BoombaTheSaint
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Ch: 1
🕑 Added 2025-05-08 06:00:05 +0000 UTCKing’s Landing
98 AC (Seventh Moon—Day 22)
Viserra I
The smell reached Viserra first—a trace of rot beneath old stone, laced with the fading warmth of a place once full. The Red Keep still pulsed with life, though quieter now. Her kin had scattered—some bound by duty, others sent to distant holds.
Her son trotted beside her, bright-eyed and full of energy. Three namedays old, Jaedar darted from wall to wall, his questions tumbling out like spilled grain.
She kept pace, weary but steady.
“Stay close, Jaedar,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind.
“Aye, Mother,” he chirped, half-focused, golden hair catching the light where torches licked through the cracks in the walls. “Why does it smell? Are the walls sick? Are they crying black stuff?”
“Just old,” she replied with a sigh. “Older than us by far. And they smell it. Mind your steps, not the stone.”
He nodded, though his eyes kept wandering. Still, she knew he’d listen. His father’s calm steadied him—a trait she’d never minded. They reached Maelys’s door, flanked by two guards whose armor gleamed strange—not the usual battered steel of the keep. Valyrian, by the look—tall, pale, lilac-eyed, built with quiet precision. Not knights, but something close.
Viserra let a smile ease onto her face, subtle as a whisper of wine. Age had refined her—beauty honed to something deliberate. Full cheeks, ripe lips, and eyes that held just enough shadow to intrigue. One of the guards flushed.
“Princess Viserra. Lord Jaedar,” he said, both guards dipping their heads. “What brings you?”
His Common was shaped by a Valyrian lilt.
“My brother,” she said with a soft smile. “Is he inside?”
“Aye, princess,” the other answered, adjusting his grip on his spear. “He’s been at his papers since dawn. Shall I announce you?”
“I’d rather not wait in the hall,” she said, tilting her head. “Gael’s with him too, I hear?”
“She is,” the first guard confirmed, his composure returning. “Sewing, or tangled in thread—always near, those two. Folk call them twins, they’re so close.”
“As they’ve always been,” Viserra said dryly. “Since we were weaned. Open the doors, please. I didn’t ride from Sweetport just to linger.”
The left guard gave a grunt and moved to open them. “Mind the boy—His Grace doesn’t care for little hands near his work.”
Viserra gave a quick curtsy and pulled Jaedar gently to her side. Part of her still wondered whether Maelys had inherited the old strangeness. The room ahead was quiet, cool, and wide—its pale marble floors gleamed where rugs didn’t reach, and the high white ceiling gave everything a stillness that felt like waiting. The chairs were unadorned, the design intentional. Maelys’s mark was in every detail.
They moved quietly over thick rugs. On a pale couch near the window, Gael sat with needle and cloth in hand, though her stitching had stilled. She looked like Alysanne reborn—soft-faced, eyes warm and steady, her expression touched by peace. Maelys had shielded her from the world, and it showed.
Viserra felt the sting of envy and swallowed it.
Gael’s eyes lifted, joy breaking across her face like dawn. “Sister!” she called, rising quickly, rushing forward as though it had been years, not moons. “You’re back—I thought Sweetport had swallowed you whole! When did you arrive?”
The bloom of her dress flared as she moved. Jaedar tucked himself behind Viserra, wary of this exuberant stranger. Gael pulled her into an embrace, fragrant with petals and spice—maiden-sweet and untouched by hardship. Viserra returned it, her own warmth quieter, shaded.
“Well met, Gael,” she said, her voice edged with something unreadable. “Not so long gone. I arrived this morning. You look well. Still stitching?”
“When I get a moment,” Gael replied, stepping back, cheeks flushed. “But Maelys keeps me busy—his designs, meetings, one thing after another. But gods, it’s good to see you! Sweetport hasn’t worn you down?”
“Not entirely,” Viserra said with a small shrug. “Trade’s grown thin, harvests thinner still. Luras stumbles on. I hold things together where I can. It’s better than breathing this place’s dust some days.”
Gael’s smile faltered, then found itself again. “You won’t have to now—stay with us. Let the cooks fill you up, let the wine soften things. What’s the Sound like these days? Is Luras still more devout than dutiful?”
“Still praying,” Viserra answered flatly. “And ruling less. I do what’s needed.” She nudged Jaedar gently forward. “Come now, greet your aunt.”
He stepped forward, shy but gentle. “Hello.”
A small wave followed, uncertain, before his gaze dropped to his boots. Sweet lad, her Jaedar—she believed it down to the bone.
As always, Gael moved fast, dropping to her knees and pulling him into a hug, unbothered by his squirming. “Young Jae,” she cooed, grinning wide, “have you forgotten me again? Am I truly such a boring aunt?”
Viserra watched them, a rare softness stirring in her chest. This was good—this ease, this binding of royal blood before ambition could sour it. Better still that it was the twins, whose hearts remained whole. And best of all while Jaedar was young, still honest, untouched by the games that came with older years.
A voice came from deeper in, quiet but edged with gentle command. “I hadn’t wagered on you arriving so soon.”
Maelys stood a few paces off, barefoot on the marble, dressed in a loose shirt and worn leather breeches, easy in his skin. His white hair spilled past his shoulders, and his pale violet eyes met hers with mischief rather than surprise. Beautiful more than handsome, his frame lean but steady—no mistaking the man he’d become.
Viserra had always favored him among their siblings. If she’d been their mother’s fairest daughter, he was their father’s truest son. In darker moments, she’d wished he were her twin instead of Gael—perhaps then her life would’ve carried fewer scars, fewer regrets.
But dreams were fragile things, quick to vanish.
“Maelys,” she said, a slim smile forming. “Good to see you drawing breath.”
He crossed the room and embraced her, the scent of woodsmoke and ripe fruit clinging to him. “And you, sister,” he murmured with a low chuckle, warm as a hearth. He was taller than she remembered—broader, too.
“And you’ve brought Jae along, have you?”
He lifted Jaedar easily, as though the boy weighed nothing. Shyness fled the child, replaced by gleeful laughter. Maelys’s visits to Sweetport had done their work—stories by firelight, trinkets wrapped in velvet, warmth given freely.
“Gods, boy, you’ve grown since I saw you last,” Maelys said, tossing him gently into the air. Jaedar’s laugh rang out, clear as bells. “What are you now, ten?”
“Three!” Jaedar shouted, legs kicking midair.
“Three?” Maelys gasped in mock alarm. “Then by ten, you’ll be a proper giant—too big for a horse, we’ll have to find you a ship!”
Jaedar beamed. “Father says I’ll train in the yard at seven. With swords!”
“Swords, is it?” Maelys set him down with care, ruffling his hair. “Then we’ll have to get you ready, young ser. Blades or bows—what’s it to be first?”
“Bows!” Jaedar bounced on his heels. “I saw a man shoot an apple off a tree! Can you do that?”
“Can I?” Maelys laughed, sharp and bright. “I’ve split apples at fifty paces, lad—clean through. We’ll get you a bow fit for your hands and see if you’ve the eye for it.”
“Truly?” Jaedar’s voice leapt.
“Tomorrow’s hasty,” Maelys replied, crouching to meet his gaze. “I’ve a mountain of vellum to tame first—maps and such. But soon, aye? You’ll be loosing arrows ‘fore the moon’s turned. Mark it.”
Viserra folded her arms, arching a brow. “Don’t go stuffing his head too full. He’s years off being any use with a bow—or a brain.”
Maelys looked up, grinning unrepentantly. “Years aplenty, true—but no harm in starting early. He’s got a spark to him, can’t you see? A proper little Sunglass knight already.”
The pair drifted off, Jaedar now clutching a candy stick that hadn’t been there before—one of Maelys’s tricks, no doubt. Viserra lingered, amusement curling beneath her ribs. She caught Gael’s eye, her sister caught in some soft daze, gaze trailing Maelys like he were a sunrise.
It gladdened her, strangely. Gael still moonstruck after all these years, their closeness like a knot wound tight—but she thrived in it.
“Has he made a woman of you yet?” Viserra asked lightly, voice sugar-cut. “You’ve grown fairer still—and heavy up top, I’d wager.”
Twice Viserra’s own, though Gael wore the curve well—lush, not ungainly. Her sister jolted, the pink climbing her ears betraying she’d caught the sting.
“Come now, Gael,” Viserra pressed, smirking. “No fretting he’ll stray to the whores slinking round these halls? Plenty would claw for a taste of him.”
She remembered it well—the alcoves and crawlways of Maegor’s Holdfast, lords and ladies and servants alike tangled in lust. The stones hadn’t grown cleaner since. Gael’s blush deepened, cheeks puffing in protest.
“Must you be so coarse, Viserra? Can’t you leave it alone?”
Viserra chuckled, brushing a knuckle over her mouth. “Fair question. But your temper tells me there’s nothing to fear. So he’s true, then?”
They wandered toward the couch, Gael trailing, half-muttering.
“He swore an oath,” she said finally, quiet but resolute. “I’d trust him without it, but he gave it all the same—no wandering, no matter the temptation. His word’s steel.”
Viserra laughed—not at her, but at the turn their blood had taken. Baelon and Aemon had it, that love, even if it ended in tragedy. Vaegon, buried in books. But Maelys and Gael? She’d wager silver to stars they’d grey side by side, hale and handfast.
“You’re lucky, little sister,” she said, not sitting, eyes sweeping Gael’s corner of the room. Sketches, thread, scraps of cloth—work half-done and scattered, the mess of a mind in motion.
A few pages caught her eye—smallclothes, light and spare, more daring than modest. Thin straps, high cuts, cloth barely there. Her brow lifted.
“Yours is a tale for the singers,” she added, glancing back. “One they’ll croon ‘til the Wall melts.”
“Mother said as much,” Gael murmured, her voice worn thin.
Viserra turned. A shadow clung to her sister’s face, soft but stubborn—a grief not yet laid down. Alysanne had clung closest to the twins, her affections deeper, more visible. Viserra hadn’t buckled when the Good Queen burned out three years past, but Gael—Gael still sagged beneath it, as if her mother’s absence had left something unstitched inside her.
Mother had a strange talent for it,” Viserra said, her lips tightening. “Her matches rarely fell apart or turned sour—odd, really.”
It hadn’t been love, not quite. More like a truce—an understanding built on shared weight. She and Luras had that. A lukewarm harmony, even with him halfway gone from Jaedar’s world. Like their father in his silences, though Luras carried no crown—just a kind of blind faith and clumsy intent. She pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the fabric in her hands.
“Another one of his schemes?” she asked, holding up the light garment.
Gael let out a surprised laugh, color rushing to her cheeks. “Sort of. He’s chasing a new design—claims Westeros could use better clothing. Lighter, cheaper, something for more than just the highborn.”
She passed over a parchment, this one free of lacy drawings—just abstract shapes and lines that made no sense to Viserra. “That’s the device he’d use to make it happen.”
Viserra tilted the page, squinting, pretending to understand it. “He already has tailors, doesn’t he? Why go chasing after this?”
“He does,” Gael replied, matching her gaze. “But tailors cost. Silks and finishes meant for deep pockets. He says most folks can’t afford to dress well, even if they want to.”
She retrieved another sheet, ink-smeared and faintly crumpled. “This could produce loads of clothes—fast, affordable. Smallfolk wouldn’t have to scrape or beg.”
Viserra raised an eyebrow—not at the plan, but at Gael herself. The sharpness came easily to her, cutting and clear. Viserra had misjudged her—expected softness, a second Daella: gentle, dull. But there she was, focused and bright as polished coin. “You’ve a mind for this I didn’t expect,” she said, easing onto the couch beside her and reaching for a needle.
Gael smiled—small but sincere. “It’s Maelys, I think. He’s been chasing ideas since we were little—always dreaming up something new. You wouldn’t believe half of it.”
Viserra held up the narrow breast-strap and its even smaller companion, stitching thread through fabric light as breath. “Think Maelys would make me a pair if I asked nicely?”
Gael sputtered, coughing through a startled laugh, her face turning red again. “What? Why would you want them?”
Viserra frowned slightly, a flicker of doubt crossing her thoughts. She pushed it down. “They’re well-made. Might stir Luras, get him to show a little interest. He’s no performer in bed—but he’s damn close to a septon most nights.”
His disinterest gnawed at her—a quiet, constant resentment she kept buried. “Jae won’t be my last, you know. Did Maelys mention that?”
Gael’s smile stiffened, just slightly. “He said something, yes. But Jaedar wouldn’t be thrilled to hear you’ve got plans like that.”
Viserra shrugged. She knew the boy wouldn’t like it, but Viserys’s daughter might suit—a match to tie things neatly later. Gael set the garments aside, running her hands down her skirts, fingers lingering like she might find answers in the fabric.
“I’ve extras,” she said, glancing up. “Some of these—I could spare a few, if you want them.”
Viserra gave her a crooked smile. “Your figure’s got more curve than mine these days. I’d drown in your size.”
Gael chuckled, resting a hand briefly on her belly. “It’s not subtle anymore, is it? I’ve filled out. But I’ve others—some made for… smaller blessings.”
Viserra feigned a scowl, though her mouth twitched with amusement. “Smaller, is it? Impudent girl. I’ll take them anyway. Might still rouse Luras from his pious daze.”
Their talk meandered easily from there, unfiltered and light—a rare moment without politics or pretense. Gael shared news in the capital, what the family was up to, and the ventures she and Maelys were plotting. Viserra listened, genuinely interested, her thoughts drifting now and then to Sweetport Sound. Could their plans stretch that far? She wanted Jaedar’s legacy to be secure—fertile land, solid holdings—and room for more children, if she could wrest them from Luras’s loins.
Nearly an hour later, Maelys strolled in, Jaedar draped over his shoulder, sleeping soundly. The boy’s breath was soft against his uncle’s neck.
“Tired him out,” Maelys said quietly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Sweets and stories. He was out before I finished the last one.”
Comments
Lazybeep
Thanks for this. Maybe I am of too low iq or not well read but I found harder to continue reading in the first style despite finding the story interesting. This makes it much easier
