The Prince of Whispers Chapter 21: The Master of Whispers

The Red Keep’s dungeons were said to be deeper than memory, but Aegon knew that memory was malleable. He preferred ledgers. Ink did not lie—not when kept beneath three locks and ciphered thrice over.

He stood in a small stone chamber beneath Maegor’s Holdfast, candlelight flickering across a table scattered with parchments. No banners adorned these walls, no sigils or regal pomp of the Targaryen court. It was a den for rats—those who caught them, and those who fed on them. The Iron Thorne stayed in the light, and his work was focused on the shadows cast by the throne to sustain the Targaryen reign. To this cause, all matters of honour and gentlemanly warfare were abandoned. His work sustained the statecraft of his family and allowed the king to remove unsavoury bannermen and ambitious snakes from the political landscape without dirtying his hands.

“You’ll have your copper,” Aegon said calmly, looking up from a map of Gulltown’s merchant lanes with harsh, cold eyes. “But you’ll also bring me a list of every ship’s captain that took coin from House Grafton in the last moon.”

The man before him—a gaunt, hollow-eyed dockworker from the Vale—nodded mutely and took the pouch from the table. His fingers shook slightly. Whether from fear, hunger, or the chill of the black cells, Aegon neither knew nor cared. Results mattered.

Fear was a tool, and in the last few months, he had learned to wield it like his sword. After all, practice makes everything perfect.

When the man had slunk away, Aegon turned to the shadow beyond the chamber’s threshold. A woman stepped forward, silent and graceful, her eyes sharp as the famed diamonds of Volantis. A woman who spent her nights warming his bed – his dear wife, Gael.

“I’ve told you not to traverse these treacherous tunnels.”

“Why waste your breath on things far outside your control?” Gael said, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Besides, you’re not the only one with knowledge of the secret tunnels.”

Aegon let out a huff and shook his head at the stubbornness of his dear wife.

“You trust him?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing herself against his back.

“No,” Aegon said, enjoying the warmth of her body and the smell of lavender. “If he spends the coin without doing his task, I’ll know. And so will his overseers.”

She smirked, pleased.

“The spy network grows?”

“It must.” Aegon rolled up the map. “The Lords of the Reach whisper of increasing the taxes of their borders with the Crownlands. In Oldtown, the Citadel sends many ravens to Braavos as if the maesters have lovers in the Bastard Daughter. In the Westerlands, the Lannisters have begun hiring hedge knights—too many for curbing bandit activity in the Goldroad. Secrets bloom like spring weeds these days. I mean to be the scythe to sow them when they’re ripe.”

Gael giggled at his theatrical answer while fetching a random piece of parchment from a nearby table.

“Brothels?” Gael raised a sceptical eyebrow after eyes traced the contents on the parchment. “You mean to start brothels in the city and across the kingdoms. Why?”

Aegon heard the hostile undertone in Gael’s query and became guarded immediately. The last thing he wanted was to be at odds with his wife.

“It’s just an idea.” he defended. “Just think about it, my love. Men have loose tongues in the company of women, especially in a brothel. What better place is there to gather information from unsavoury people who find refuge in the company of whores?”

“And what do you say to those who will accuse you of earning profit from the suffering of women and exploiting them as little more than cattle or a slave?” Gael asked frostily.

“No one will know I own the brothels.” Aegon said meekly, feeling the ire of his rising.

“I will know.” Gael said icily.

“Ah…” Aegon gulped audibly. “I think it’d be wrong of me to start brothels for the crown’s benefit. Perhaps, inns should be the focus with plenty of ale and wine to loosen men’s tongues.”

“That’s better.” Gael nodded, her ire bleeding away to a satisfied smile.

Aegon was starting to regret coming back to King’s Landing. He did so out of his love for the family and the safety of his wife. But the last few months had shown how much of a troublemaker his grandfather could become. He didn’t know what influenced his grandfather to take Gael under his wing and educate her from his sickbed of all places. Whatever ‘lessons’ his grandfather was imparting to her, Gael was using most of them against him these days.

“What are you thinking?” Gael asked suddenly, her striking amethyst eyes now only a hair’s breadth away from his own eyes.

“I was just taken aback by your mesmerising beauty.” Aegon stuttered.

“Are you really?” Gael purred softly as she slipped into his lap seamlessly while her eyes remained locked with his.

“Uh-huh.” Aegon said, fighting off a shiver of excitement when Gael’s hands slipped underneath his tunic. “I have missed you these days as you spent increasingly more time in the company of his grace.”

“Are you saying that I have been remiss in my duties as a wife, my love?” Gael asked, her hot breath against his skin sent a jolt down his body.

“Well… I wouldn’t mind if you spent more quality time with me.” Aegon said, breathing in the lavender scent from her silver hair, which came undone when he pulled out a couple of slides that held her luscious mane together.

“Is that so?”

Gael pressed her warm lips against his, gently nibbling his lower lip. Soon, they were engaged in a heated make-out session, but Gael pulled back suddenly when his hands started to wander a little.

“Tonight – in bed. Do not be late, my love.” Gael said before she slipped out of his lap with a sultry grin.

While he was left in need of her warmth, he saw Gael scribbling something on the parchment. When she finished writing, she turned to leave.

“That’s not fair.” Aegon nearly whined.

Gael only smirked before she left like a summer breeze from the tunnels.

“Oh, I’ll get her back for that.” Aegon muttered before turning to his table, where Gael had scrawled something on a parchment.

It read ships, sailors, ports, bards and smiths.

Aegon leaned back with a contemplative look.

Every merchant and sailor speaks to someone. They all carry messages, knowingly or not. A crate of saffron is a coin purse. A roll of silk is a letter folded ten times. While his grandfather had a functioning spy network around different parts of Westeros, the reality was that Aegon couldn’t trust them. His grandfather’s waning health had left the grip on the spy network to falter in the last few years.

Aegon had the task of building it all up from the ground up, and Gael’s suggestion was not without its merits. Having ships was necessary to transport information from across the Narrow Sea and even from distant ports. Sailors were easy targets for extracting information. They were a treasure trove of information from multiple places, and they were the first to know about the activities of the Great Houses. Having men in ports helps to keep track of merchants and the goods coming into the Seven Kingdoms. Bards can gain access to even the most impenetrable castles and the lowest of inns.

He walked to the wall and opened a small, hidden compartment. Inside were tiny jars of black wax, used for sealing messages and branding secret correspondences. There, beside the wax, lay the new seal of the Master of Whispers. The stamp of the coiled snake ready to strike was his preferred symbol instead of the tower used by the former spymaster, Tyanna.

Taking the seal and the wax into his hand, he started the work in earnest. If he were to abandon the idea of brothels, he might as well get involved in the business of wines, ale and spices. Thankfully, he had plenty of grateful Pentoshi Magisters and merchants willing to lend a hand.

******

Later that night in the Tower of the Hand, the Small Council convened under the authority of the Hand, Baelon Targaryen.

Aegon was seated beside Lord Lyman Beesbury, a longtime friend of his father’s and the former youngest member of the Small Council.

“It seems you are no longer our youngest member, Lord Beesbury.” Grand Maester Runciter said with a gentle smile.

“I’m fast becoming an old man, Grand Maester. One does not need the wisdom of the Citadel to see that.” Lord Lyman said with a grin, looking up from his many parchments of trade and taxes.

“Still, the Small Council remains small.” Ser Ryma commented.

“And it’ll remain smaller for the time being.” Baelon said as he walked into the chamber and took the seat at the head of the table.

“His grace has refused once again?” Grand Maester Runciter asked with a disappointed look.

“Unfortunately, yes, my fellow council members. It seems his grace still expects Lord Velaryon to take up his post, and as for the Master of Laws, he has rejected all the suggestions I made.” Baelon said with a tired sigh.

The Small Council members exchanged uneasy looks as the topic of vacant seats took precedence. They had spent hours carefully crafting a list of good men for the king to choose from, only to be snubbed each time. When King Jaehaerys appointed Prince Aegon as the Master of Whispers, most of them were hopeful that the rest of the positions would get filled.

“Is there any chance Lord Velaryon would consider taking back his post?” the Grand Maester asked gently.

“You might have better luck trying to convince a pig to fly.” Aegon said with a snort.

Suddenly, Aegon became the focus of four pairs of eyes, making him squirm a little.

Aegon cleared his throat.

“I mean, the Seasnake is a stubborn and proud man. He won’t be coming back without some reconciliation efforts from the crown.” Aegon said.

“Unfortunately, my son is right, and my father has rejected anyone else from assuming the position. I suppose I’ll have to continue assuming the duties of the post for the time being.” Baelon said with a displeased look.

Aegon was tempted to suggest names he thought his grandfather might agree to fill the vacant seats in the Small Council. He resisted such temptations, keeping in mind the danger of overstepping his boundaries. He had barely attended two meetings within this chamber, and both times it was to report to his father about the progress of Viserys’ work in Dragonstone and the ongoing formation of the spy network.   

The nature of the work he was charged with left him out as the odd one within the Small Council. He could not speak freely and share information in front of the council without the say-so of his father and grandfather. Therefore, he kept his mouth shut and only spoke when asked to.

When his father sought the number of ships being repaired in the docks of King’s Landing, he informed the council. When his father sought to determine whether the rumours that Lord Darklyn boasted of having reserve grain to feed his people for a decade-long winter, he informed the council that the man could barely scrape by a week. When his father sought the reason why Nightsong, Harvest Hall and Blackhaven wrote about disturbances in the Dornish border, he informed the council of increasing bandit activity in the Marches. But he had no proof whether it was coordinated by the Dornishmen with the knowledge of their lords.

When his father sought why the taxes from Crackclaw Point were less than the previous year, Lord Beesbury stuttered to answer. Aegon didn’t answer since the question was not posed to him. But he knew the reason. It was the one fault he found with Lord Beesbury during his investigation of the man. The Lord of Honeyholt went beyond the norms to keep this particular thing buried.

Aegon looked at the flustered Master of Coin with a raised eyebrow when the man maintained silence. He wondered whether Lord Beesbury was holding back the truth because Lord Celtigar is kin to Lord Corlys Velaryon, or the man had some vested interest in the region. He couldn’t find any indication of the latter despite trying to unearth some unholy link.  

“Aegon.” Baelon commanded while eyeing Lord Beesbury with a disappointed look.

“Lord Bartimos Celtigar is more hated in the region than last year, and he’ll be hated more come next year.” Aegon said honestly.  

“Hating someone is not a reason for not sending taxes due to the crown.” Grand Master Runcitor made his opinion clear.

“That may be, but the Crackclaws have their reasons to distrust and hate House Celtigar. The feud is one as illustrious as the feud between Brackens and Balckwoods.” Aegon said dispassionately.

He knew the reason why his grandfather charged the Celtigars to collect taxes from the region despite knowing their enmity. The Crackclaw houses were petty knights, but they were fiercely loyal to Queen Visenya and, after her time, Maegor. His grandfather was one to hold a grudge. He had seen what his grandfather had done to the traitors who started the Faith’s rebellion against House Targaryen.

The Conciliator achieved peace not just through dialogue but by spilling enemy blood in the shadows as well. He had yet to study the entirety of his grandfather’s deeds protecting and avenging House Targaryen from the shadows. But he had seen enough to know his grandfather’s hands were steeped in blood whilst protecting the family from the poisonous weeds that thought to usurp the Dragons. Though he saw his grandfather in a new light, he couldn’t help but look up to the man with more respect these days. To know that his grandfather, the King, had been burdened with such secrets and deeds all these years – it was humbling.

At the same time, Aegon could see some grudges were not in the best interests to be pursued.

“Father.” Aegon spoke, halting the discussion going on within the chamber about the Cracklaws and the Celtigars.

“Aegon. You have something to say.” Baelon looked curiously at his son.

“Yes. If you’d permit me, I’d like to resolve this issue with the Cracklaws.” Aegon said, and immediately the other councillors objected.

“I know it’s not my place to be involved in the matter.” Aegon talked over all opposition. “But I’d like to resolve this issue quietly.”  

“Prince Aegon is passionate and has good intentions.” the Grand Maester said with a sigh. “But, I fear this might send the wrong message. If every time an issue is to be solved by a Targaryen, the Seven Kingdoms will not function as well as we all envision.”

Baelon eyed his son for a long moment.

“You’ll handle this quietly.” Baelon said.

“I’ll be taking Fiendfyre on a small trip to stretch his wings and happen upon the good folk of the Crackclaw Point and stay a couple of days to investigate the rumours of bandit activity nearby.” said Aegon.

“Yes,” Baelon said after a moment of thought. “…that should do.”

******

The sea lay restless beneath Aegon's shadow as his dragon, Fiendfyre, soared over the churning waters of the Bay of Crabs. His dragon’s wings sliced the salt-heavy air, its obsidian scales glinting with red as the evening sun bled into the horizon. Below, Crackclaw Point jutted out into the sea like a broken claw, its narrow peninsulas and dense marshes cloaked in thick pine forests and stubborn fog. It was a land that prided itself on defiance, its people fiercely independent and difficult to tame even when the Andals tamed the rest of Westeros in the wake of their arrival.

The Crackclaws were First Men, and the Andals could only make allies of them through marriage. In warfare, the Crackclaws were fierce and unbeatable, some would say. The houses like Boggs, Brune, Crabb, Hardy, Pyne and Cave produced some of the fiercest warriors that kept the other kingdoms from taking the Crackclaw Point. The River Kings, the Ironborn and the Storm Kings had tried to conquer the land, but they all failed.

It was only before Queen Visenya and her mighty Vhagar that the Crackclaws bent their knee.

Aegon tightened the grip on his saddle as Fiendfyre circled the small castle at the edge of a clearing large enough for his dragon to land. It was the seat of House Boggs where Queen Visenya accepted the fealty of Crackclaw lords. So, Aegon chose the same place to hold the meeting with the lords of Crackclaw Point. As Fiendfyre circled the castle, he saw the number of banners gathered below.

‘It seems like they’ve all come.’ Aegon mused.  

“Ease up on the landing, Fiendfyre. We don’t want them scared… yet.”

Aegon pulled the reins of the harness to guide Fiendfyre into a slow descent. The dragon’s presence was enough to stir panic; farmers scattered, sheep bolted, and the bell in the village square began to toll.

Fiendfyre landed in the cleared field outside the hall, its claws sinking into the wet earth, its nostrils steaming. Fiendfyre grunted after flaring his nostrils and taking in the scent of pine trees and swamps. Aegon dismounted in silence, letting his polished black-and-scarlet boiled-leather armour gleam in the dusk. His sword hung from his hip. He did not need to draw it—not yet. But his hand was on the pommel from the moment his feet touched the ground.

“Peace, Fiendfyre.” Aegon whispered in High Valyrian while rubbing the obsidian scales of his dragon.

“Behave while I’m away.” Aegon muttered before he started walking towards the castle.

Lord Morgan Boggs stood before his hall with five men-at-arms. His beard was thick and streaked with mud, and his cloak smelled faintly of peat smoke. He bowed stiffly.

“Prince Aegon,” the lord said, “you honour us with your presence.”

“Lord Morgan.” Aegon nodded. “I see you have gathered the other Crackclaw houses as instructed. You have my thanks.”

“Of course, my Prince. I sent riders out and gathered all the houses after the raven came from King’s Landing.” Lord Morgan said.

“My father is not amused by what has happened here, Lord Morgan. The crown’s tax collectors were attacked in your lands. One lost an eye, and another is missing, or so I’m told by Lord Celtigar.” Aegon said as they entered the hall. “Do you deny this charge?”

“We are loyal men, Prince Aegon. But the marsh does not yield gold. It yields leeches and hardship. We are asked to pay coin we do not have, and the men sent to collect the taxes seldom give us reason to treat them fairly. They make a ruckus in our lands and pick fights with people they ought not to.”

“You have coin for spears,” Aegon noted, glancing at the guards. “Coin for crossbows. You built new watchtowers along the shores. I saw them from atop my dragon. “

Boggs bristled.

“We defend ourselves from pirates, Prince Aegon. Celtigar never lifts a sword to help us, yet demands we fill his coffers by felling our trees. We have long suspected these pirates are Celtigar men disguised under the black sails.”

Aegon stopped walking.

“That is a serious accusation to make, Lord Morgan.” Aegon said seriously with a hint of warning. “Lord Celtigar collects taxes on the crown’s behalf.”

“That is not the only thing he does in these lands, my prince. If you’ll hear our concerns without judgment, you’ll understand. We are loyal to his grace and we’d never betray the oaths we swore.”

Aegon’s eyes bore into the black pools of Lord Morgan Boggs, but the man didn’t flinch or back down.

“Very well.” Aegon sighed. “I’ll hear you and the others. I need this issue resolved quietly between us.”

“Of course, your grace. Please, come with me.”

Lord Morgan led him to the castle’s modest feast hall, where all the lords of Crackclaw Point were gathered.

“Ser Ethan.” Aegon greeted warmly, seeing the distant cousin of Lord Morgan.

Ser Ethan Boggs was one of the thirteen knights in his service when he waged his war against the Dothraki.

“My prince.” Ethan dipped his head before they clasped their hands and shook in greeting.

There were other familiar faces in the room. Ser Lucas Crabb, Ser Henry Cave, and Ser Alvin Brune were all knights who fought side by side with him. This was also the reason why he took this matter upon himself.

“I hope to resolve this issue amicably, as I have many friends whom I respect and hold dear within this hall.”

“We are loyal men of the crown, my prince. The lords of Crackclaw Point won’t disrespect the crown or jeopardise the crown’s rightful power.” Lord Crabb spoke up with the promise of loyalty.

“Good.” Aegon nodded. “Then let’s begin.”