Deep__Aureate
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Chapter 51 Way
🕑 Added 2025-08-13 15:02:19 +0000 UTC94 AC
Driftmark Castle, Morning
Lord Corlys Velaryon strode through the sunlit corridor. A pair of maids stood near the doorway ahead, speaking in hushed tones.
At the sight of him, their chatter died instantly, and they straightened.
"Is the lady well?" Corlys asked, his brow furrowed.
"Yes, my lord," one of the maids replied quickly. "She is inside."
He gave a short nod and pushed the door open.
Inside, the chamber was warm, the morning light spilling across the bed where Lady Rhaenys sat propped against the pillows. A gentle smile curved her lips. Two maids hovered nearby, their own smiles betraying excitement. The maester of Driftmark stood at the foot of the bed, hands folded and seemed oddly pleased.
Corlys crossed the threshold, his concern plain. "What happened? I was told you fell sick after breakfast."
Rhaenys’ eyes met his, calm but amused. "Yes… I was," she said softly.
He frowned slightly, glancing toward the maester for answers.
The old man’s face broke into a smile. "It is good news, my lord. You will soon be expecting your second child."
For a heartbeat, Corlys stilled. The words seemed to take a moment to anchor in his mind. Then his surprise gave way to a flash of joy. He turned back to Rhaenys, seeking confirmation in her eyes.
She nodded, her smile deepening.
A slow breath left him, his shoulders loosening as warmth spread through his chest. Then he crossed to the bed, the maids and maester exchanging discreet glances before quietly withdrawing, leaving husband and wife alone.
Corlys took her hand gently, the coolness of her skin soft against his calloused fingers, and kissed it.
"You have given me a wonderful surprise, my lady."
Rhaenys’ cheeks flushed faintly, though her tone carried her usual wit. "A surprise I doubt you will complain about."
He chuckled, sitting at her side. "Not in the slightest. In fact, I may boast about it to every soul in the castle by nightfall."
"Please don’t," she murmured, though her smile betrayed no true objection.
Before he could reply, a soft knock sounded at the door. Corlys glanced over his shoulder, impatience flickering briefly at the interruption.
The door opened a crack, revealing a maid holding a fair-haired toddler in her arms.
Laena’s bright eyes lit up the moment she saw them. "Mama!" she squealed, reaching out with eager little hands.
Rhaenys’ face softened instantly. She extended her arms, and the maid stepped forward to place the one-year-old in her mother’s embrace.
Laena squirmed happily, patting at her mother’s gown before tucking herself close.
Corlys leaned closer, brushing a hand over his daughter’s soft curls. "Laena," he said with a teasing smile, "you are going to have a little brother or sister soon."
The toddler blinked at him, then made a delighted sound and lunged for his beard with small, determined fingers.
Rhaenys laughed, a clear, warm sound. "She has no idea what you’ve just told her."
"All the better," Corlys said, gently prying her grip loose.
The child babbled something unintelligible, but the cheer in her voice made both parents smile.
Corlys rested a hand on Rhaenys’ knee. "You’ve done more for me than I could have dreamed, Rhaenys. First Laena, and now…" He glanced down at his wife’s still-flat stomach with quiet pride. "Our house will be stronger for it."
"And noisier," she added dryly.
"Perhaps," he admitted with a faint grin. "But I’ll not complain of that either."
Laena began patting insistently at her mother’s collarbone, fingers catching at her necklace. Rhaenys shifted her to a more comfortable hold.
"You should rest," Corlys said softly.
"I will," she promised, "after someone takes Laena for a walk before she decides my necklace is a snack."
Corlys stood, taking the little girl from her arms. Laena reached back toward her mother but soon busied herself trying to grab the gold chain that hung loosely around his neck.
"I’ll take her down to the hall," he said, steadying the child on his hip. "And perhaps begin deciding whether I should hope for another daughter… or a son."
Rhaenys gave him a pointed look. "You will be happy either way."
Corlys paused briefly, then smiled, inclining his head. "That I will."
He left with Laena chattering against his shoulder, her bright voice fading into the corridor, leaving Rhaenys in the warm quiet of her chamber, her hand unconsciously resting on her stomach as her smile lingered.
King's Landing, Grand Sept
The scent of incense and beeswax candles lingered in the air.
From his seat in the shadowed corner near a pillar, an old man in plain grey robes watched the faithful move like a slow tide: kneeling, murmuring prayers, leaving coins in the alms box, before slipping away into the streets.
He was one of the Most Devout. Age had stooped his shoulders, but it had also taught him the value of appearances. He wore the humility of a common servant of the Seven like a second skin. Few would guess how much influence he wielded beneath the High Septon himself.
Soft but deliberate footsteps drew near. A younger septon halted before him, bowing low. “Most Devout”
The old man nodded his head in acknowledgment. “Septon.”
The younger stepped closer, keeping his voice beneath the rustle of the worshippers.
“The brothers have begun spreading the rumors again… but altered, as you commanded. This time, there is no direct naming of the prince. The words pass only through our septons in the villages, far from the notice of the Crown.”
A faint narrowing of the old man’s eyes. “And?”
“How long must we remain like this?” the younger whispered. “If not for that traitor Barth, we would have already branded the pyromancer as a heretic. But no, Barth stood before the High Septon himself and urged him to sanctify the boy. To bless his sorcery in the name of truth.”
The younger septon’s tone carried unshaken conviction.
“Patience,” the old Most Devout answered, his voice slow and deliberate.
The younger man’s jaw tightened. “The High Septon may not have agreed to Barth’s request, but he promised Barth such talk, our talk, would no longer be spread among the brothers.”
The old man’s gaze shifted to the great altar at the far end of the hall, but his mind drifted elsewhere, to the moment when the High Septon had summoned him in private.
He had looked him in the eye, voice calm but firm: I know you are the hand that guides these whispers. They will cease, or I will be forced to give Barth what he asks.
Behind Barth, the King himself had applied his quiet pressure. And even this old wolf knew when not to bare his teeth. Sanctifying Aegon under the Faith was something he could not allow, so he had bowed to the High Septon’s will. Outwardly, at least.
The younger septon shifted again, restless. “So now the truth…the horrors of Old Valyria and its pyromancers…will be told without naming him. But it is useless. The royal family stands at the height of its power. Dragons fill the skies. Who will heed such talk when the fire-blooded sit so firmly on the throne?”
The old man turned his head slightly, just enough for the younger to catch the faintest curl of a smile: cold, patient and certain.
“Perhaps no one will heed them now,” he murmured. “Perhaps they are nothing but idle tales told in country septs, shared over cups of watered wine by men with no voice in court. That is as it should be. Words, Septon… words are seeds. You plant them, you leave them, you let them rest beneath the soil. One day, when the ground is right, they will grow.”
He leaned back against the stone, voice dropping lower still. “The day will come when the Targaryens are not so strong. When dragons are fewer, when the Iron Throne trembles. And when that day comes, the whispers, ignored for years, will be remembered. They will have taken root.”
The younger frowned faintly. “And until then?”
“Until then,” the old Most Devout said, “we keep them far from the Red Keep’s ears. Let them ferment in the villages and market squares. Let them sound harmless, like old tales. Like wine kept in a dark cellar, untouched, until it is ripe enough to bring to table.”
The younger hesitated, his expression flickering between conviction and the faint unease that came after speaking too long with this man. “And the pyromancer?”
The old man’s eyes hardened, a glint like flint catching the dim light. “He will stumble. They always do. Power corrupts, and the blood of the dragon… it burns its own. With a gift like pyromancy, he will not resist showing it. Sooner or later, someone will be burned…and when that happens, the old tales will not sound like lies.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The voices of a septa and a small group of orphans chanting prayers drifted faintly from the nave.
The old man rose with slow dignity, his knees stiff from decades. “Go. Ensure the brothers in the villages keep to the new tale. No names. Only history. The rest will come in time.”
The younger bowed and slipped away into the incense haze.
The Most Devout lingered, gaze fixed on the altar. In the deep lines of his face lay the patience of decades…and a hatred that had never cooled.
He remembered the smoke and screaming when Maegor’s forces set the Sept of Remembrance aflame. He had been a young septon then, barely raised to the cloth, and he had watched friends, brothers, burn or be cut down in the nave.
In the years after, he had learned to smile, to serve, to rise within the Faith’s hierarchy. Behind that smile, he had gathered others who shared his hatred for House Targaryen, weaving them into a faction of his own.
The dragons were strong now, too strong for open defiance. But time eroded stone, and patience was a weapon in itself.
Dragonstone Castle, Garden
The garden was quiet, save for the wind rolling in from the sea and the soft hiss of lemon leaves shifting in the breeze. The air carried a faint bite of cool, threading through the low hedges and the still pond where orange fishes stirred the water with flicks of their tails.
Queen Alysanne sat on a stone bench near the water, a book closed in her lap, her shawl drawn close about her shoulders.
Aegon found her there and made his way down the gravel path, his boots crunching lightly. She looked up and smiled warmly.
“You’re out early,” she said.
He returned the smile. “I am. It’s a fine morning.”
“Chilly,” she countered, adjusting the shawl. “But that’s Dragonstone for you. Even the sun feels like it has to fight the wind here.”
He eased down beside her without ceremony, the bench cool beneath him. For a while they spoke idly, about the weather, the way the lemon trees had fared through the last storm, and the new shipment of books the maesters had received from Oldtown.
“You’ll like some of them,” she said. “Histories of the Reach. A few on Dornish customs, though I imagine the writers were more Reachman than Dornish in their telling.”
“I’ll read them anyway,” he said. “Better to know how the Reach sees Dorne than not at all.”
Her lips curved faintly. “You sound like your grandfather.”
They shared a small smile, letting the talk drift on to the repairs of the garden wall and the litter of kittens born in the kitchens. The rhythm was easy, unhurried.
Aegon’s gaze lingered on the pond a moment. He leaned forward slightly, hands loosely clasped between his knees, watching the ripples spread across the water.
“Actually… I wanted to speak to you about something.”
Her eyes lingered on his face, and something in her expression stilled. A flicker of memory crossed her features, this was how he had begun the conversation when he first told her of his pyromancy.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began, voice easy. “All my life has been spent here… or in King’s Landing. Same walls, same halls. I think I’ve seen every stone of both places twice over.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “You sound almost… tired of them.”
“Not tired,” he said, glancing toward the horizon where the sea faded into grey, “but it feels a little close sometimes. Like I’m breathing the same air over and over. Maybe it’s time I explored more of the realm.”
Her head tilted, the faintest crease forming between her brows. “Explored? Where?”
“I was thinking of starting in the North,” he said.
“Winterfell.”
Comments
Hakkira
Thank you kindly for the chapter 😁
Gopard
He has the Class Tree... I'd imagine if he jumps through enough hoops and is willing to basically "go through" enough "preparatory classes" he could get pretty much any form of magic right?
Deamonusbelareys
Outstanding chapter as per usual I’m eagerly awaiting the next one
Orion Chung
When’s the next chapter
Car Crash
Going north to learn Warging?
Akgus
is it possible for the mc to go the sorcerer route? he does have an ancient magic bloodline after all
Car Crash
Tftc
Iolaum
Only if your schedule can handle it. Would rather wait than risk burn out or stressing Deep__Aureate
Leery Falcon
Can you increase the number of chapters per week ?
troptop
It could be of use as a psychological effect, say a crony of a pyromancer, just given those devilish limbs like Victarion loses in battle to Aegon and he decides to heal him back to being just Human. That would make for the kindest and cruelest gestures.
Eterno
Our boy is going north!! Im thinking he's heading to fight the wildlings and white walkers , seems like the best best for a life or death battle without political ramifications
blaiz
Thanks for the chapter and for your hard work
K A R T H I K
Tftc
Gilgamesh
Tftc!
Tyler Karp
Thank you for the chapter
peterodatilo
Timeskip time! At least a few years.
Mr. Bigglesworth
Damon's secret police gonna get dat guy and all his ilk
Mr Casual
Tftc, still hooked on every chapter.
Hooli4ss
That Dark Septon is right about one thing… “Sooner or later , someone will be burned .” This is a truth . Him going North is going to be fun . Take Lady Gael..it would be good for her to get some air 😉.
Robert Thompson
You should have Aegon do something with magic that helps the smallfolk. Maybe healing? something that gives him a good reputation and then when he eventually burns someone for trying to harm him or his family you have magic that heals and magic that kills and they can be like which one do you want? accept and be healed or resist and be burned
