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Thirteen
🕑 Added 2025-05-25 21:28:02 +0000 UTC[Rewritten—60% change]
King’s Landing
98 AC (Tenth Moon—Day 05)
Gael III
The bells of the Red Keep’s sept tolled, their knell rolling through the stone halls like a god’s dying breath. Each peal lingered far… lingered sad.
Gael sat rigid in the second pew, beneath a marble Crone whose lantern cast chill shadows across her face. Her hands knotted in her lap, hiding the damp chill of her palms. They matched the trim of her wool cloak, but their softness mocked the ache in her chest. A tremor had crept into her spine at dawn, and it clung to her still.
Maelys sat beside her, a silent tower, his gloved hand resting on her shoulder—warm, steady, a shield against the grief that gnawed her bones. His presence held her, keeping her from splintering under the morning’s weight.
The sept was small, its reverence carved into every stone. Tall windows bled in the morn’s light, too bright for grieving, gilding the altar’s gold leaf until it blazed. The High Septon, draped in white robes and glinting crystal, sung the rites, his voice rolling off the vaulted dome, resonating with distance.
The words blurred in Gael’s ears, lost to the fog of her sorrow.
Before the altar, Barth’s body lay shrouded in ivory cloth, the Seven-Pointed Star stitched in silver across his chest. Seven candles ringed the bier, their flames steady to the air that had knelt to the day’s solemnity. Wax dripped, pooling like tears on the stone.
He deserved better than this meager crowd.
Her eyes flicked along the pews—a scant handful of Crownlands lords, their faces drawn…or merely dutiful.
Lord Celtigar’s sea-silver hair caught the light as he stood stiff near the back. Old Staunton of Rook’s Rest met her glance with a curt nod, jaw tight as iron.
They weren’t truly here for Barth. Chance had them in the city, sniffing for favors or nursing grudges, and this vigil was a mummer’s farce to curry her father’s grace, he who’d called the septon friend.
Their venal opportunism nettled her. The mummery of sorrow twice as vexing. Why could lords not mourn for mourning’s sake, free of gain? Did every act need to bend to the court’s cold games?
Barth had wrought too much to be some lord’s afterthought.
Maelys’s hand tightened around her. She leaned into him, her flare of anger snuffed to a soft sadness in her breast.
The Faith filled the void—grey-robed septons and white-clad septas crowded the left flank, heads bowed, lips murmuring prayers as the High Septon’s voice rose and fell. Their numbers spoke what the lords’ absence did not: Barth had been theirs, and they honored him true.
Gael’s gaze drifted to the bier. “He should’ve had more,” the words came out to an echo of a breath.
Maelys’s hand pressed her shoulder. “He’s mourned by those who count,” there was a mark of grief in his voice. “The rest’ll choke on their empty seats when his words live on.”
She knew her husband would see that promise kept.
Gael nodded, barely. Some warmth was starting to sip into her. “He’d have loathed this,” the words were still a breath. “The candles, the chants. He’d have wanted a quiet word, not this pomp.”
Maelys smiled, though it was a faint thing. “Aye, with a book in hand—arguing with the Crone herself by now, I’d wager.”
A faint laugh caught in Gael’s chest. It was like her husband to brighten her mood so. Still, this seemed an ill-time for such, and she allowed him a pinch for the twisted attempt at levity.
By the forefront of the pew, her father sat rigid, a king to the bone. There was barely any hint of affectation on his face, barely any reaction to his friend’s death besides acknowledgment…
Gael believed the deaths of his children and wife had eaten all his sorrow to a speck. And now, his heart could muster no hurt or melancholy.
She wished he locked some away for his remaining children, at the very least. It would be nice if her father mourned her should fate struck cruel, as her husband would be too lost to rage and madness to do so.
Beside the king, a statue in black and gold, rigid as the dragonbone hilt peace-bound at his hip, was Baelon. Three days past, he’d descended on Vhagar, her wings making a shadow of King’s Landing.
He’d not spoken to Gael since his return, ensnared by their father’s will, drawn into schemes she had no wish to untangle. The Hand’s chain rested heavy on his shoulders now, a burden newly claimed.
Maelys had muttered of it in their chambers, bitter of voice, cursing the king’s acts that thwarted his designs for the Velaryons. He’d paced until she swatted his cheek, half-fearing he’d draw steel on their father, kinslaying glinting in his madness.
Sense had stayed his hand—he’d not risk her, nor the child quickening in her womb. Yet he brooded still, weaving new webs to claw back what Jaehaerys’s decrees would strip away.
Gael cared little for his grievances. Her father’s designs suited her. They promised to mend the old wounds festering in their house, to forge a gentler legacy, one that might flower in their time and mayhap endure into their heirs’ reigns—despite whatever folly Viserys might loose when the Iron Throne was his.
That was her hope, at least. The king’s laws remained veiled, unetched on parchment. Even if laid bare, Gael had no hunger for their knowing. In this soft glow of her coming motherhood, she clung to the shelter of ignorance.
The bliss of it would treat her well.
Let the lords and schemers wrestle with the thorns of rule. Her world was softer now, and she would guard its warmth.
She only prayed her heart would not break again, lest the babe twist to the ill-feelings. Maelys was a right demon for enlightening her of all the ways a babe yet born could be mangled.
She still wondered how he knew it all. Of how he knew of things beyond the scope of taught knowledge.
The High Septon raised his arms. His white robes rippled like a river. “May the Father weigh his deeds with justice,” the words were a low thunder in the sept’s hallowed hush.
“May the Mother cradle him in her mercy,” the congregation answered. The vaulted stone cradled the chants.
“May the Smith steady his hands in eternal rest…”
“May the Maiden veil him in her grace…”
Gael’s lips moved, tracing the sacred words, drilled into her and Rhaenys by a stern septa alongside letters and piety in their young days.
Beyond the sept’s tall windows, stained glass burned with sunlight, a golden blaze unmarred by cloud or wind. It was a day for hawking in the kingswood or strolling the outer gardens, where roses scented the air before the noon bell tolled.
Gael wondered if Septon Barth would have wished for rain to mourn him.
The High Septon’s litany pressed on, voice peeking high then falling low.
When the final candle hissed out and Barth’s shrouded body was borne on silent wheels toward the crypts below, no wails broke the silence. No mourners clutched their breasts or fell to keening.
“Come,” Maelys murmured as the High Septon’s final benediction echoed.
He guided her by the arm through the hushed throng, past the High Septon, now whispering with two younger brothers of the Faith. They slipped through the scant lords and ladies, who offered stiff nods but made no move to bar their path.
In the shadowed corridor beyond the sept’s carved doors, Maelys drew up short. Gael said nothing, only rested against him. He smelled of cedar oil and the faint scent of berries.
“There’s light court after this,” he said in a whisper after a moment. “I’d not have you wearied by lords spinning false courtesies for favor, my love.”
His words carried a gentle plea, nudging her toward her ladies—toward embroidery or songs, soft things to soothe the grief clinging to her heart. She felt his care, but she desired much to be by his side.
“And what of you?” she asked.
Maelys’s gaze flicked to the crowd. “I’ve a want to discuss with Lord Tarth. A deal for his quarries—marble the artisans swear can be carved like butter.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “And gems too, sapphires, amethysts, and emeralds.”
Gael’s gaze drifted to Aemma, gliding away with her ladies, silks whispering against the stone floor. Even Viserys lingered for the court’s murmurs, it seemed. She sighed, relenting. “Very well. But don’t tarry long or drink too deep. We must settle Vanys’s punishment.”
Vexation flickered in Maelys’s eyes. Gael pressed on. “He must learn his acts lack honor. I care not for Viserra or her husband’s name, but Young Jae’s standing—and ours—will suffer if the court whispers of this. Keeping a man of such low virtue in our service, unpunished, invites trouble.”
She didn’t care for the fact that the rumours were long suppressed before they took shape.
Her husband exhaled heavily, an act near gusting. “So be it, my princess. I’ll see to that wretched cuckolder’s reckoning.”
Her cheeks warmed at his teasing lilt, and she nudged his chest with a gloved fist. “Enough jests,” she said, a pout half-formed before softening. A thought caught. “But let the punishment be measured—no lashings, no public shame.”
“Have I ever been so harsh?” He arched a brow.
Gael’s look was unimpressed. “I know of your dealings in Asshai, the dark works you tend for your shadowed aims.”
A flash of panic ate his playfulness for but a second before something quiet took over. Gael was grateful for his silence; she had no stomach for tales of sorcery and blood offerings.
“I’ll send Vanys to Ranse Port,” he decided, feigning an interested glance to the side. “He’ll raise a guard for Havenhall. The smallfolk grow bold, and some officials turn to crime, letting rogue ships dock without leave. I may need to ride dragonback myself to remind them of obedience.”
“Must I join you?” Gael asked, knowing his answer. She asked regardless, for Dreamfyre’s recent chase of Caraxes might thwart his plans.
“No, I’ll manage alone,” there was a smile on his face now. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch soft. “I may not even go. I’m planning a proper harbor toll by year’s end. The builders at the port idle too much, I hear.”
“Then the work fares well,” she stated. If the men idled, it meant work was light.
“Well enough,” Maelys allowed. “The clearing’s done, the digging finished, the stone sorted. Even the tallies for the first walls exceed hopes.”
It felt strange, speaking of such matters here, amid the nobles’ fading murmurs and scuffing boots, when their chambers suited better. Since her pregnancy was proclaimed, their world had shifted—not just by the child’s coming, but by the flock of ladies crowding their once-quiet hours. Gael guarded their private moments fiercely, barring talk of schemes when they were alone.
Soft footsteps approached, and Gael turned to see her ladies nearing, trailed by other women. Those were petitioners if she ever seen one.
“I’ll not keep you,” Maelys said, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to her lips. “But mind you don’t heed their fanciful pleas.” He turned and strode off.
Gael watched him go, a moment, then two, she turned before her heart started yearning, and greeted her ladies with a smile.
King’s Landing
98 AC (Tenth Moon—Day 08)
The parlour was a chamber wholly yielded to repose and gentler tides—a nook for her to linger in her husband’s absence, chasing her own whims, nurturing fresh bonds of friendship and the subtle threads of sway she’d begun to weave.
Maelys had conjured it for her, and stocked it with every trifle she might crave or lack. It unsettled her faintly, to be so laid bare by her brother, as the ladies now knit to her side had murmured in hushed tones. She shrugged it off, of course. To be so deeply known by her truest half was a bliss she’d not trade for the world’s weight.
Not even to the doubt of her breast.
Thus here it stood, a haven for her desires, and she wiled away her hours within its walls now.
Rylene Graceford drew the boar-bristle brush through Gael’s silver fall with the slow reverence of a septa tending sacred cloth. The girl had been schooled in gentleness from the cradle and Gael knew the shape of that discipline, for it lived in her own fingers too.
“There’s word of new oils from Lys,” Rylene murmured, parting a strand to let the lamplight lick its shine. “They say with one drop, the hair stays tame till the bells toll vespers—glossy as moonlight on water and scented with hoarded blossoms.”
Gael let her eyes drift shut, the brush’s rhythm braiding with the lute’s low thrum from the corner bard. “Mind you don’t swallow every sweet rumor that drifts these halls, Rylene,” her voice was soft as the silk pooling at her waist as she allowed the warning. “Half the wonders peddled here are dreams sold by the ounce.”
She would know, for nigh every fresh whim of beauty or fashion slipped into court through her whisper in Maelys’s ear. If a grievance stirred in her breast and found voice, he’d bend heavens and realms all to still it—more fiercely now, with his babe swelling in her womb.
No heartaches for her, he’d vowed. A happy wife, a happy life.
Her husband was often strange, yet never sour nor chill, least of all to her.
All this to say she’d never once fretted that her locks refused tame repose. Gael was content with her hair as it fell, but now that the words were spoken—mayhap most women were not.
She could glimpse the want in it, and if fate allowed, grant them ease in the birthing of such a balm.
“But if such oils do exist, it wouldn’t be unwise to look into them,” Ellyn of House Lorch murmured from the side, her eyes tracing parchments spawned from the flood of pleas that coursed through the court’s veins.
Ever since whispers of her sway over textiles, soaps, jewels, perfumes, and the fleeting arts of fashion had spilled forth, souls hungered for her gaze and grace. Deals to be forged in ink and vow. Words swathed in courtesy, yet laced with sharper intents.
Gael found her store of favours dwindling, scant trades left to demand for herself or her kin. Maelys advised her to barter in promises yet unborn, for tomorrow vowed no flawless dawn.
“That is a marvellous notion,” Gael declared, her voice measured, lest it jar Rylene’s gentle rhythm. “Ylvara, could you seek the truth of this.”
The maid dipped her head, “If such is your want, My Princess.” The words still bore the lilting strangeness of the Essosi woman’s mother tongue, yet the Common rang clear enough. Ylvara drew forth a small leather-bound book and scratched the charge swift.
Gael eased back from Rylene, the roil in her belly gentled at last. The Jinqi tea had wrought its quiet miracle; she rejoiced that the learned souls Maelys had set at her side were deft beyond measure—especially the Yi-Tish woman.
Some courtiers yet hissed behind fans and sneered at her choice of far-flung hands over the Grand Maester’s ready craft. And in truth, she too held doubts, but Maelys favoured these people, and that was enough for her.
“Let’s resume the appraisals, shall we?” she murmured, giving a gentle wave to draw forth the women chosen to don the fresh designs she and her seamstresses had spun. It was a ritual newly kindled, scarce moons old.
And as with most threads weaving her days, it was Maelys who’d planted the seed. The quiet dictation of Westeros’s whims, molding what lords and smallfolk alike yearned to clasp. It had bloomed first with perfumes, brewed in vats by his sly contrivances. Garments would follow, birthed on looms he’d bestowed upon her.
He’d laid it bare: beauty needn’t linger as idle vanity. It could swell into power. A woman who decreed the realm’s garb wielded influence far from the crude hack of blades. Loyalty stitched into fragile hems. Command laced through corsets. Authority breathed from carved vials.
It was ever his way, to frame all through the lens of dominion and rein. Gael sought no grander grasp; she savoured the delight of the craft itself, the hours melting soft amid her ladies, dreaming and reshaping.
And that was the twist that upended her own fears. Once, she’d braced for these knots of company, steeling against a whirl of veiled thorns and shadowed daggers. Yet no poison seeped here.
Maelys claimed a share of the praise, his counsel easing her path to knot true bonds with these women, smoother than she’d dared dream. Yet it was no stiff ladder of high lady and fawning flock, lips brushing hems. Nay, it was something warmer, truer, though never wholly free of the court’s iron frame.
Gael felt it soft enough that truth could slip between them without dread of whip or scorn.
The women drifted in, clad in the wondrous gowns, turning slow to flaunt the cut, the stitch, the cloth itself. Maelys named it modelling, though his eyes kindled only when she herself slipped into the… designs.
Heat flared in Gael’s cheeks at the memories, yet she pressed it down. Some days she swore Maelys was bound for the hells, so deep ran the debauched arts he knew and coaxed from her.
And mayhap she too was bound for those same fiery pits, for she drank deep of every perverted delight and hungered for more. She ought to seek the sept soon, fall to her knees, and beg pardon for the sin her husband had kindled in her blood.
And while there, she might trade words with the High Septon himself. She meant to gift robes to the Faith, and had already bent her seamstresses to the labour, stitching raiments in droves.
It would shore up Maelys’s labors, even if it demanded hauling lesser cloths to their shores for a stretch yet.
She bore a tally of favors craved from the Faith besides—the dispatch of septas to Havenhall, to sow the Faith among the crowds soon to root there. A pledge for twelve septs raised, a copy of The Seven-Pointed Star nestled in every hearth, and a lavish tithe might bend the High Septon’s ear…
…or so she dared hope. Maelys’s murmurs had schooled her in maesters and septons who cloaked foul hearts in holy guise. The High Septon might well be such a one.
It would scarce jolt her.
“These are fine garments indeed,” Selene murmured. The lady, eldest among them—nigh an age with Viserys—hovered near the modelling women, her fingers prodding the cloth much as a merchant might finger his fresh-bought wares. “I’m yet stunned by this stitchwork, Your Grace.”
That had been the boldest gasp of wonder thus far. The stitching seized the eye—its swiftness, its unerring precision, the wealth of cuts and hues spilling forth.
“I’m more taken by the dyes,” Rylene ventured, her voice soft as she held her seat, ever watchful of posture, poise, and grace. The woman was a vision, fairer still when she shed sternness for true calm. Slender as a reed, with locks of rich brown cascading soft, and eyes of hazel glinting like autumn leaves. “And the blends—exquisite, truly.”
“But all those are established truths, aren’t they?” Ellyn murmured, her query laced with feigned innocence. “What of the designs themselves? Are the fashions sound? Exceptional? Lacking? For my part, I deem them beautiful beyond fortune’s grace—save for this one.” She lifted a finger toward one of the women.
The lady from the Westerlands ever weighed the world in gold. Coin was the measure for her kin. Yet Gael had glimpsed, amid that gleam, a keen eye for beauty’s truth and words unvarnished.
Thus, she turned a sharper gaze to the marked gown. It was a dress, tall and airy… clinging just so. Its hue evoked summer’s breath, or at least conjured it. A hat perched like a leaf upon it, with long gloves to match, stretching nigh to the elbows.
“I find no fault in it,” she said, for none stirred her. “It might ill-suit ladies dwelling in chill climes, but I reckon the Westerlands and Reach would embrace it warm.”
And the colors were muted, lending a cooler cast.
“The flaw lies not there, Princess Gael.” Ellyn rose and drifted toward the woman draped in the gown, her finger jabbing lightly at the waist. “The wearer is the trouble—or dare I say, the root of its perfect sheen. She’s too flawless for it, especially that slender waist.”
It dawned on her then.
“I see,” she murmured, picturing herself draped in it—unsightly, scarce a shadow of the grace this woman lent the gown. “Though it’s still such a beautiful weave of design.”
“Quite so, though tailored to a rare few,” Selene replied this time. “Lady Rylene, for one, might fill it well.”
Mayhap so, but was that a boon? A frame so slender, hips narrow as a blade’s edge, promised scant joy in marriage bonds or the bloody trial of the birthing bed.
“Are you fond of it, Rylene?” Gael turned to the Reacher woman.
“I’m not wholly against it, I must confess, My Princess,” a faint flush crept beneath Rylene’s grace. “Though such a gown might draw less virtuous gazes upon me, were I to don it now.”
That coaxed a ripple of giggles from them all, the meaning clear.
The session wove on, drifting to undergarments, then perfumes, and at last to powders. Amid them, the undergarments claimed the lion’s share of their hours, for Gael harboured a deeper affection for those sly fashions than most. These women were yet unwed, maidenheads intact; they grasped not the sway such scraps held over men.
Once those virtues were rent, they’d know.
She scratched a reminder in her small book: send the lot to her elder sister, and to Rhaenys—especially Rhaenys. Her hope was the lure of such wicked weaves would spur Corlys to bed his wife with fiercer zeal, until she cracked his hips and snuffed him out. Therein the shadow of House Velaryon would crumble.
This was all her father’s and husband’s fault.
Near the end of the session, Aemma came searching for her.
Gael was a touch startled by her niece’s pursuit of her. It wasn’t some rift yawning between them—nay, quite the reverse—but Aemma was ever besieged by a swarm of rites and parleys, nobles hungering for Baelon’s and Viserys’s ears through her sway.
It was all a weary grind, if one sought her truth.
The pair slipped into a chamber flanking the parlour proper—a snug solar where she tended more delicate threads. Seating herself after bolting the door firm, she offered Aemma a soft smile.
“I’ll confess the unexpected bent of this,” she murmured, the hum of the outer room drifting through. It was a fading of murmurs laced with the rustle of steps and skirts.
Aemma offered a smile, small yet true as dawn’s first light. “I hadn’t reckoned I’d come either, less so without a whisper ahead,” she murmured, her gaze drifting to the high window where the noon sun’s fading spill pooled like molten gold. “But matters pressed me here.”
“You say it so, and I’ll think you’ve no wish to see me,” Gael teased, a chuckle bubbling soft, shared with her niece for a lingering breath. “I reckon this bears urgency.”
The other woman nodded, yet held her tongue at first. Gael let the quiet stretch, wondering if the silence birthed unease. In most knots of company, it did. Her ladies scarce savoured the hush as she did, their tongues ever itching for sound.
With her husband, though, the stillness wrapped them warm.
“It’s about Daemon,” Aemma said at last, the name stirring a faint unrest in Gael’s chest.
She didn’t hate Daemon, nor did she truly scorn him—kin stirred no such venom in her breast. It was mere vexation and weariness that pricked her whenever the rogue prince’s name fell or his shadow loomed.
She was nigh on marching to Baelon herself, to bid him curb his wayward son.
“What of him?”
Aemma’s breath escaped in a soft gust. “The king pressed Baelon on the matter. Baelon turned to me. He wants Daemon wedded.” The notion scarce jolted Gael. That it had dragged this long did.
“This is unsurprising, I’ll confess,” she murmured, dipping her head in quiet yield. “Yet I’m still curious why you’ve sought me out? Do you need my hand in the rites? Or is it garb you crave?”
In truth, she’d not balk at either—nay, she’d embrace it warm. They could weave a wedding grander than any before, a splendor to eclipse the rest.
Aemma let slip a soft laugh. “Not quite that, though I’m glad you’re eager to lend your hand if the hour ever calls for it. I’ve glimpsed how fair your gowns are.” She steadied herself, the mirth fading. “Nay, it’s about the lady he’s to wed—or in his case, the want of one.”
“Candidates?”
“I hoped for your aid in this, if you don’t mind,” her niece murmured, and Gael could taste the quiet plea laced through it.
Well, she’d not turn deaf to kin’s hushed call.
In truth, the choices sprawled endless. “I reckon you’ve a few in mind already?” The trouble lay with the man himself. Daemon scarce seemed one for roots or vows. He was a storm of ambition and impulse, a soul who chased skirts, seethed with envy, and unleashed fury like dragonfire.
Scarce moons past, he’d bent knee to the king, craving his own principality. A man barren of allies, stripped of coin, with no grasp of court’s sly dance beyond brute force. For such a one to demand rule was folly incarnate.
“Not so, if you could believe,” Aemma murmured. “Since no alliances are craved, the gauge for brides rests solely on his taste in women.”
“Does he even harbor such?” Gael breathed, a jolt of shock stirring her. “I’d reckon, given the swarm of ladies and women whose maidenheads he’s claimed, he’d favor none beyond…” She trailed off with a sigh, unwilling to yield to the coarse word.
Her niece swallowed a laugh. “He harbors tastes, or so he swears.” She pressed on, “My thought is this: find him a flawless lady, and he’ll be remade; twice over if he plants a babe in her. As a mother, I know the truths that bloom from such.”
Gael doubted it fierce. One could likely track a handful of bastards in Flea Bottom whose blood traced straight to Daemon.
Mulling it over, a few names flickered in her mind, none drawn from the circle she cherished. And since her husband and father had lately turned to the craft of coin-lending, it might serve to bind a stout banking house to their blood.
Yet she’d need to slip the notion in soft, mayhap hoard it for when tempers frayed.
“I’ll carve time from my days so we might speak of this at length,” Gael declared, dipping her head to her niece, whose face eased with relief at the answer. It was also a sweet pretext to linger longer with Aemma.
Maelys was having an ill effect on her.
Comments
World of Faction
The woman who were assisting her would Maelys’ people. Therefore, Gael’s people as well. They pretty much just reported everything.
fireball77
When did Viserra get caught?
World of Faction
Personal Issues. I’ll try for a mass upload.
Amit Efraim
your upload schedule is pretty bad man 1 update a month
