Ch: 12

King’s Landing

98 AC (Ninth Moon—Day 29)

Jaehaerys III

Jaehaerys sat motionless, his back settled against the cushioned chair, the familiar pressure easing the dull ache in his spine. For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the small comfort—such indulgences meant more now than they once had. Perhaps tonight he would soak in the hot springs, let the warmth soothe the strain of the day.

A tempting notion.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and gave a single shake of the head. No. A king had little room for luxury, and even less for idle reflection. With effort, he turned his attention back to matters at hand. The first was not complicated, but it demanded precision: Daemon’s future—or more precisely, his continued, unwed status.

Alysanne had voiced her concerns often, pressing for a suitable match for their unruly grandson. She understood, as he did, that the pool of acceptable brides had thinned considerably.

The Royce girl had once seemed a good match—composed, well-born, and possibly able to weather Daemon’s fire. But that road was closed; she had been promised to one of Lord Arryn’s heirs.

No great loss, in truth. The Eyrie remained firmly tied to House Targaryen, its loyalty sealed through his late daughter’s marriage and reinforced by Maelys’ service against the mountain clans. That respect had been hard-earned—and it endured.

Yet mention of the Vale pulled his thoughts elsewhere, not without reason. The mountain clans remained a blight on the region’s stability. His brow furrowed in irritation. Their presence frayed the peace and throttled the Vale’s potential.

He’d long believed the clans were the reason its rich veins of ore remained underused. Mining should have flourished, but fear had kept it idle. Still, recent signs near the Eyrie hinted at progress—minor, but perceptible to those paying attention. It all pointed to one solution: clear the mountains of the clans, and the Vale would bleed iron and coin.

He could see it now. Ore streaming from the peaks, feeding forges, arming battalions, building roads. A flood of metal and wealth flowing into the realm’s foundation.

The idea settled—quiet, patient. Not for now. Later, perhaps under Viserys. A campaign for the second heir to lead early, one that could solidify his rule. Viserys, straightforward as he was, would need such victories laid before him—crafted to appear his own.

But Daemon.

Jaehaerys brought his thoughts back into focus.

He hadn’t yet chosen a house for the match, but the decision could not be delayed. Daemon must marry. If left to Baelon—or worse, Viserys—the boy would be indulged, given freedom out of misplaced affection.

And Daemon, untethered, would twist that freedom into chaos. Of that, Jaehaerys was certain.

He would prevent that future before it had the chance to take shape.

The course he was about to chart would carry weight—dangerous weight. It would feed Daemon’s ambition, raise his expectations, stir hopes. Once sparked, those flames would not be easily contained. That was the true threat—not the act, but the wildfire it could ignite in weaker reigns.

His command had to be absolute, immune to revision. What he set in motion now must endure, proof against gentler kings to come.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his lined face in a raw, unguarded motion. He no longer cared how such moments looked.

Maelys had been right, at least in part, about Aemon. There, Jaehaerys had erred.

But what his son failed to grasp was that the king’s name still held weight. His authority still bent the lords’ knees. The realm’s strength had not yet faded beyond repair. It could still be steered—difficult, yes, but not impossible.

Corlys Velaryon would be honored. His voyages had spread Westerosi names across half the known world, and the great lords—vain creatures that they were—respected such fame.

But Rhaenys…

He sighed.

…she would need careful words, strong reassurances, perhaps even a formal pledge veiled in courtesy. Her pride had sharp edges.

The gesture he considered was no small matter—a princely title, a reordering of rank and precedent. House Velaryon’s long-standing loyalty and unbroken Valyrian heritage softened the blow. It would not seem entirely alien.

The challenge wasn’t in granting the title—it was in what came with it. And what it implied.

This was no echo of Maelys’ case. His son’s elevation remained within the Targaryen fold—a new branch, still bound to the root.

But the Velaryons? What Jaehaerys contemplated would grant them near-independence. Not in name, but in truth. They would no longer bow to the Iron Throne in daily affairs, not truly. And for that alone, he would not allow dragonriders among them.

Dragons were sovereignty incarnate, and such power must remain under the Red Keep’s watchful eye.

The thought lingered. Perhaps the time had come to codify the matter—to bind the rights and roles of dragonriders not only in tradition, but in law. Statutes, declarations: who might claim a dragon, what limits they must obey. A notion ahead of its time, perhaps—but one that needed planting.

A knock at the door broke the silence.

“Enter,” Jaehaerys said, barely shifting his gaze, still adrift in visions of flight and flame.

The door opened, and Maelys stepped inside—well-dressed, though not perfectly so. Jaehaerys noted the flush at his neck, the slight disarray in his silver hair. Not quite presentable. A moment interrupted, perhaps. Or company just departed.

“You sent for me, Father?” Maelys asked, taking a seat without waiting for leave. A flicker of relief crossed his face—brief, but noticeable. Jaehaerys caught it, wondering what he’d expected. He let the thought pass.

“I did,” the king replied evenly. He kept his tone neutral when dealing with his son. “Though I didn’t expect you quite so fast.”

Maelys frowned, a flash of annoyance passing over his features. “I was told the matter was urgent.”

It might be, depending on one’s perspective.

“Not critically,” Jaehaerys said, lacing his fingers in his lap. “Still, your haste does no harm.” He regarded his son. “Unless I’ve interrupted something… inopportune?”

Maelys hesitated, his teeth brushing his lower lip. “You could say that. But it’s not something I’d care to discuss with my father.”

Jaehaerys considered the words, parsing them with practiced care. When their implication settled, his brow lifted—not in censure, but with mild curiosity and restrained amusement.

“Not wise,” he said, a dry note in his voice, “to indulge too freely with a woman well along—”

Maelys cut him off with a raised hand, the other pressing to the bridge of his nose. The gesture carried strain, yes—but also something rarer. Embarrassment.

“Please, Father.”

Not a denial. Jaehaerys let the faint smile curl his lips. Courtiers often whispered rumors about Maelys—jokes cloaked as jabs, innuendo spoken behind fans and goblets. Yet here was proof: whatever his appetites, his passion for his wife was unshaken.

Better that, the king thought, than lukewarm fidelity.

“Then I’ll spare you the advice,” he said, arching a brow as he shifted in his seat. “As for why I called you—know that I’ll need your counsel more often in the coming moons. Your cunning. Your judgment.”

Maelys was quiet for a beat, the silence not heavy but thoughtful. He met his father’s eyes. “The septon—is he dead?”

Jaehaerys’ brow rose, though his reply was immediate.

“Not yet. Still breathing. But I doubt he’ll see the dawn.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Maelys’ face—small, but telling. The king noted it, wondering whether the reaction was genuine or artful. With Maelys’ men stationed near the Hand’s Tower, it was unlikely he was unaware of Barth’s condition.

As if sensing the doubt, Maelys offered an explanation. “I’ve many irons in the fire, Father. If I tried to oversee each one, I’d never sleep. I value results—especially when the work doesn’t require my constant hand.”

His tone was open, his reasoning sound. Jaehaerys inclined his head, a rare gesture of approval.

“Still,” Maelys added, his voice gentling, “it saddens me to hear. Gael will take it hard.”

“Yes,” Jaehaerys agreed. “But to the real matter—I need your answer, Maelys.”

“I’m not unwilling,” Maelys replied—perhaps a little too quickly. “But may I ask your aim?”

The king didn’t mind the boldness. “Several aims,” he said, then paused, working his jaw. “Your words—the old ones—they linger with me. They haunt me, truth be told.”

It wasn’t a figure of speech. At night, he dreamt of Alysanne and their children, heads shaking, eyes filled with reproach. A king should leave a legacy, not a ledger of regrets. He shifted in his chair, the air thickening.

“I’m trying,” he said at last, slowly, “to repair what I can.”

Maelys opened his mouth, then hesitated. His brow creased as he exhaled. “That’s… admirable, I suppose. But I don’t see how much can be fixed now.”

A fair point. Maelys understood systems, outcomes. But he lacked the years to see how sentiment could undo logic.

“I mean to raise House Velaryon,” Jaehaerys said. “For their loyalty. For their blood. I would grant them a princely title. Perhaps even gift them a Valyrian blade.”

The silence that followed was profound. Maelys stared at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Disbelief, pure and unguarded.

The king didn’t fault him for it. It was a monumental promise—one with deeper implications yet to be spoken.

Even a Valyrian sword was no small gift. House Targaryen had no shortage of such steel, yet to part with one was never done lightly. And acquiring another—true Valyrian steel—was almost impossible.

This was no small favor. It wasn’t a token gesture to smooth over pride. The move carried real weight—enough to shift the balance of power. If Corlys and Rhaenys received it with grace, it could strengthen the realm. But if they took offense or reached too far, it might spark more trouble than it solved.

The throne would soon pass to Baelon, then to Viserys. Jaehaerys had to blunt every thorn he could before that day arrived.

“I…” Maelys began, then stopped himself. He took a slow breath, his expression guarded as he looked at Jaehaerys.

“It’s a risky move, Father. I’d strongly advise against it.”

“You see no gain in it?”

“There’s gain,” Maelys answered quickly. “Plenty. But…” His jaw tightened, and his fingers curled at his sides. “I don’t like it.”

A king had little patience for personal misgivings.

Jaehaerys rarely tolerated such sentiments—especially not from someone so deeply woven into the realm’s affairs. This move likely disrupted one of Maelys’ designs. It always seemed to. That was the price of weaving constant schemes.

Still, he was curious. What had Maelys planned for the Velaryons? Did it relate to that naval initiative he’d given up so easily? Jaehaerys had never understood why his son had traded away such a powerful asset for what seemed like a minor gain.

It still irritated him. But Maelys’ influence earned him certain freedoms—and that, too, was the burden of rule.

“Your feelings on the matter don’t change its course,” Jaehaerys said calmly. “The decision is made. Only the details remain. This will bind our houses closer—without reopening Rhaenys’ claim.”

Maelys didn’t flinch, though a faint tension pulled at his eyes.

“You mean it as a tribute to their bloodline, not their grievances?”

Jaehaerys allowed himself a faint smile.

“Exactly. A nod to old kinship, not old wounds. It has nothing to do with Corlys’ ambitions. Nothing to do with Rhaenys.”

What went unsaid hung just as heavy: even if some lords saw it as a balm for past wrongs, few would dare to challenge it.

A royal title was no small gift, but not one easily duplicated. None would cry foul too loudly. They’d watch, wait, maybe hope for their own turn—but few would dare make demands.

“Corlys will want more,” Maelys said eventually, his tone neutral, analytical. “He’ll see this as an opening—a path to bargain for a match between Laenor and Rhaenyra.”

“Then it’s well I intend to clarify the succession,” Jaehaerys replied, without hesitation.

Maelys blinked—surprised, if only briefly. “You do?”

“I do. A proper structure. Clear lines. Contingencies.” Jaehaerys leaned forward, voice steady. “Runciter will draft the formal writs. I’ll fold in your recommendations, give them urgency, and anchor them in law. A council of lords will swear to them. A little ceremony to lend weight.”

There was no reason to hide it from Maelys. Still, the plan’s survival would depend on sleight of hand—layering it in enough piety and prudence to keep the Faith at ease while concealing its deeper intent.

Maelys stilled, quiet in body though clearly turning it over in his mind. Jaehaerys watched it happen—the flicker of thought behind the stillness. Then a grimace crossed his face.

“It’s clever,” he admitted, not grudgingly. “Not as rigid as I’d prefer—but strong enough.”

A pause.

“Let me ask—have you considered the risk of fools claiming the throne?” His gaze locked on his father’s. “If succession is tied too tightly to doctrine, a vain or dim heir might wear the crown, shielded by faith and law. And who would dare oppose them, for fear of being branded heretic?”

Jaehaerys hummed, considering. A fair point. And a troubling one. He shook his head.

“It isn’t fixed yet. There’s room to adjust—to thread those subtleties.” He shifted in his seat. “But that’s not the only reason I summoned you.”

Maelys raised an eyebrow.

“I want to discuss how we strengthen House Targaryen’s hold on Westeros—not just through dragons or titles, but through reach, infrastructure, permanence.”

A spark lit in Maelys’ eyes—genuine, unguarded excitement. For a moment, Jaehaerys was taken aback. The boy rarely let his thoughts show so plainly. It almost warmed him.

“This excites you,” he said softly.

“I’d thought you too cautious for such ambition,” Maelys said, a trace of wonder in his voice.

Perhaps that explained his preference for secrecy—the quiet maneuvers, the masked intentions. The Riverlands came to mind. Lords still grumbled over those dams—each now demanding the same works that had enriched their rivals.

Fishing thrived. Floods were controlled. Irrigation had transformed the land. Sawmills and granaries had risen. Trade had boomed—even Northern merchants came south. The realm had benefited.

But every gain cast a shadow. Jaehaerys knew that better than most.

The imbalance lingered. Maelys had made his pact with Grover Tully alone. Only his chosen bannermen had prospered. The rest had been left out, bitter and watching. The fact no blood had been spilled was a marvel—

—Bracken and Blackwood excluded.

“What would you focus on first?” Maelys asked, alert.

“The wealth of the Crownlands,” Jaehaerys answered, thoughtful. “I want them strong—self-reliant, confident. Not leaning on other realms, but standing on their own.”

Maelys frowned, considering. “Not a simple task. Decrees won’t cut it. You’ll need works—real ones—for the smallfolk. Laws. Draftsmen. Lordly support. Halls. Training. And…”

He trailed off—not lost, just swept up in the tide of thought. His words picked up speed, no longer aimed at Jaehaerys, but drawn from within. He spoke of guilds and monopolies, of chartered ventures with exclusive rights. Ministries for farming. Funds for mining. Incentives for craftsmen. Oversight to prevent corruption.

Jaehaerys listened in silence. He’d learned long ago that when Maelys’ mind was on fire, best to let it burn uninterrupted.

After hours of discussion and revision, they arrived at a single, decisive move: the creation of a royal Crown Bank.

It would be the foundation—a treasury untethered from lords’ whims, ready to fund great projects, stabilize the realm’s finances, and support the people of the Crownlands. A long road awaited it. But once established, it would support all else.

Jaehaerys felt the gravity of it. He knew, then, it would likely outlive him.

Then came the revelation.

With gentle prodding—then firmer insistence—Jaehaerys finally got Maelys to reveal the full extent of his wealth. Calmly, almost clinically, Maelys described a fleet under his command: thirty merchant ships and ten warships, all built in Braavos.

Jaehaerys nearly choked.

Then came the tally. Investments. Ventures. Ready gold.

His blood stirred.

“You’re sure of that sum?” he asked, his voice low.

Maelys remained composed, though tension edged his control. He nodded. “A cautious estimate. It varies with the seasons and trade routes.”

Jaehaerys went quiet, eyes fixed on the hearth’s dying glow. Thirty merchant ships. Ten warships. A fortune to rival any great house, hidden by silence—whether from prudence or strategy.

And all of it from the boy who had once wept beside Aemon’s pyre.

“…A bank,” he said quietly. “One belonging only to the Crown.”

“With independent records, fair rates, and handpicked stewards,” Maelys replied, steady. “It could lend to nobles, fund royal projects, stabilize coin, even manage food reserves. In time, it could replace the Free Cities’ banks. Make us truly sovereign.”

Jaehaerys felt the sting of admiration—and the chill of realization. This hadn’t been a fresh idea. It had been brewing for years, perhaps already unfolding in silence.

But the potential was real. For the Crownlands. For the throne.

And for the weight that came with it.

“When did you plan to speak of this?” he asked flatly.

“When it mattered,” Maelys said simply. “Which, it seems, is now.”

Jaehaerys exhaled slowly, then nodded once.

“Yes. Now it matters indeed.”