Ch: 2

King’s Landing

98 AC (Seventh Moon—Day 22) 

Jaehaerys I

The sky had darkened as noon neared, the promise of rain heavy in the air before nightfall swallowed the day.

In his solar, Jaehaerys stood before a window, the clear glass a gift from the bronze-men south of the bastard daughters. Beyond, the storm churned violently at the sea’s edge.

Clouds swelled, twisting and dark, like beasts prowling the heavens. Thunder muttered in the distance, its rumble carried on the western wind, and lightning cracked—bright and sharp as dragonfire against the gloom.

Jaehaerys watched it, still. Empty.

There had been a time, long ago, when grief had not yet hardened into shame or loss. Then, he had loved such storms. They had cleansed the city’s filth, leaving it grand, gleaming, worthy of legends. They had lifted his heart, stirring dreams of a future untainted, a future bold and pure.

Happiness. Love.

…Perhaps peace, or at least its shadow.

Now, older, wearier, the storm offered only ruin. A city still foul with decay, children taken by the Stranger, and the few who remained—scarcely known, scarcely loved. A wife cold in the earth, a keep vast and silent.

Jaehaerys judged himself a failure, both as king and father. Yet it was the latter that stung the deepest, the weight of it a yoke on his soul, breeding dark dreams.

Often—always, now—he wondered what might have been, had his brother not fallen to their mad uncle’s blade. Would his children still be alive, strong and whole? Would his wife still stand by him? Would the realm be better for it?

He shifted, silk robes brushing softly against his skin, a faint echo of comfort now lost to time.

This much he knew: he would have kin yet—maddening, dear, a living din to warm these empty halls.

A soft knock broke his grim thoughts and the storm’s endless drone.

“Your Grace, Prince Maelys requests an audience,” Ser Ryam of Redwyne called from the other side of the door.

Jaehaerys barely moved. The boy came often, at dusk, to check on the old king or to speak of his ventures.

A small thing, one he regretted not cherishing more.

He crossed to his desk and sank into his chair, his expression cold and composed.

“Let him in,” he said, his voice sharp.

The door creaked open, and in stepped his son—tall, lean, silver hair gleaming in the fading sunlight. He wore a deep blue tunic, the three-headed dragon of their house stitched in silver across his chest.

In his hands, he carried a bowl—nuts and berries for his taking.

“Father,” Maelys said, his High Valyrian smooth and lilting. “I trust I do not trespass.”

Jaehaerys studied him, his face a mask of indifference. No flourish, no dread, no strain. The boy never tried to hide his true self.

“You never do,” he replied, though the words felt hollow, a shadow of something once warm, perhaps even laced with mirth.

Maelys didn’t sit immediately. He lingered by the window, eyes drawn to the storm that roiled 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, his gaze pale and distant. “If but for a time,” he echoed.

The king knew there was more his son wished to say. An old matter. Maelys was a man of schemes, always plotting—whether it be mending the sewers or righting countless wrongs.

But Jaehaerys held back, wary.

Maelys, scarcely two decades old, had won the love of the smallfolk and the attention of the nobles in King’s Landing. His ventures brimmed with cunning, his ties stretching to distant lords—some whose blood ran older than their own.

Whispers had begun to spread—soft, but sharp—that perhaps he might be better suited for the throne than his elder brother. The first threads of a faction began to stir.

Jaehaerys would stoke no treason, nor allow kin to turn against kin again. The realm had bled enough, and he with it.

Maelys exhaled and set the bowl before his father, the clink of it faint against the desk. “You’ve not eaten since morning.”

It was not a question.

Jaehaerys let out a tired breath, a quiet exhale through his nose. “I had duties.”

“You always do.” Maelys sat then, leaning forward with his arms braced on his knees. “Father… you cannot survive on ghosts and sorrow alone.”

The king remained silent, choosing quiet over words that could not heal. He picked a handful of berries from the bowl and chewed slowly. Maelys let the silence linger, though it would not endure.

It never did.

“Viserra has come, along with Jaedar,” the boy said, his voice steady, though his eyes flickered to the parchments piled on the king’s desk.

Jaehaerys knew already. His Master of Whispers never allowed such news to escape his attention. He cracked a nut between his teeth, thoughts drifting to his daughter.

She had not been kind to him since Saera’s fall. A wound of his own making—of his decisions, and what he had forbade. He had bound Viserra to wed with nothing but cold command, no softness, only the weight of duty and the dread of further shame.

He regretted it, despised the part of him that had stolen her will, her joy. That Baelon’s shadow had driven him so—she was still so young.

“How fares she?” Jaehaerys asked at length, his voice heavy with years of regret. He met his son’s eyes. “Does Luras treat her well?”

Maelys smiled, though it was faint, tempered—a shadow of warmth, like dawn light struggling through a mist. “She’s glad enough, yet not at ease. Sweetport Sound falters. Trade wanes, the yields…” He paused, his expression shifting. “It’s failing. Viserra would mend it, but answers do not come swiftly.”

The old king studied him, a softness stirring within.

“You mean to aid her.”

Maelys met his gaze, then dipped his head, an unspoken acknowledgment. “Aye, I do.”

He moved the bowl aside and laced his fingers 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 voice calm, yet as sharp as steel. “And Viserra’s past—how she was bound to him—mends nothing.”

Jaehaerys let out a breath, slow and heavy, his heart aching. “That… was no bright hour of mine,” he admitted, the words bitter on his tongue.

“I come not to cast blame, Father,” Maelys replied quickly, his tone softening.

“Then why stand you here?” Jaehaerys’ voice was weary, his eyes dim with age and grief.

“To speak,” the boy answered, his shoulders loosening as he settled into his chair. “To lay my intent before you.” He hesitated for a moment, choosing his words with care. “I seek your counsel, Father. I would not see strife flare where a few words might calm the tide.”

The old king’s gaze remained fixed on him—not probing, not judging—just seeing.

The silence between them thickened. A log split in the hearth, sending embers dancing briefly in the chamber’s gloom, deepened by dusk’s encroaching shadows.

Maelys continued, undeterred. “I would root some of my ventures there.” Rain began to fall, a soft murmur against the stone walls. “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 furrowed, shadows pooling deeper in the lines of his face. “What more?” he asked quietly, his voice low and seeking.

“Farms, orchards, granaries, forges, and the like,” Maelys replied with a shrug, as if these were mere trifles. “A pair of orphanages too—to rear men of skill, sworn deep to House Targaryen.”

The king understood at once, the threads of his son’s plan weaving clear before him. Maelys had once seen the Crown’s power as brittle—too propped on fear, not love. Now, he sought to build a strength beyond the reach of dragonfire, something lasting, something rooted in the people.

Jaehaerys had once thought him green for it. Now, as the tides of fate shifted around him, he began to wonder.

He gave a low hum, his gaze fixed as Maelys continued, tallying his gifts for his sister. Venom cloaked in honey, that was what it was. House Sunglass would bloom, there was no doubt—but in a dozen years, or two, their prosperity would bend to Maelys’ will.

It was not the first time such a scheme had been conceived, but Maelys was the first with the wit, the wealth, and the ambition to make it work.

Yet something lingered… 

He leaned back, sinking into the chair’s embrace. “What do you crave, son, in this life?” His voice cleaved through the lad’s talk, sharp as a dragon’s bellow, steering the wind. “These plans, these notions, these burdens fit for kings—and you bear no crown, no birthright to match.”

Maelys recoiled, subtle, careful, his face briefly still. “I want a family,” he said after a pause, his voice steady. “Children lost to happiness and softer worries. I want lives of comfort, wealth and luxuries that demand no sacrifice. I want a legacy, the adoration of the masses. Earned through goodwill and respect.”

Jaehaerys dragged his tongue along his teeth, a bitter tension knotting his chest. Scorn and a flicker of pride warred within him.

Maelys was… rare. Flawless, near enough. The lad possessed the hunger, the wit, the steadfastness, and the relentless drive Jaehaerys himself had once lacked. He had the makings of greatness—of something far grander than Jaehaerys had ever dreamed.

“Do you want the throne?” he asked at last, his voice thick with a shadow he could not name.

Baelon had never craved it—not truly. He wore the heir’s mantle for the sake of duty, and duty alone held no fire. That was why Jaehaerys lingered on the matter, why the thought gnawed at him in the long, quiet 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 clearly now.

The boy did not flinch. “Not as it stands,” Maelys answered, a thread of mirth lacing his tone.

Jaehaerys had braced for a sidestep, a denial, perhaps a feigned humility—but not this. The answer struck him strangely, and for that, it stirred something deep within.

“Speak plainly,” Jaehaerys said, his voice low, urging clarity.

“It’s the succession,” Maelys began, “or the lack of it. Maegor’s ruin should have begotten laws to bar the Conqueror’s errors anew.”

Jaehaerys’ lips twitched, but his son did not notice—the faint amusement lost on him.

Maelys continued, unyielding. “That war’s end was a chance, Father. 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 deeply. “But you did not. Worse still, you let Aemon tangle it further, and now we have ‘The Queen Who Never Was.’”

A bitterness welled in Jaehaerys’ chest, his face tightening, but he did not lash out. His son spoke no fresh wound—only old regrets, a heap of them. Yet Jaehaerys swallowed the storm inside, keeping it at bay.

A breath passed, then he spoke, his voice quiet, but firm. “Would you have had me crown Rhaenys?” he asked.

Maelys shook his head, swift and sure. “No,” he replied. “Beyond the Velaryon knot, there’s the matter of the realm’s stomach for it.” A faint smile, cold as winter’s edge, curved his lips. “The lords would prod her, flout her, scorn her, or wield her. Not for lack of skill, but out of 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, his voice hard. “I’d hear it.”

“You should’ve urged Aemon to sire more heirs,” Maelys said, his eyes briefly flicking to the bowl before him. “Failing that, wed Rhaenys within the blood—with a dragon to her name. Viserys would’ve served.”

Jaehaerys shook his head; that road was well-worn and known to him. “Answers for now, boy.”

Maelys faltered, a rare hesitation creeping into his voice. “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 deep breath, and let his mind roam past the present, to the echoes of his past 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 small gift.

But 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 fit 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, his voice pitched to carry across the tension in the room. Understanding stirred within him, but it bent not to accord. “I’ll grant you lands,” he said, his tone firm, “east of Massey’s Hook, south of the peaks, before the Kingswood’s edge.”

Jaehaerys clasped his hands behind his back. The gift was no golden prize—he knew it well—but it was a test. He wanted to see Maelys’s mettle. “Your works in King’s Landing may take root as well.”

A twinge of guilt gnawed at his chest. He shoved it down.

A stillness settled over them, heavy as mist. Then Maelys cut through it, his voice smooth as polished stone. “Do you deem this prudent, Father? What of Baelon’s sway?”

No shock in that question. No surprise in the tone.

“Would you bend to him?” Jaehaerys asked, his gaze unwavering.

The answer came swift, with no hesitation. “No.”

“Then lands you’ll have,” Jaehaerys said again. “Your labors go free, so long as they cross no lord’s writ in plain sight.”

Maelys stirred, his expression unreadable. “I would 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.”

Jaehaerys turned to face Maelys then, whose mouth twisted in a grimace that betrayed more than he intended. But the king paid it no heed.

“Do you know why Aegon—your great-grandsire—took Westeros?” Jaehaerys asked, his voice quiet, yet carrying the weight of history.

Maelys looked at him, brow furrowed, considering. “For a legacy to echo? Or some higher call?”

“Some of each,” the king answered. “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.”

Maelys watched him, unease flickering in his eyes—doubt, perhaps. “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, his gaze intent.

“The Long Night,” Maelys replied, his voice thoughtful.

Jaehaerys nodded, his thoughts heavy. “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,” Maelys said, as though trying to remember some ancient truth.

“The First Men were scant, and the green seers stood with them. Even so, the Ice gnashed ever forward,” Jaehaerys replied, his voice tinged with regret. “We have no such grace. We are many, yes, but broken—and no aid will rise from myth, save what our dragons lend.”

A deep quiet fell, thick and unbroken, until Jaehaerys clove it once more. “Do you grasp what I say, son?”

Maelys tilted his head, his expression contemplative. “We owe a debt to our blood.”

“Aye,” Jaehaerys said, his gaze steady. “And a chance to hammer a name finer, braver than Old Valyria’s own.”

Maelys’ mouth tightened. “You’ve told Baelon this?”

“Yes,” Jaehaerys said, his voice unwavering.

It was a simple answer, yet it bore the weight of a thousand unspoken things—a shift, sharp and deep. The truth of it settled in the room like an omen.

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.” Maelys’ reply came as foreseen, and Jaehaerys 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.