King's Landing
98 AC (Ninth Moon—Day 29)
Jaehaerys II
His Hand was dying.
It should have clawed at his heart, yet Jaehaerys felt scant grief—only the sharp vexation of seeking another mind as keen. Barth was a rare soul, and the king harboured no hope that his successor would match the old septon's blunt wit or steady hand.
"Strange to see you so frail, I confess," he did say, gazing at the man abed. "I thought your end would come sharp, your fire and gall yet unyielded."
Barth lay weak, limbs quivering, flesh slick with sweat. The sight stirred memories of the Shivers of 59, that cruel plague that had taught Jaehaerys the true weight of loss—the kind that breaks a father's soul. Barth bore those marks, though the maesters swore it was no such pestilence. Death loomed certain, and Jaehaerys cared little for its guise.
The septon stirred, one eye creaking open, a faint haze dulling the once-sharp black of his gaze. "One might reckon you'd be buried in duties, Your Grace, with my sickness stalling my aid," he rasped, voice rough as gravel yet laced with a familiar bite.
Jaehaerys allowed a faint smile. "Aye, one might." He straightened, crossing one leg over the other, sinking deeper into the chair. "Yet work has been light of late. Fewer lords beg audience, despite the realm's stirrings."
"Delegation, as your lad would name it." A spark of mirth coloured Barth's tone.
The king's brow lifted, caught by the septon's rare flicker of emotion. The Hand was ever a man of grim restraint, sparing with sentiment—a trait that had bound them as kin in spirit. This glimpse of levity was queer, and Jaehaerys found it oddly stirring.
And, perhaps unsurprisingly, he did agree with the wisdom in his youngest son's approach to rule—a king of his stature need not drown in petty scrolls when able hands could bear the load. Yet he held misgivings.
Entrusting tasks to others risked errors and a fraying of authority in matters great and small. Such was why the lords of Westeros shunned the ways of distant Essos.
Still, Maelys had shown safeguards could be woven, and deftly so. The old king was not set to fully embrace these ways, however.
Barth hacked, a dry rasp that betrayed anguish in his chest. Jaehaerys poured water from a flagon and pressed the cup into the septon's trembling hand. "A wretched state this sickness has wrought," the man said after a sip. "Yet it grants me the rare honor of a king's service."
Jaehaerys tried for a smile, but it faltered, thin… fleeting. He shook his head, his gaze settling on the ailing man as he voiced a thought long held.
"Had you not sworn to the Faith, old friend, I'd have heaped greater rewards for your counsel and loyalty through these years," he said. "Lands, perchance, a keep of your own. Had you sired children, they'd have known my favor, I wager."
A subtle truth lingered in there, a whisper of the septon's quiet tryst with a certain servant—a secret Jaehaerys had long discerned but left unspoken.
Barth's breathing continued unchanged, yet his clouded eyes lifted to meet the king's. "Ever late to matters of weight, my king," he said, pausing to gather breath. "Though it was no small thing that held your gaze. I've no complaints of my time in your service—dare I say it was a life well spent. As for legacy or favour, your lad's already seen to that. Not so grand, mayhap, but what kin I've left have found fortune and place through him."
The words stirred scarce a ripple in Jaehaerys, though a familiar bitterness coiled within. Of late, he had come to see the full measure of his youngest son's reach—threads spun with cunning, each move weighed for the morrow. He'd even learned the truth of Maelys' dealings with the Essosi slavers, stripped of any tender motive.
Too much mummery in that boy, a courtier in the truest sense.
Jaehaerys wished the lad had been his heir. Had it been so, House Targaryen's strength would stand threefold secure.
Aye, even without the lad's newfound hunger for war—if it was hunger in earnest—Westeros' fate might have been certain.
"I reckon he would've, that boy," Jaehaerys sighed. "He's a knack for fairness and stirring men's hearts. If you've set down words on him, as you have on me, I'd fain read them—to see what your sharp eye caught that mine missed."
Barth's brow quirked, a ghost of his old wryness. "My quill's not been idle, Your Grace, though it's not half so kind to Maelys as you might hope. The boy's a riddle—benign in one breath, ruthless in the next. I've scratched some musings, aye, but they're no gentle chronicle. They're tucked among my papers, if you've the stomach for them."
"I'd have them brought to my solar by eve, and if it can be done, copied and shared before the lad spins a hero's saga of his own making," Jaehaerys said, an his words were no idle fancy.
Only yesterday, Maelys had spoken of wielding information as a blade—the ship boarding had sown chaos in the city's peace and prospects.
Seeing how many smallfolk yearned to sail to lands scarce fit with little but tents, Jaehaerys feared for King's Landing's survival should his son muster the will and vessels to ferry all who dreamt of his domains.
"You give much villainy to the boy, I fear," Barth shared in a voice that rasped faintly.
Jaehaerys' gaze lingered on the septon. "You think such feats he would not try? You heard how they speak of him, those smallfolk, the praises they heap, the loyalty they nurse…"
Jaehaerys held no true fear that such deep deceit ran in the boy. True, Maelys bore scant love or reverence for the present lords, but that fault he cast upon the Conqueror and Jaehaerys' own hesitations.
The king knew well they could have forged an iron grip over Westeros with little strain. Yet rulership was no mere game of wants and commands—care was needed, lest the Targaryens wear the tyrant's brand.
In truth, Jaehaerys had stayed his hand not from weakness, but from necessity. His uncle's madness had stained their name, and to demand more war, more coin, more toil for growth and glory—however grand for the realm—would have broken the backs of lords and smallfolk already bowed by nearer woes.
…And the Long Night's defeat demanded a realm steadfast and whole.
Yet now, watching his son's designs unfold, Jaehaerys owned there were paths to that strength he'd not seen—his mind had simply lacked the cunning twist of Maelys'.
Nay, this was a test. Jaehaerys meant to gauge the depth of the veil the Hand had drawn across his eyes, aiding Maelys in shadows while keeping his king blind.
Barth's lips twitched. "Oh, he's capable, no doubt. But your misgivings, my king, stem from a stranger's distance, not a father's sight. You see shadows where there's but light bent clever."
Jaehaerys leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. "Speak plain, old friend. My patience for riddles wanes."
The septon's clouded eyes never dimmed in their amusement. "Maelys craves the smallfolk's love, aye, but mark how he wins it. It's no mummer's show, no gilded lies spun by bards. His is a craft of deeds, felt in the hand and belly. When an urchin clutches a bowl of oatmeal, warmed against the morn's chill, he's told it was Maelys' coin, Maelys' will that filled it. When a mother wraps her babe in fresh linens, she knows they came from his looms..."
Resonance, was it?
Maelys' craft was a study in grandeur. The way he bound the smallfolk's hearts to him was masterful, if faintly unnerving. Jaehaerys would not call it revolutionary—lords tending their people was no strange deed. The Red Keep held stores against famine or plague, as any wise seat would.
Yet Maelys went beyond, giving not in the teeth of calamity but freely, for its own sake. With honeyed words, he sowed devotion in those who'd once bedded down with hollow bellies, ensnaring simple minds.
Now the smallfolk hailed him as a blessed prince, a noble destined to lift life's burdens. Jaehaerys knew no deed or favour could make this generation, or those before, see another lord as Maelys' equal. The effort in itself would be folly.
Barth's case stood proof.
His lips twitched, a wry amusement flickering as he noted the subtle favour in the old septon's tone. "Your words lay bare your own slanted heart, old friend," he said. "Have you not heard the madness he brews for the Faith and the Hightowers both?"
The king held no deep piety, so he could not brand his son's schemes profane—practical, more like. To weave the Faith's own holy writ, thick with folly, into a chain binding Targaryen rule would stifle many a rebellious whisper. And with Maelys' scribing device, the task would be near effortless if unhindered.
Barth laughed, a frail sound breaking into a cough. "I'm of a practical bent, my king," he said. "A glance at the Andals' exodus tells of a folk fleeing your kin's old cruelties, crafting a faith that damned such deeds for the sake of order and safety. A clever stroke, masterfully done, I'd wager. But the Faith is a creed of expedience, so I'll shed no tears if Prince Maelys bends it to his will."
This was another cause for Jaehaerys' high regard for the septon. Barth's loyalty lay not with him alone, but with House Targaryen—that jagged throne of blades. His mind was honed by reason, his tongue bold enough to speak hard truths, even of the king's stark failures as a father. Jaehaerys still nursed a quiet grudge for that.
He shook his head. "What of the boy's scheme, then? Think you the Faith will not rail against his designs?" He knew they would, especially if Maelys moved without stealth or subtle bargains.
Yet he craved Barth's judgment—whatever wisdom the Hand might offer before the Stranger claimed him.
"It will be no easy path," Barth said, "not unless he plays upon the rot festering in Oldtown's septs—something I wager you've weighed, given your house's incestuous ways."
Jaehaerys' frown deepened at the septon's bluntness, though no malice colored the words.
Aye, he'd kept a grip on the pliable septons in Oldtown—folly not to. Yet he'd stirred those waters little, the Faith's influence too slight in years past to merit meddling.
Now, though, the Faith loomed large, and Jaehaerys pondered if slaying septons might truly be justified…
Barth pressed on. "The Lord Hightower's backing would smooth the path. They feign modesty, but their grip on the Citadel and Faith is plain. A single word from them, and loyal maesters, septons, and septas could murmur or twist records, none the wiser. Did Prince Aemon not warn you of this shadow?"
Jaehaerys' face tightened, but he gave a curt nod. Aemon had a keen mind, though much of it was shaped by Corlys' whispers.
Yet, sound as the notion was, the king saw no way to curb that power without rousing the wrath of the mightiest house this side of the realm. Worse, the nobles clung to tradition like a sacred relic. Had he dared, they'd cry Maegor reborn—or worse, claim he sought to remake Westeros as a new Valyria.
There was a reason his grandsire, for all his flaws, embraced the Andals' ways.
"I'd hear your plan for this shift," Jaehaerys commanded, eyeing Barth, whose frail form seemed to teeter on the edge of life. The king doubted the septon would greet the dawn. "Maelys means to wield his device and wines as a bridge. He reckons he's got the measure of Leyton—mad for legacy and glory, that one. The devices would draw eyes and wealth to Oldtown, fixing it as the heart of learning. Had the boy sought only to bend the Faith, I wager he'd have won leave with scant trouble. But he craves the Citadel's archives too—he'd have knowledge loosed, not hoarded."
Barth's voice held steady. "Mine would be a long and chancy path," he confessed. "I'd counsel a slow entwining—wed a lesser Hightower son to a Targaryen daughter. Shape the heirs of that union, and pave the way for them to claim Oldtown should the main line falter—"
The septon hacked again, a cough that seemed to drain what little vigour clung to him. Yet he stilled, gathering himself.
"Honour is a chain on rule, I've found," he wheezed. "Better to don its mask than heed its sermons."
Jaehaerys' brow furrowed, both at the words and the septon's waning state. His eyes flicked to a flagon of wine on a nearby table. He rose, swift, and poured a cup. "Best you meet death with something sweet in your gut," he said, offering it.
Barth took the cup without a nod to the grim jest, drinking deep with a thirst that belied his frailty.
After a pause, Jaehaerys pressed on. "Your plan holds merit, but you know as well as I why it cannot be."
"Aye."
Jaehaerys loathed to confess it, but he held scant trust in his descendants' mettle. Viserys was a stark case—a lord of middling spine, shrinking from strife, cut from the same weak cloth as the king's father, Aenys. Even now, with every chance laid before him, it was Jaehaerys and his youngest who drove the sewer works.
Baelon's son waded in indecision, a hesitance so stark it chilled the king. Aemma all but judged in his place, and once, Jaehaerys might have taken solace in her strength. Yet her frailty was plain, and if Viserys held to his ways, the birthing bed would claim her.
Already, fissures marred the throne's foundation. Jaehaerys knew his son would spurn any talk of binding his unborn boy—should Gael's babe prove male—to Rhaenyra.
For all Maelys' cunning and ruthlessness, he guarded his wife and children's future with a fierce devotion. It was a strange sight, the lad so wholly given to love and kin. Jaehaerys prayed the boy would triumph where he and Alysanne had stumbled.
And by all signs, it seemed he might, if fate didn't strangle him.
Maelys lingered often in Gael's presence, more than ever before. Havenhall boasted a fledgling port, though its shelters were but tents. The land was tamed swiftly, materials flowed in, waterways carved, and fields marked for sowing.
He'd soared there on Vermithor's back, keen to see how his son's bid for independence fared. It still stung that Maelys chose trade with the Sea Snake over the royal aid Jaehaerys could have granted, free of heavy strings. Too many plots swirled in that lad's mind—too many for all to end well.
He supposed the failure would be good for him, lest the continued successes make him vain and arrogant.
Still, in regard to the settlement, all was well. It seemed every soul in his domain would have proper labour, and Maelys had spoken of a system to track each subject by name—an archive for the smallfolk, no less.
Jaehaerys deemed it shrewd, though he doubted King's Landing could withstand such a scheme.
Dragonstone, though…
He glanced at his friend, only to find Barth lost to sleep. Rising, the king felt the weight of his years press upon him. He wished for a quicker end than the lingering fade awaiting the septon.
"May your path beyond be no bleak void, old friend," he murmured in parting, striding from the chamber.
Ser Ryam fell in step behind as Jaehaerys wove through the Hand's tower toward its threshold. "How's he faring, Your Grace?" the Redwyne asked, his tone laced with little more than courtesy.
Servants bowed as they passed, many bearing linked chains and robes akin to the Citadel's. Maelys' men stood out, their presence here not to tend the ailing Hand, but to study the malady that gripped him—Jaehaerys knew it well.
He misliked their ways—experiments, dissections, and the like—yet Maelys had argued their worth, especially for curing common ailments and easing the perils of childbirth.
"He's dying," Jaehaerys replied after a pause. "He'll not see the morrow."
"A pity," Ryam said. "The good septon was a wise voice."
It was just as well that the knight spared no false warmth for the fading Hand, for Barth had garnered little love beyond the Targaryens. Yet that very detachment—his lack of noble entanglements—had made him so able a Hand.
"Any fresh tidings while I sat with Barth?" Jaehaerys asked as they emerged from the tower, a new knot of guards falling in to shield him.
A grim jest, that a king should need safeguarding in his own city, let alone his keep. Yet such was so.
"Little, if any, Your Grace." was his answer.
He had suspected it, though it cost little to inquire.
Jaehaerys glanced aside, where laborers toiled at their digging. All was work and progress now, a steady march toward betterment. Even Viserra labored to uplift Sweetport, and the king had eased its taxes to lighten her burden.
He could have given more—the royal vaults brimmed with gold, even amidst the sewer works—but the ember of Viserra's resentment still glowed fierce.
Still, he found ease in most matters. Those of his children who remained were finding their way and flourishing still. Perhaps it was time to bridge the rift with his granddaughter at Driftmark as well…
A stirring notion, yet one Jaehaerys knew not how to shape into truth.
…Thwarting those pirates, mayhap? Yet such a move would only swell the Velaryons' might and sway—a truth that underpinned his restraint against the Triarchy.
But was there cause to harbour such caution toward Corlys? House Targaryen need only match or outpace the swelling might of the naval house to quell that fear—and Maelys had shown many a path to do so.
Jaehaerys hummed as he stepped into his solar, a plan taking root.
"Ryam, fetch the Grand Maester and call Maelys to me," he commanded.
The kingsguard bowed and set off.
With Barth's end nigh, Jaehaerys meant for Baelon to don the Hand's chain. It would temper him for the throne. And he wished to bind the brothers closer, lest his youngest deemed manipulating his brother the right course.