Ch: 3

King’s Landing 

98 AC (Seventh Moon—Day 29) 

Viserra II

The chamber smelled of old dust and melted wax, the air thick with the scent of parchment left too long untouched. Maps were scattered across the table, their corners curled, ink faded and smudged—some drawn before the Freehold fell, their borders marked by hands long gone to dust.

Maelys stood over them, shoulders tense, muttering under his breath as if the land itself mocked him from across the ink-stained paper.

“Strange name, don’t you think?” he said, voice rough, as if carrying the weight of some private grievance. His fingers traced the edge of a curling map.

Viserra sat across from him, still and silent, the flicker of candlelight catching the pale strands in her hair—an unmistakable mark of their line, old as the first dragons.

There was complaint in his tone, but something sharper in his eyes—bright, restless, charged with the kind of hunger that could build or destroy. He’d already sent word across the city: masons, smiths, even common laborers were being summoned, all meant to stack stone atop his ambition.

“No,” she said, flatly, though he hadn’t asked. “It fits—what you plan for our kin. The ones still in chains across the sea.”

He looked up, one brow raised, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Gael’s been talking out of turn?”

He let the parchment fall—an outline of houses jagged as teeth, drawn with the eye of someone who’d seen too much from too high.

Viserra’s gaze lingered on the sketch, something stirring in her chest. But she forced her attention back to him. “I’ll keep it to myself,” she said quietly. “But where were you planning to send them? Before this idea took hold?”

Another question lingered beneath: Was this your plan all along?

He waved it off, eyes flicking to the candle’s unsteady flame. “No point guarding it. Word will spread. Won’t matter.” He leaned back, the chair groaning under him, and scratched at his jaw. “Had half a dozen sites in mind.”

She waited. He said nothing more.

Irritation bubbled up, then faded into a quiet sigh. “Why must you make everything so damn difficult, Maelys?” The day’s weight settled across her shoulders.

He grinned—narrow, sharp. His fingers tapped against the table, a slow, rhythmic thud like distant marching.

“Not knowing spares you the disappointment,” he said.

She rolled her eyes—small resistance, but she let the rest go. He’d talk when it suited him. Instead, she pulled a parchment from the pile. The ink was fresh, the margins tight with scribbled notes and revisions, each one heavy with intent.

She read it. Then read it again, frowning.

“This is for King’s Landing.”

She looked up. Maelys had already turned away, pouring wine from a flagon on the side table. Red, thick, sweet-scented. He didn’t pour her a cup.

“Aye,” he said, raising his own. “Father wants the city… cleansed.”

“Fixed,” she said.

He shrugged—a lazy, rolling gesture. “Same difference.” He drank, slow and deliberate, though his eyes gave nothing away. Flat. Cold. Like stone in deep winter. “He told me to see it done. I said yes.”

“That burden should fall to Baelon.” Bitterness edged her words before she could dull them, and his quick glance made it clear he’d noticed.

But he let it pass. “Dragonstone’s got its grip on him. Not easy to rule that place—especially with the Velaryons stirring up trouble.” He eased back into his seat, all feigned ease and languid grace.

Viserra narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t fooled. “Don’t twist the thread, Maelys.”

Still, she tucked the comment away—Velaryons. Worth pulling at later.

“Why you?” she asked. “You’ve got your own settlement to build.”

“Not starting tomorrow, sweet sister.” His voice dropped, sharp and deliberate. “I’m building the path—small work for small men. The hard parts fall to me.”

He took the parchment from her hand, glanced at it, and tossed it back without care. “Why Father chose me? That’s my secret to keep.”

She leveled a look at him—hard, unimpressed. He didn’t bother answering it.

Doubt stirred, quiet but steady. He seemed too calm, too certain—not a man under a mad king’s thumb. Perhaps there was no madness in their father’s order. Only intent.

She shook the thought off. She hadn’t come for riddles.

“There’s something else,” she said, her tone softening. “I came to thank you—for what you’ve done.”

A tired smile flickered onto her face, small but sincere. His aides had hounded her with their quills and questions, tireless in their detail. But she saw the shape of it now—Maelys held steady, his work handled with precision. Perhaps there was something to learn from it. Perhaps even her own half-formed schemes could benefit from a Yi Ti trick or two.

Her words caught him, though he hid it poorly. “No need,” he muttered, a flush rising. “That’s what family’s for.”

He looked away, eyes drifting toward a painting on the far wall—simple folk rendered in soft brushstrokes, caught in a moment of ordinary life. He didn’t meet her gaze.

She nearly laughed. Only he and Gael ever believed in such things.

A knock broke the silence—dull and low. The door creaked open, and two servants entered: a boy with high cheeks and a silver-streaked woman, both in tight, finely cut robes.

Maelys jabbed a finger at the table, at the scatter of vellum and wax. “Take it all,” he snapped, voice cutting clean through the room. Then he turned on his heel, boots striking stone as he strode toward the door.

“Rest easy, sister,” he called back—sharp, abrupt, already vanishing into the hall’s dark throat.

She watched him go.

Mad, that one.

Viserra lingered after Maelys’s footsteps had faded, the silence settling in—thick, unmoving, like the dust covering every map in sight. Her smile had vanished, buried beneath the weight of his ambitions—too vast for the filth of King’s Landing, too sharp for a prince newly granted Havenhall.

With a sigh, she pushed to her feet, joints stiff from the long sitting. At the window, the glass warped the view into uneven patches of grey and orange. The city sprawled beneath a dimming sky, its torches flickering weakly—like hope left too long in the rain.

She heard the soft tread of boots behind her—likely a maid, until a gentle voice called out.

“Still here?”

Gael stepped into view, candlelight brushing across her pale hair—so like Maelys’s, but her eyes held more warmth, less fire. Her grey gown hung heavy on her frame, the hem streaked with city grime. Strange for a princess, even one bound to a forgotten seat like Havenhall.

Viserra turned, folding her arms. “He kept me longer than I meant to stay.”

Gael’s mouth curved, subtle. “He does that—says more with silences than with speech.” She approached the table, fingertips skimming the scattered parchments, as if listening for what they’d refused to say aloud. “Father’s given him plenty to carry.”

“Two loads, by my count,” Viserra said, her voice dry. “The filth of King’s Landing to clean, and Havenhall to breathe life into—empty lands with the Kingswood looming beside.”

Gael nodded, studying one of Maelys’s discarded sketches: houses clustered by the forest’s edge, drawn with a builder’s eye for strength. “He doesn’t flinch. I’ve seen him pacing the halls, muttering about docks and shelters, about bringing people in.”

Viserra scoffed. “He’s dreaming if he thinks it’ll come easy. This city’s rotted to its bones, and Havenhall’s just a name—no one there knows what to make of him except that he’s royal.”

Gael looked up, gaze calm but certain. “They’ll know soon enough. His ships will dock, and out will come kin from across the sea—Valyrians, freedmen, blood stretched thin but still ours. That’s how he means to fill the place.”

Viserra frowned. “He hinted at that—just enough to stir the air. You’ve heard more?”

“More than he’s aware I have,” Gael replied, idly spinning a quill between her fingers. “He imagines sails thick in the bay, workers pouring out. Havenhall as a fresh hearth for old blood.”

Viserra’s brow arched. “And Father approves?”

Her tone was edged—more caution than disbelief.

Gael shrugged, as easily as Maelys might have. “Father’s nod, or Father’s whim—it matters little. Jaehaerys wants peace, no ripples to trouble our blood. But Maelys… he looks farther.”

“Always farther,” Viserra muttered, stepping closer to peer at the map Gael had nudged—a faint blot for Havenhall beside the tangled green of the Kingswood, Massey’s holdings sitting quiet and unimposing. “No quarrel with Massey, then. What’s the catch?”

“Outlaws in the wood bite at the edges,” Gael said, letting the quill drop with a click. “Thieves bold enough to test a prince’s reach. He’s sent steel—nothing serious. The real stir comes from the lords—his dealings in Essos leave a bitter taste.”

Viserra snorted. “Slavers. Dangerous bedfellows for a prince. They’ll soil his name, wait and watch.”

“He’s been at their tables longer than they know,” Gael replied evenly. “Coin, labor, stone—he’s laid the groundwork since before he could grow a beard. The port will rise; he’s already stitched it tight.”

Viserra’s gaze narrowed, sliding down to Gael’s mud-streaked skirts. “And this filth? You’ve been crawling through the gutters?”

Gael followed her eyes and brushed at the grime without concern. “Tending the broken,” she said lightly. “Soup kitchens mostly—Maelys’s idea, but mine now too. We’ve a few in Fleabottom. Bread, broth, clean water. Keeps bellies full. Keeps the people’s tongues kind.”

Viserra’s lip curled, a reflex of breeding. “Pointless,” she said, voice clipped. “Feed the poor and they only beg louder.”

Gael tilted her head, her smile faint but unyielding. “You’ve been away too long. They don’t beg—they cheer. Maelys walks their streets, and they call his name. Mine too, sometimes. The food costs little. Their love, less. But it lingers.”

Viserra faltered, the words striking something unsteady. Sweetport Sound had distanced her from King’s Landing’s rot—and its murmurs. She’d heard no tales of adoration. “Charity,” she said at last, the word bitter in her mouth. “A pastime for tender fools. What does it buy?”

“Loyalty,” Gael answered plainly. “Not the kind traded in gold, but the kind rooted deep. Maelys understands. He always has. Since we were children—his schemes, my ladle.”

Viserra exhaled, a sound between scoff and sigh. “You’re both touched. Jaehaerys’s golden heirs, slinging stew for a crown of clamor.”

“Mayhap,” Gael said, smile still intact. “But the crown will be ours to wield.”

The candlelight waned, wax trailing down the holders in thick, slow drops. Viserra glanced at the door, weariness crawling beneath her skin like ivy. “I’m for bed,” she muttered. “You’d best follow—crawl into your husband’s bed. Maybe he’ll manage to pluck your maidenhead this time.”

Gael laughed softly, hiding it behind her wrist. “A week more, sister,” she said, eyes gleaming in the dim. “Then I’ll be a woman—legs shaking, womb ready to quicken. You’ll see.”