Ch: 11

King’s Landing

98 AC (Ninth Moon—Day 29)

Jaehaerys II

His Hand was dying.

It should have torn at his heart, but Jaehaerys felt little grief—only the sharp, gnawing loss of a mind that matched his own. Barth had been a rare soul, and the king held no illusions that anyone would match the old septon’s steady judgment or unflinching wit.

“It’s strange seeing you like this,” he admitted, standing over the man’s bed. “I always thought your end would come suddenly—still sharp, still defiant.”

Barth lay still, limbs trembling, skin slick with sweat. The sight brought back memories of the Shivers of ’59, that cruel plague which had taught Jaehaerys the true shape of grief—the kind that breaks a father’s soul. Barth bore those same marks, though the maesters insisted it wasn’t the same disease. Death was near, and Jaehaerys cared little for its disguise.

The septon stirred, one eye creaking open, dulled now with the haze of pain. “I’d have thought you buried in duties, Your Grace, with my absence slowing things down,” he rasped, voice rough and cracked but still edged with that familiar dry humor.

Jaehaerys gave a small, tired smile. “One might.” He settled into the chair, one leg crossed over the other. “But work’s been light. Fewer lords come calling, despite the unrest.”

“Delegation,” Barth muttered. “As your boy would call it.”

The king’s brow lifted, catching the flicker of amusement in the old man’s voice. Barth was not a man given to levity—rarely sentimental, always restrained. It was one of the reasons they’d been kindred spirits. Seeing it now stirred something in Jaehaerys.

And truth be told, he did agree with the logic of his youngest son’s approach to rule—a king of stature need not drown in parchment when able hands could carry the load. But he had doubts.

Delegation risked mistakes. Worse, it threatened the erosion of authority in the details that held the realm together. That was why the lords of Westeros had always looked askance at Essosi models of governance.

Still, Maelys had shown it could be done—carefully, effectively. Even so, Jaehaerys wasn’t ready to embrace it fully.

Barth coughed, a dry, painful sound that shook his chest. Jaehaerys poured water and pressed the cup into his trembling hands.

“A wretched state this sickness has brought,” Barth said after a sip. “Though I suppose it’s a rare thing—to have a king fetch your drink.”

Jaehaerys tried to smile, but it came out thin. He shook his head, then let the words fall.

“If not for your vows to the Faith, I would’ve rewarded you more—land, perhaps, or a keep of your own. If you’d had children, they would’ve known my favor.”

There was a subtle truth behind it, a quiet nod to Barth’s long-past tryst with a certain servant. A truth Jaehaerys had always known but never spoken.

Barth stilled, meeting the king’s gaze with tired eyes. “Ever late with the things that matter, my king,” he said softly. “But I never lacked for purpose in your service. It was a life well spent. And as for legacy—your son’s seen to that. Not grand, perhaps, but the kin I’ve left are cared for, thanks to him.”

Jaehaerys said nothing, but bitterness stirred. He’d come to see the full extent of Maelys’ influence—each move measured, each thread woven with intent. He’d even uncovered the truth behind the boy’s dealings with the Essosi slavers, stripped of any noble pretense.

He wished the boy had been his heir. If he had, the realm’s strength would be secure—threefold.

Even without Maelys’ newfound appetite for war—if it was truly appetite—Westeros might already be safe.

“Aye, he would’ve made it so,” Jaehaerys said quietly. “He’s a gift for fairness. He stirs hearts. If you’ve written of him, as you have of me, I’d like to read it. To see what you saw that I didn’t.”

Barth raised a brow—just slightly. “My quill’s not been idle, Your Grace. But it’s not kind to him. The boy’s a riddle—kind in one breath, cruel in the next. I’ve written my thoughts, yes, but they’re no soft tale. They’re among my papers, if you care to read them.”

“I’ll have them brought to my solar by evening. Copied, if need be. Best done before the boy spins his own legend.”

It wasn’t an idle remark. Just yesterday, Maelys had spoken of turning words into weapons. The chaos from the ship boarding still lingered—unrest brewing as more smallfolk looked to sail eastward, chasing dreams he’d seeded with words alone.

“You give him too much villainy,” Barth murmured, voice faint.

Jaehaerys met his gaze. “Do you not think him capable of it? You’ve heard how they speak of him. The smallfolk—how they praise him, the loyalty they show.”

Jaehaerys didn’t truly believe Maelys was hiding some grand betrayal. The boy had little love for the nobility, that much was true—but he blamed that on Aegon the Conqueror’s design and on Jaehaerys’ own caution.

The truth was, they could have ruled with an iron grip. It would’ve cost little. But ruling wasn’t about desire or force alone—there was a line, and once crossed, it was hard to return. The Targaryens had to remain kings, not tyrants.

Truthfully, Jaehaerys hadn’t held back out of weakness, but out of necessity. His uncle’s madness had already tarnished their family’s name, and pushing for more war, more taxes, more strain—even if it brought long-term strength—would have crushed lords and commoners alike, both still reeling from nearer wounds.

And the Long Night’s end demanded unity, not ambition.

But now, watching his son’s plans take shape, Jaehaerys admitted there were roads to power he’d never seen—paths that needed a sharper kind of mind. Maelys had that twist of intellect he lacked.

No, this wasn’t just reflection. It was a test. Jaehaerys needed to measure how deeply Barth had veiled his eyes—how long the Hand had guided Maelys behind the scenes, all while keeping the king in the dark.

Barth’s mouth twitched with something like a smile. “He’s capable, no doubt. But your doubts come from distance, not insight. You see shadows because the light bends oddly, not because they’re real.”

Jaehaerys leaned back, his chair groaning beneath him. “Speak plainly. I’ve little patience for riddles tonight.”

The old septon’s eyes gleamed, still sharp despite the sickness dulling his frame. “Maelys wants the people’s love, yes. But look at how he earns it. It’s not a play for applause. It’s in the daily grind—deeds they feel in their stomachs and bones. When a street boy eats a warm bowl of porridge in the cold, he knows it was Maelys’ coin that paid for it. When a mother wraps her child in clean cloth, she knows it came from Maelys’ looms.”

Resonance. That’s what it was.

Maelys had made care into spectacle—not through pomp, but precision. He didn’t wait for disaster to give aid; he gave because he could. And in that constant, quiet giving, he built loyalty that no parade or edict could match.

It unsettled Jaehaerys more than he’d admit.

The smallfolk now praised Maelys as if he were divinely chosen—a prince born to lift their burdens. No other lord could hope to match that image, not in this generation or the next. It wasn’t just admiration. It was worship.

Even Barth, it seemed, wasn’t immune.

Jaehaerys narrowed his eyes. “Careful, friend. Your fondness is showing. Or have you forgotten the madness he’s brewing for the Faith and the Hightowers?”

The king wasn’t devout enough to call his son’s plans blasphemy. They were pragmatic—dangerously so. Twisting the Faith’s own scriptures to serve Targaryen rule was a bold move. With that scribing device Maelys had devised, it might even work, if done discreetly.

Barth gave a raspy laugh that ended in a cough. “I’m a practical man, Your Grace. The Andals built their Faith to escape your kin’s old excesses—to turn chaos into order. Smart move, really. And if Maelys can twist it again, I won’t weep. The Faith has always been a tool of necessity.”

That was why Jaehaerys trusted Barth. His loyalty wasn’t blind. It wasn’t even personal. It was to the realm—and to the throne itself, jagged and cruel as it was. His mind cut through sentiment. His tongue dared say what others wouldn’t. He’d even called out Jaehaerys’ failings as a father—something the king hadn’t yet forgiven.

He shook his head. “So what of Maelys’ plan, then? Do you truly think the Faith won’t fight it?”

He knew they would. Especially if Maelys acted openly. Still, Jaehaerys needed to hear Barth’s view—while he still could.

“It won’t be easy,” Barth said. “Not unless he leverages the rot festering in Oldtown. You know it’s there. Your family’s… habits have kept you wary of it for decades.”

Jaehaerys frowned. The septon’s bluntness bit, but there was no venom in it.

Yes, he’d kept tabs on the pliable septons and schemers in Oldtown. But he’d rarely interfered—the Faith had seemed too weak to matter.

Now, though… now their influence had returned. And for the first time, Jaehaerys wondered if silencing septons might actually be justified.

Barth continued. “The Hightowers could clear the path. They act humble, but their grip on the Citadel and the Faith is iron. A single nod from Oldtown, and maesters, septas, and scribes would rewrite the truth before sunrise. Didn’t Prince Aemon warn you of that?”

Jaehaerys’ jaw tensed, but he gave a short nod. Aemon had always been perceptive—though too often echoing Lord Corlys’ ambitions.

Still, the point stood. The Hightowers were too powerful to confront directly. The realm’s lords clung to their traditions like sacred vows. Challenge them, and they’d cry tyranny, claim Jaehaerys was Maegor returned… or worse, a new Valyrian tyrant in the making.

There was a reason his grandsire had bent to the Andals.

“I’d hear your plan for managing this shift,” Jaehaerys said, eyes on Barth, whose frail body seemed to sway at death’s edge. The king doubted the septon would last the night. “Maelys intends to use his device and wine as a bridge. He believes he understands Leyton—driven by legacy and glory, that one. The device would draw eyes and coin to Oldtown, fixing it as a center of learning. Had the boy only tried to bend the Faith, I think he’d have met little resistance. But he wants the Citadel’s archives too—he’d have knowledge freed, not hoarded.”

Barth’s voice, thin as a reed, stayed steady. “My way would be longer. Riskier,” he admitted. “I’d advise a slow entanglement—marry a lesser Hightower son to a Targaryen daughter. Shape the heirs of that match, and lay groundwork for them to claim Oldtown if the main line falters—”

He broke off, seized by a coughing fit that seemed to sap the last strength from him. But he quieted himself and pressed on.

“Honor’s a chain on rule,” he rasped. “Better to wear its mask than obey its sermon.”

Jaehaerys frowned—at the words, and at the state of his friend. His eyes settled on a flagon of wine. Rising, he poured a cup. “Better to meet death with something sweet in your belly,” he said, handing it over.

Barth took it without reacting to the grim humor and drank deeply, his thirst belying his weakness.

After a moment, Jaehaerys spoke again. “There’s merit in your plan, but you know why it can’t be done.”

“Aye.”

Jaehaerys hated to admit it, but he had little faith in his descendants’ strength. Viserys was proof enough—a man of soft will, conflict-averse, too much like Aenys. Even now, with every opportunity laid before him, it was Jaehaerys and his youngest who carried the sewer reforms forward.

Baelon’s son hesitated too often, his indecision chilling to witness. Aemma ruled in his place more often than not, and once, Jaehaerys might have found comfort in that. But she was frail, and if Viserys stayed his course, the birthing bed would claim her.

Cracks already lined the throne’s foundation. Jaehaerys knew his son would never agree to bind his unborn child—if a boy—to Rhaenyra.

For all his cunning and ruthlessness, Maelys guarded his wife and children’s future fiercely. It was strange, seeing him so wholly devoted to family. Jaehaerys prayed the boy would succeed where he and Alysanne had failed.

By all signs, he just might.

Maelys now spent more time with Gael than ever before. Havenhall had become a fledgling village, its shelters still tents, but progress was clear. The land was swiftly cleared, materials flowed in, waterways dug, fields laid out for planting.

Jaehaerys had flown there on Vermithor, eager to see the fruits of his son’s ambition. It still stung that Maelys had chosen trade with the Sea Snake over royal aid, which could have been given freely and without strings. Too many schemes nested in that boy’s mind—for all to end well.

Still, failure might be good for him. Success after success could breed arrogance.

Yet for now, things were going well. Every subject there had meaningful work. Maelys had even proposed a system to record each by name—an archive for the smallfolk.

A clever idea, though Jaehaerys doubted it would suit King’s Landing.

Dragonstone, perhaps…

He glanced over—and saw Barth had fallen asleep. Rising, the king felt the weight of his years settle heavily upon him. He hoped his own end would come swifter than the slow fade awaiting Barth.

“May your road beyond not be empty,” he said softly, then left the chamber.

Ser Ryam fell into step beside him as they made their way through the Hand’s tower. “How does he fare, Your Grace?” the Redwyne knight asked, more out of form than concern.

Servants bowed as they passed, many wearing the robes and chains of the Citadel. Maelys’ men were among them—not here to comfort the dying Hand, but to study the illness that claimed him. Jaehaerys knew it well.

He disliked their methods—experiments, dissections, and such—but Maelys had vouched for their value, especially in treating everyday sickness and easing childbirth.

“He’s dying,” Jaehaerys said after a pause. “He won’t see the dawn.”

“A shame,” Ryam said. “The septon was a wise voice, my king.”

It was just as well that the knight didn’t pretend to mourn him. Barth had drawn little affection outside the royal family. That same detachment, though, had made him such an effective Hand.

“Any news while I sat with Barth?” Jaehaerys asked as they stepped outside, a new formation of guards surrounding him.

It was a bitter joke, that a king needed such protection in his own city—his own keep. But such was the truth of it.

“Little enough, Your Grace,” came the reply.

He’d expected as much, though asking cost him nothing.

Jaehaerys glanced aside. Laborers dug steadily, the air filled with effort and order. All was motion toward betterment. Even Viserra had taken to uplifting Sweetport, and the king had lightened its taxes to ease her burden.

He could have done more—the royal vaults were flush despite the cost of the sewer project—but Viserra’s pride still burned.

Still, there was peace in most things. His surviving children were finding their way. Perhaps it was time to mend the breach with his granddaughter at Driftmark…

A worthy thought, though he had no clear way to act on it.

…Perhaps by striking against the pirates? Yet doing so would only raise Velaryon power further—a truth that kept him cautious around the Triarchy.

But ought he be so wary of Corlys? House Targaryen needed only to match or outpace their growing strength to keep the balance—and Maelys had already shown how that might be done.

Jaehaerys hummed as he stepped into his solar, a plan forming.

“Ryam, summon the Grand Maester. And call Maelys to me.”

The knight bowed and departed.

With Barth’s end near, Jaehaerys intended for Baelon to wear the Hand’s chain. It would prepare him for the crown—and draw the brothers closer together.