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Twelve
🕑 Added 2025-05-08 05:33:57 +0000 UTCKing’s Landing
98 AC (Ninth Moon—Day 29)
Jaehaerys III
Jaehaerys sat still, his back melded to the cushioned chair, its familiar embrace easing the gnaw in his spine. For a moment, he let himself savour the small comfort—such indulgences carried more weight than they once did. Mayhap tonight he’d sink into the hot waters, let the warmth knead away the day’s rigour.
A tempting thought.
He huffed through his nose, shaking his head once. Nay. Kingship spared little room for luxuries, and less for wandering thoughts. With effort, he turned his mind to pressing matters. The foremost was not complex, yet demanded precision: Daemon’s future—or rather, his lingering unwed state.
Alysanne had often spoken her worries, urging a fitting match for their untamed grandson. She knew, as he did, that the family’s pool of suitable brides dwindled.
The Royce girl had once seemed apt—steady, highborn, and like to weather Daemon’s fire. But that path had closed; she was betrothed to one of Lord Arryn’s heirs.
No true loss to the crown, in truth. The Eyrie stood fast with House Targaryen, tied by his late daughter’s marriage to its lord and strengthened by Maelys’ valour against the mountain clans. Respect there was hard-won and held firm.
Yet the Vale’s mention tugged his thoughts elsewhere, not without cause. The mountain clans were a plague that needed ridding. Jaehaerys’ brow creased, annoyance in it. Their very presence frayed the region’s peace. Worse, they choked its potential.
He’d long held that those clans were why the Vale’s rich veins lay fallow. Mining faltered where it should have thrived. Yet of late, the lands near the Eyrie showed signs of growth—slight, but clear to him who watched closely. It all pointed to one thing: purge the mountains of the clans, and the Vale would bleed iron and wealth.
He could pictured it yet. Ore streaming from the peaks, feeding forges, arming soldiers, building bridges. A tide of metal and coin, feeding into the realm’s development.
The idea settled, patient. Not for now. Later, mayhap in Viserys’ time. A campaign the second heir could launch early, shoring up his rule and name. Viserys, that simple boy, would need such triumphs laid before him—crafted, just bold enough to seem his own.
But Daemon.
Jaehaerys pulled his mind back, sharpening his focus.
Truth be told, the king had yet to settle on a house for the match, but the choice could not be long delayed. Daemon’s unwed state must end, if only to tame his wayward spirit. Under Baelon—or worse, Viserys—the lad might be coddled, left to wander free out of fond misjudgment.
And Daemon, unbound, would weave that liberty into chaos. Of that, Jaehaerys held no doubt.
He would see that peril smothered before it drew breath.
What he was to set in motion promised heavy consequence—perilous weight. It would stoke Daemon’s ambitions, sow seeds of presumption, kindle hopes. Once loosed, such sparks could not be easily quenched. That was the true danger—not the deed itself, but the wildfire it might ignite under weaker hands.
His intent must be ironclad, clear beyond misreading. Any command given now must stand resolute, proof against the softer kings to come.
A slow, tired breath slipped from him, and he dragged a hand down his weathered face, the motion raw, near unbecoming. He cared not.
Maelys had spoken true, in part, about Aemon. There, Jaehaerys had faltered.
Yet what his son failed to see was that the king’s name still carried might. His will yet swayed the great lords. The throne’s strength had not ebbed far. It was not too late to mend the course—arduous, aye, but far from beyond reach.
Corlys would get his due. His voyages had set half the world murmuring Westerosi names, and the lords, vain as they were, bowed to such renown.
But Rhaenys…
Jaehaerys sighed.
…she would demand deft words, firm assurances, maybe a vow or two veiled in decorum. Pride had sharp edges in that one.
Yet what he planned was no small thing—a princely title, a seismic shift in rank and precedent. House Velaryon, with its ancient loyalty and untainted Valyrian blood, made the honor less abrupt. It would not seem wholly alien.
The challenge lay not in bestowing the title, but in what it carried. And what it whispered.
It differed from Maelys’ case. His son’s principality, for all its promised grandeur, would remain a limb of House Targaryen—a branch, but bound.
The Velaryons, though? What Jaehaerys weighed would grant them freedom in all but name. That distinction was vital. They would not kneel to the Iron Throne in daily matters, not truly. And for that alone, the thought of dragonriders among them was a threshold he would not breach.
Dragons were the heart of sovereignty, and such power could not perch beyond the Red Keep’s shadow.
The notion clung. Mayhap the hour had come to bind dragonriders not merely by tradition, but by law. Clear statutes: who might claim a dragon, their rights, their limits. The idea felt like a seed cast on barren ground, yet given time, it could take root. Someone needed to draw these lines before ambition outran sense.
A knock at the door broke his reverie.
“Enter,” Jaehaerys called, his gaze scarcely lifting, still caught in visions of dragonflight and scorched earth.
The door swung wide, and Maelys stepped through—clad finely, yet not flawless. Jaehaerys marked the faint flush at his neck, the slight muss of his silver hair. Not quite polished. A moment seized, mayhap, or company freshly parted.
“You summoned me, Father?” Maelys said, settling into a chair unbidden. A flicker of relief crossed his face… fleeting. Jaehaerys caught it, wondering what peril the lad had braced for. He let the thought slip.
“I did,” the king replied, his tone even. It ran to neutrality whenever he hosted his son. “Though I scarce expected you so swift.”
Maelys’ brow creased, though irritation flickered by his face. “I was made to believe the matter was pressing.”
Maybe it was, depending on the angle one took.
“Not direly so,” Jaehaerys said, hands clasping in his lap. “Yet your speed is no ill thing.” He studied Maelys’ face once more. “Unless I’ve torn you from something… untimely?”
Maelys faltered, teeth grazing his lower lip. “You might say so. Though it’s not a matter I’d share with my father.”
Jaehaerys weighed the words, sifting them with a seasoned eye. When their meaning settled, his brow creased—not in scorn, but with a blend of interest and faint mirth.
“’Tis unwise,” he began, a dry humor threading his voice, “to dally so with a woman heavy with—”
Maelys halted him with a raised hand, the other pinching his nose’s bridge. The gesture carried strain, aye, but something more—embarrassment, rare for one so proud.
“Father, please.”
No denial, Jaehaerys noted, a spark of amusement curling his lips. How often had courtiers murmured, ever cautious, of Maelys’… tastes? Japes cloaked as gossip, smirks trailing whispers of sword-swallowing. Yet here he was, his fervour undimmed by his wife’s swelling belly.
The king deemed it no ill thing. Better fierce devotion to a lawful wife than a tepid heart.
“Then I’ll hoard my counsel,” he said, brow arching wryly as he shifted in his seat. “As to why I called you—I find I’ll need your schemes, your ways, and your wisdom more often in moons to come.”
Maelys fell silent, the pause not weighty but pensive. His eyes held Jaehaerys’, searching, measuring. When he spoke, his voice was level.
“Is the good septon dead?”
Jaehaerys’ brow lifted at the query, though his reply came swift.
“Not yet,” he said. “Still drawing breath, but I wager he’ll not greet the dawn.”
A flash of surprise crossed Maelys’ face, brief but telling. Jaehaerys watched, unsure if the reaction was genuine or a mummer’s farce. With Maelys’ men lurking about the Hand’s Tower, the king doubted his son was blind to Barth’s fading state.
As if sensing the unspoken doubt, Maelys offered his defense. “I’ve a score of ventures in motion, Father. If I sought to track each detail, I’d have no hours for sleep or thought. I prize outcomes—especially when the task needs not my constant gaze.”
His tone was open, the reasoning fair. Jaehaerys dipped his head, a slight acknowledgment. A rare one.
“Still,” Maelys said, his voice softening, “it grieves me to hear. Gael will take his passing ill.”
“Aye,” Jaehaerys concurred. “But to the matter at hand. I’d have your answer, Maelys.”
“I’m not loath to share,” the lad replied, maybe too quick. “But might I know your intent, Father?”
The king minded not the boldness. “Many things,” he said, then paused, jaw working. “Your words—those old ones—linger. They haunt me, truth be told.”
No mere ornament, that. In the dead of night, he dreamt of Alysanne and their children: heads shaking, eyes accusing. A king should weave legacies, not regrets. He shifted, the air growing thick.
“I’m striving,” he confessed, measured, “to right what I may.”
Maelys parted his lips, then stilled. His eyes closed, brow furrowing, before he loosed a breath and spoke. “That’s… noble, I grant. But I confess, I see not how such mending can be done now.”
No unjust retort. Maelys’ mind cut sharp through systems and their cracks, but he lacked the years to grasp how feeling could unravel cold reason.
“I mean to raise House Velaryon,” Jaehaerys declared. “For their steadfast loyalty and the Valyrian blood in their veins. I’d grant them a princely title. Mayhaps even a Valyrian blade.”
Silence fell, heavy. His son watched him, lips parted, his eyes now wide with naked disbelief. The king deemed the reaction just. It was a grand promise, with yet grander aims beneath.
A Valyrian blade alone was a gift beyond measure, though Jaehaerys pondered how he might procure one. House Targaryen wanted not for Freehold steel, but Valyrian weapons could only be reforged from their like. And such blades were rarer than dragons’ tears.
No trifling boon, this. It was no mere sop to soothe egos. The act bore a weight fit to tilt scales. If Corlys and Rhaenys took it with grace, it could bind the realm tighter. But should they chafe or grasp too far, the gesture might kindle more discord than it quelled.
Yet the throne would soon pass to Baelon, then Viserys. Jaehaerys must blunt what thorns he could before that day.
“I…” Maelys started, then checked himself. He drew a slow breath, eyeing Jaehaerys with a guarded mask.
“It seems rash, Father. I’d counsel strongly against it.”
“You see scant profit in it?”
“Nay,” Maelys said, swift. “There’s profit aplenty. But…” His lips tightened, fingers flexing at his side. “I mislike it.”
A king cared little for personal qualms.
Jaehaerys had scant patience for such sentiments, least of all from one so woven into the realm’s workings. Likely this move of his crossed some thread of Maelys’ designs—it ever seemed so. Such was the cost of spinning ceaseless webs.
Yet curiosity stirred. What had Maelys planned for the Velaryons? Did it tie to that sea-craft he’d devised? Jaehaerys had never fathomed why his son yielded so precious a tool for what seemed paltry gain.
It rankled him. Yet Maelys’ standing granted him certain freedoms, and that, too, was the yoke of kingship.
“Your fondness for it matters not, son,” Jaehaerys said at length, his tone calm. “The choice is set. Only the finer strokes remain. This act will strengthen our houses’ bond—without any open nod to Rhaenys’ spurned claim.”
Maelys’ face held fast, though his eyes tightened faintly.
“You honor their lineage and shared blood with ours?”
The king permitted a thin smile.
“Aye,” he said. “Precisely so. Cast thus, it’s a homage to ancient ties, not recent rifts. Naught to do with Corlys’ sails. Naught to do with Rhaenys.”
He left unspoken the rest: even if some lords sniffed a salve for old wounds, few would dare contest it.
A princely title was no trifling boon, yet not one easily mirrored. None would cry out too boldly—they’d bide, observe, mayhap dream of like favor, though Jaehaerys doubted any would dare seem so bold.
“Corlys will hunger for more,” Maelys said at length, his voice free of censure, only the calm clarity of one who saw every facet. “He’ll read this as an opening to bargain, likely pressing for a betrothal between Laenor and Rhaenyra.”
“Then it’s well I mean to mend the murk of succession,” Jaehaerys replied, unflinching.
Maelys blinked, a rare glint of surprise flickering in his eyes. “Truly?”
“Aye. A true structure—clear lines, safeguards for misfortune.” Jaehaerys leaned forward, voice resolute. “Runciter will shape the formal writs. I’ll weave in your ideas, quicken them, and root them in law’s strength. A council of lords will swear to these edicts—a touch of pomp to burnish their weight.”
No sense veiling it from Maelys. Still, the plan’s success would hinge on sleights—veils thick enough to sate the Faith, cloaking deeper aims in a guise of divine will and royal caution.
Maelys went still, his form anchored while his mind roamed. Jaehaerys saw it: the cogs turning behind those pale eyes. Then, a grimace tugged at his lips.
“That’s… cunning, I’ll grant,” he said, words measured, not grudging. “Not as unyielding as I’d wish, but stout enough to stand.”
A beat.
“Yet indulge my curiosity. Have you weighed the risk of fools claiming the throne?” His gaze locked on the king’s, keen once more. “If the Faith weds your succession to doctrine, a vain but witless heir could ascend, crowned with lords’ assent—none daring to defy one blessed by creed, lest they be named heretics.”
Jaehaerys hummed, thoughtful. A sharp point, and a vexing one. He shook his head. “The matter’s not yet fixed, Maelys. There’s time to hone it, to thread those subtleties.” He shifted, straightening. “But this wasn’t my sole aim in calling you.”
Maelys’ brow arched.
The king pressed on. “I sought to speak of ways to tighten House Targaryen’s grip on Westeros, to ensure our dominance across all fronts—not merely those we alone command.”
Maelys’ face sparked with eagerness, like a child before a honeyed treat. Jaehaerys, for a heartbeat, was caught aback. The lad was rarely so unguarded—his thoughts laid so bare. A quiet amusement warmed the king’s chest.
“It seems this prospect stirs you,” he remarked, voice gentle.
“I’d deemed you too wed to prudence for such bold aims,” Maelys confessed, a trace of astonishment in his tone.
Mayhap that explained the boy’s penchant for shadows in his dealings—the half-truths, the veiled designs. The Riverlands’ dams sprang to mind. The grumbling of slighted lords still echoed, each now clamouring for the same works that had enriched their rivals.
Those structures had reshaped the region in silence. Fishing flourished, floods were leashed, and irrigation now threaded steady through lands once prey to the sky’s whims. Sawmills, granaries, and sundry trades sprouted in their wake, drawing wealth and merchants even from the North to the Riverlords’ halls.
The realm had gained, no question.
Yet every boon bore a shadow. Jaehaerys knew that better than any.
The imbalance it sowed lingered. Maelys’ pact was with Lord Grover Tully alone, and only his favored vassals drank deep of the bounty. The rest stood sidelined, chafing, their envy sharp. That no blood had spilled was near a wonder…
…Bracken and Blackwood notwithstanding.
“What would you see secured first, Father?” Maelys asked, his voice keen. The boy’s eyes were intense upon him.
“The Crownlands’ wealth,” Jaehaerys replied, running his tongue across his teeth. “I’d have their lords and smallfolk stand apart, unyoked from other realms—self-reliant, proud, sustained by their own strength.”
Maelys’ eyes tightened, his frown pensive. “No trifling task. Decrees and goodwill won’t suffice. You’ll need works—many—for the smallfolk. Laws, too. Learned men to draft them. Lords’ accord. Halls raised. Workers schooled. And…”
He broke off, not lost but caught in thought’s current. His words quickened, no longer aimed at Jaehaerys but drawn from some inner forge. He spoke of trade guilds, royal monopolies, chartered ventures granted sole rights to curb waste and rivalry. He sketched ministries for tillage, funds for mining, spurs for artisans, and a central hand to stem squander.
Jaehaerys sat, silent, letting the torrent of ideas flow unchecked. He’d long learned that when Maelys’ mind blazed, it was wisest to let it run its course.
After hours of debate, exchanges, and refinements, they settled on a single, weighty stride: a royal Crown Bank.
It would be the bedrock. A treasury free of lords’ caprice, able to fund great works, steady the realm’s coin, and lend to Crownlanders for their own rise. A slow, arduous birth awaited it. Yet once rooted, it would brace all else.
Jaehaerys felt its heft and knew, in that moment, it would likely outlast him.
Then came the unveiling.
Through nudging—soft at first, then sharper—Jaehaerys pried loose Maelys’ hidden stores of wealth. With a cool detachment, the lad confessed to commanding a fleet: thirty trade ships and ten warships, all of foreign make, now being wrought by Braavosi hands.
Jaehaerys near choked.
Then came the tally—a breezy reckoning of his assets, ventures, and ready gold.
The king felt his blood surge.
“You’re certain of that sum?” he asked, voice a hushed rasp.
Maelys still held his poise, but the forcefulness of it was bare. Still, he gave a slight nod. “Aye, Father. A cautious count. It shifts with harvests and trade winds, naturally.”
Jaehaerys fell silent, hands clasped before his lips, gaze locked on the hearth’s dying embers. Thirty trade ships. Ten warships, foreign-crafted. A fortune to rival great houses, yet veiled—whether by tact or guile.
All from the boy who’d once wept at Aemon’s pyre.
“…A bank,” he murmured at length. “Solely the Crown’s.”
“With its own books, independent rates, and stewards chosen with care,” Maelys added, voice held steady. “It could lend to noble houses, fund great works, govern coin, even steady prices with grain stores. In time, it might stand as a royal reserve—freeing us from Free City moneylenders.”
The polish of it stung. Jaehaerys knew then this was no new thought, but a scheme long nursed, mayhap even set in motion unseen. Yet its promise was undeniable—for the Crownlands, aye, and the realm entire. Such a bank could redraw the throne’s reach.
And its burdens.
“When did you mean to speak of this?” he asked, tone flat.
“When it weighed enough,” Maelys replied, plain and true. “Which, it seems, is now.”
Jaehaerys loosed a dry, weary breath. Then nodded.
“Aye. Now it weighs indeed.”
A/N: Pardon the lateness. Though I’m proud to announce that I’ve simplified the writing of this story. Check out the newest collection in an hour or so.
Comments
Technobread
Seems like rivalry with iron bank could happened in the future.
SuperbOwl67
It’ll be interesting to see how Corlys reacts to this plan. While he is certainly ambitious nothing in canon indicates that he desired to overthrow the Targaryens. But then again he’ll also probably use this as an opportunity to bargain for for better trade rights and privileges.
