from his wife's’ chambers.

“A man was the one to request updates every fortnight,” he replied, gesturing to him, his voice flat, “This one is not to blame for a woman’s labours starting at such an inopportune time.”

His fists clenched along his sides as his name was screamed once more from the distance. A deep breath was needed to calm himself. How dare this bastard mock him? Another deep breath was needed as his eyes shut with quite a bit of force. He had to remind himself that they could and probably would kill him at the earliest inconvenience. They probably had some of their agents as part of his household or his guards.  

“Very well,” he assented as he went to take his seat, “How do matters in Tyrosh fare?”

“As a man knows, this one’s brothers infiltrated the worshippers of the false god Trios, and encouraged dissent in Tyrosh,” he explained, “The dragonlords are having a hard time trying to suppress that dissent. Riots in the city between the Andal septons and their growing followers, and the worshippers of the false god have become more rampant as a result of so many deaths on both sides. Even a dragon burning down the temple of the false god has done nothing but encourage further strife.”

“The dragon is chasing its own tail, trying to find the head of the serpent that is the Champions of Trios,” Gyloro added. 

“Aye,” he answered, “Whenever they remove one head, three more arise.”

“In your honest observation, do you think it will be necessary to infiltrate the faction of the Andal Faith, stir the violence of the city further?” Gyloro hoped it was not. The coin already being spent in this mission had put quite a dent in the fortune of their family.

The man across him had the gall of smirking, “As much as this one and his brothers love your coin, it will not be necessary.”

Relief flooded his belly. 

“Though, this one brings forth the notion of just killing the dragonlords once more. It is much easier than the long, convoluted plot a man has set upon to gain control of Tyrosh.”

Gyloro narrowed his eyes, “We both know why I cannot do that. If our involvement in such a plot is found out, do you think Braavos will be spared a second time?” He stopped himself from even thinking of the fortune-ending amount it would take for the murder of one dragonrider, let alone two.

Satisfaction coursed through him as he watched the man’s facade of pure confidence and surety shatter. Gyloro had just entered his manhood when it happened. The sealord before the oaf that was Syrio Antaryon had sold his wastrel of a son to the daughter of the Sea Snake and his dragonlord wife, mostly to get rid of him and less to form an alliance with the Velaryons. That son had been killed by Daemon Targaryen, and that had stoked the man’s ire to an irrational degree.

Using the entirety of his fortune, he had employed the Faceless Men to get rid of Daemon and his nascent family, in vengeance for the death of his son. The Faceless Men had failed, and had come so close to inviting their own distraction. How the dragonlord caught them, Gyloro had no clue. He was only there when the city awoke to the screams of a red dragon landing outside the House of Black and White, his rider angry, delivering the disembowelled remains of one of the famous assassins and warning them that any other attack upon him and his would see the entirety of Braavos turned to ash. 

As much as the rest of the world seemed to have forgotten, it had been the first time in almost two centuries that the famous order of assassins had failed in an assignment. An ancient order so fierce that it had been attributed to the Doom of Valyria had failed in silencing one dragonlord, and the entirety of Braavos had almost paid the price for that. 

Gyloro was not keen to test the dragonlords directly again. They might have some kind of sorcery that enabled them to see past the glamours the Faceless Men wore. He was content to chip away at their base of power, to ensure the Free City they had conquered became untenable to add to their domain, that they would eventually return to Westeros with their tails tucked between their legs, leaving Tyrosh for Braavos’ taking. That had been the same strategy that the Triarchy had employed against the Rogue Prince during his attempted conquest of the Stepstones and of the dominion of the Narrow Sea.

“No,” Gyloro spoke once more, “We stick to the course we’ve set upon. Keep at it. Mayhaps the rioters in Tyrosh will kill the dragonlords for us, the same way they did soon after the Doom of Valyria.”

“Very well,” he replied, “A man’s desires will be fulfilled.”

Without any further pleasantries, Gyloro shot from his chair and went back to his wife’s chambers. Her labours seemed to have ended. 

As he neared the door, he heard the wails and whimpers of a babe. Tears threatened to flow from his eyes. He pushed open the door with a casual strength and made his way inwards, finding the healer and the two nurses crafting some medicine to relieve the pain his wife was surely feeling, a pain that Gyloro would never know. She found her exhausted, the last of her strength spent cradling their babe.

“You left me,” was the accusation his wife laid at his feet when he came near the bed.

“I…” Gyloro did not know what to say except, “I had business to attend to.”

Chatana turned away, a scowl on his face as he shook the babe to quiet, guiding its tiny head to latch onto her breast to suckle. Gyloro was left with his face in her hands as he sat beside them, on the other side of the massive feather bed.

“You have a daughter, if you even care to know” she said after a long moment passed between them, the healers leaving somewhere in the middle of it.

“Forgive me, my love,” Gyloro tried to apologise, going to kiss her brow; a kiss that was deflected by her turning away, “Faceless Men are not ones to be kept waiting.”

Her face remained tight with anger even as she handed him the babe, “Name her.”

“Do you not wish for that honour? I named our sons,” he said as she shook the babe to calm her. Gods, she was the most beautiful babe he had ever seen. Her skin was dark as ebony, just like her mothers, while her eyes were a deep grey, just like his. She would surely grow to trouble many a man. Gyloro immediately knew he would spoil her senseless.

Searching his mind for a name, he asked his wife once more, “Are you sure you do not wish to name her?”

Chatana shook her head. She had once been a princess, a direct descendant of the legendary Xanda Qo, the princess of the Summer Isles that had united the entirety of their people against the slavers of the Free Cities. Now, those many centuries later, Chatana had lost her ritual combat, her kingdom and had thus been condemned to exile for all time. Gyloro understood that she would like no reminder of what had once been her home. She had declared herself a Braavosi woman now, who followed their gods and customs and traditions, eschewing every part that identified her as a Summer Islander, well, at least save for her skin and form, which was unique to them.

“Bellegere,” Gyloro said, the name seemingly coming to him all at once, “Her name will be Bellegere Otherys.”

“A good name,” Chatana replied. It had been his mother’s name.

Oldtown

ALFADOR FLOWERS - MAESTER OF THE CITADEL 

Even with the fire roaring in the hearth, spikes of sharp pain shot up and down in his back, the shattered bones of his spine making him scream silently in anguish. For a time beyond count, he cursed the fucking dragons. Fucking Vhagar. He tried to move from side to side, but that only sent more pain up and down his back. It was almost unbearable.

Instinctively, his hand reached for the container that was filled with milk of the poppy, aiming to drain all of it in one gulp, but he stopped himself. Alfador could not allow himself to spend the rest of his life a vegetable, in a haze of addiction to the poppy milk, no matter how sweet the relief it offered was. He had already reached the limit of the amount he could drink that day.

“Abelon!” Alfador called out through gritted teeth to the acolyte sleeping in the bed next to his. The boy did not even stir.

“Abelon!” he yelled louder as another shot of pain went down his back, a howl emanating from his throat.

Finally, thankfully, the boy stirred groggily, taking his time in rubbing his eyes awake. 

“Help me to the bed,” he told him. 

While his body had shrivelled up this past two years after his injury, Abelon was as strong as a bull, and he therefore found it easy to assist him. He was a big strong lad, despite his low birth, and part of him wondered why he had chosen to study at the Citadel instead of making a life for himself as a knight, even a hedge knight; the devastated kingdoms would surely be glad of some at this point in time.

Still, he was thankful. He was the most capable acolyte currently in his tutelage, with a sharp wit and an industrious nature.

Another wince went through his back as he was helped up from his rolling chair (his invention), and to the bed. Abelon was careful to let him down slowly, and cover him well with his blankets.

“Thank you, lad,” he told him, “Hand me the book.”

Abelon walked up to the reading nook in the manse he now shared with his mentor, Archmaester Vaegon and the archmaester’s cousin, Septa Rhaella. The knowledge that the old septa was more spry at eighty-nine than he was at less than fifty, shamed him. 

Vhagar had been the cause of his pain, he remembered foully. In the kinslayer’s desolation of the Riverlands, he had burned down Castle Darry, where he had been serving for almost three decades, and as he fled towards the subterranean vaults beneath the castle to accompany Lady Darry and her boys, a pillar of the castle had collapsed atop his back.

Three days he had lain there, wishing for death, wishing for reprieve from the excruciating agony as the burning rubble around him crushed his back more and more. He had been the lucky one, or so he had been told. Lord Darry and his heir had burned to death. Lady Darry and her three other sons had died from consuming bad corn. Only one sole member of that family remained now. All due to fucking dragonflame.

“Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History, by Septon Barth,” the boy read out the title, “Why so obsessed with those beasts, maester? All you’ve read this past year are accounts concerning them.”

“They’re fascinating,” Alfador replied, his tone noncommittal, “If I am cursed to be a cripple for the rest of my days, let me learn to at least fly in my mind.”

“Septon Barth’s work is known to be a ponderous thing,” Abelon told him, “I fail to see how it incites any imagination.”

“When you are old as I am,” he said in a flat voice, to ensure no more questions about the book were asked, “You find entertainment from the strangest sources.”

When he looked at him for a few moments, he continued, “You can go back to bed, Abelon. Tomorrow you have your examination to earn your first copper link.”

“Very well,” he answered, “Have a good night. Don’t stay too late, or you’ll go blind by reading so much in the candlelight.”

“Have a good night as well, Abelon.” Alfador wished to include wishes of good luck on the morrow once he took his tests, but he knew the boy would find him awake. Alfador could scarcely find sleep these days, every time he even managed to shut his eyes, the first thing he saw was a huge moving shadow, before hearing a grating screech, and seeing roaring flames. Only once he took a cup or three of dreamwine would he be spared from the nightmares of bronze flames consuming him whole. 

Diligently, he reopened the tome once he made sure the candlelight beside his bed was lined up to illuminate the pages and cast out any shadows that would obstruct the text he intended to study.

For one to be able to defeat an enemy, he had heard it told, one must gain as much knowledge of the enemy as they could. This enemy would be one whose defeat would take a great effort. Dragons. After what he had endured at the hands of Vhagar, after the devastation he had witnessed as he travelled back to Oldtown once he had been rescued, he had made his mind. They had to go. Aye, it might be petty and vengeful, something Septa Rhaella would surely chastise him for, but the dragons disappearing would bring nothing but peace for the realm. 

None deserved to wield such destructive power. None deserved to have the ability to eviscerate an entire city at any sort of displeasure. Aye, he had admired the Targaryens before, even more so after serving as Vaegon’s acolyte, but all that admiration had curdled in his mouth after witnessing, nay, enduring the desolation that the kinslayer had left in his wake.

Today, he would put the next phase of his plan into motion, Alfador thought, as one of the three maid-servants that worked in the manse came to serve him the morning meal to break his fast. 

His hunger made him forget his shattered back momentarily, and a lance of pain shot through his back as he reached over to grab a piece of bread. Alfador let out a screech of pain that frightened the poor girl who was struggling to pour him a cup of honeyed wine in his dose of the poppy milk. The girl spilled some on the side table next to his bed.

Fuck.

“Forgive me, maester,” the girl said.

“‘Tis no trouble,” Alfador replied, his voice still strained as he recovered from the pain. 

“Please bring me the bed-tray, Matilda,” he rasped out and she rushed to obey. 

He broke his fast with freshly baked buttered oat bread with charred bacon, three hard-boiled eggs and the honeyed wine that was laced with his morning dose of the poppy milk. Egg yolks were for Abelon, he remembered, once he had shelled the first egg. Alfador did not like them anyway.

“Has Abelon left already?” he asked the scullion that came to retrieve the used utensils once he had finished his meal. A relieved breath that he did not know he was holding left him. The pain on his shattered back was no longer as intense as it had been in the night. 

“Not yet,” she replied, “He is making his final preparations in the study.”

“Very well,” he answered, “Take these to him, and wish him the best of luck today.”

Septa Rhaella was next to visit him, her presence always large and looming for such a small woman, her very manner demanding respect, even as she used a cane to assist her in walking. Alfador felt the urge to get up and bow, but he was a cripple now, he could not. Even in her ripe old age, she carried herself with the bearing of a dragonlord, although she never got the chance to be one. 

A thought occurred to him. Septa Rhaella could have been a queen. She had still been a novice when her elder sister died, in her folly of travelling to the wasteland that was Valyria. Were she to have had enough support, she could have reasonably taken the throne from her uncle, who, for all he was known as the Conciliator, had engineered the very war so many had died in these past two years. One choice, one little marriage arrangement, had given another house dragons of their own, ensuring that a civil war would be inevitable once the interests of the two factions diverged. 

From what he knew of her, of which was a lot since Alfador was as much her acolyte as he had been Archmaester Vaegon’s, Rhaella would have certainly secured the future of the realm for years into the future, even past her death. Alas, she was a septa of the Most Devout, her uncle was the king, the war had happened, and it was upon him to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.

“How do you fare?” she asked in her soothing if somewhat raspy voice. 

“I am well,” he answered, “How about you?”

“Well, the pain in my hips is flaring up with the winter, and I still have to attend endless meetings concerning this new sept being built in King’s Landing,” the septa told her.

“Don’t they give aged septas time to rest?”

That snark earned him an eye roll in response.

“What are you reading about?” she asked as she sat on the bed next to him. 

“Dragons.” A darkness glazed the old septa’s eyes, and he regretted saying that. 

“The grief and glory of my house,” she said, simply.

“You could have claimed one for yourself, mayhaps ensured the war did not happen.”

The septa let out a sigh, “That was not my path.” A pregnant silence settled between them as the septa looked deep in thought.

“I didn’t come here to reminisce about my past or potential futures, only to find out if there is anything you need.”

“I have all I could want, thank you.”

“Very well,” she said, getting up.

“Have you seen the archmaester?”

“He’s the one supervising today’s rounds of examination, and thus he had to be at the Citadel at the crack of dawn. I, myself, have to make my way to the Starry Sept,” she informed him, “Have a good day.”

Alfador Flowers returned to devour the tome for the third time already, trying to ensure he mastered the content within. Though not the only volume available in the Citadel, Unnatural History was truly the definitive work concerning dragons. Why and how the old king gave an outsider such unfettered access to his family’s war beasts, he would never understand. But, Alfador was not one to bite the hand that fed him, he would forever thank the old king for his thoughtlessness.

Guilt welled within his belly at the prospect of acting against the kin of the two people who had cared for him most, since he had been discarded for being a bastard. He squashed the thought. Vaegon and Rhaella had not been part of their accursed family for decades. They had been cast aside, just as he had been.

At high noon, one of the maidservants entered his chambers once more.

“There’s a Lord Peake to see you, Maester.”

Finally. 

“Help me up and out of this bed.”

It took a considerable amount of time for him to be rolled out of his bedchamber and towards the main chamber of the manse, where he found the man that would be the tip of the spear for the next phase of his plan. His cousin, the Lord of Starpike, Lord of Dustonbury, Lord of Whitegrove, Unwin Peake. 

“Cousin,” Alfador greeted once they were left alone.

The man only answered with an incline of his head. 

Undaunted, he went on, “It was good of you to come.”

“Aye,” he replied, “You promised a path for our house to rise in prominence once more.”

House Peake had not been his house for a long, long time. His father’s wife had him thrown out of Whitegrove when he was barely ten years old. He cared not a whit about his father’s house, but Unwin would never know that.

“I did,” he replied, “Your house could be intertwined with the royal family for centuries to come, even more so than the Velaryons have been in the past.”

“How?”

“There’s an opening in the Regency Council. Corlys Velaryon is stalling in filling it, awaiting the return of the Targaryens in Tyrosh. Lucky for us, we have allies in the council, allies who could force a vote to fill that place on said council with you.”

Alfador watched in thinly-veiled amusement as he struggled to hide the look of triumph in his eyes. The ability of power to entice, to entrance, to corrupt, had never failed to fascinate him. He had seen it in his years in the Riverlands as lords jockeyed for superiority against each other. It had all culminated in the regional wars that had broken out in the Dance. That was unfortunately a facet of humanity that he could not do away with, even if he tried. He could instead wield it to achieve his own interests.

“What about the Targaryens in Tyrosh?” he asked, “Two of them ride dragons, one of which is the largest remaining one in the world.”

“I have brothers of mine in the Archon’s palace. Sadly, it is heavily fortified after the Dornish tried to assassinate them, and I thus cannot have them dispatched, even if I wished to. Dealing with them will fall to you, I fear.”

Unwin faced him, incredulous, “Me?”

“Aye,” he answered, “Do what Otto Hightower did. Exploit the cracks in relations between them to get what you wish.”

He looked contemplative at that, and Alfador resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His cousin had always been a prideful man. A gesture that he was being mocked would not go over well.

He took a deep breath as he explained, “You can use Alyn Velaryon.”

His face darkened, “The bastard boy?”

“Aye,” he said, “He fears that his place as the next lord of Driftmark will be usurped by his trueborn cousin, a cousin that rides a dragon. He watched as his brother claimed one for himself successfully, while he was almost burned to death in his own attempt. He knows that his cousins have a better claim than he does. Use that. You’re a smart man, I’m sure you’ll find a way how.”

Unwin’s bearing turned resolute. Good.

“Very well,” Unwin said, once they finished their detailed discussions, a couple of hours later, “I’ll head to King’s Landing at once. I assure you, cousin, you will have a place by my side once our family’s apotheosis is complete.”

“Aye,” he lied through his teeth with a smile, “I’m looking forward to it.”

There was a stinging pain on his back by the time his cousin headed out the door, and he promptly asked for another dose of the poppy milk to go along with his second meal of the day. After he was done, he was wheeled over to the Citadel, wherein he got to work. The archmaester in charge of the Citadel’s vast ravenry was old and infirm, and Alfador knew he was the front-runner to replace him. For now, however, unrestricted access to the ravens was all he needed. 

He unlocked one of the white ravens and attached a message addressed to Munkun, whom by Alfador’s own efforts, had been elevated to the prestigious position of Grand Maester.

Now it begins.

Author's Note:
The future Black Pearl has been born. (It seems I might end up featuring all of Aegon’s mistresses, lol). In canon, she was the granddaughter of the Sealord of Braavos, not his daughter. In this timeline, due to butterflies, that Sealord died before he was elected to his position, and his son, (the one named Gyloro Otherys in this story), the one with the summer islander wife, was the one to ascend instead.

Onto the second POV, I do believe that such a plot happened in canon, and it went on successfully. In fact, I believe it was supported by Dragonbane himself. We shall see how things develop here. Oh, and forgive my fanfic pitching in some paragraphs there, lol.

For once, I’m not sure what the next chapter will be. I’m making edits to my outlines to expand the story and change some character paths. All the same, stay tuned, and let me know what you think in the comments or on the Discord.