Ch: 7

King’s Landing

98 AC (Eighth Moon—Day 19) 

Gael I

The sun stood high overhead, a pale disc burning through the haze that hung over the Red Keep, casting its light across the garden’s tangled center—a hidden spot, hemmed in by twisted vines and crooked yew trees.

Gael sat cross-legged on a wool blanket, the grass pricking through beneath her. Her sundress—light cream linen, embroidered with tiny bluebells at the hem—fanned around her in soft folds. The fabric clung gently to her skin, the short, loose sleeves a welcome break from the stiff gowns she wore at court.

Her love was stretched across her lap, head resting heavily on her thighs. His silver hair spilled like molten metal through her fingers as she toyed with it, tracing the shimmer. His eyes were shut, face relaxed in sleep—high cheekbones, lips faintly curved, beautiful in a way that hinted at stories.

A sudden ache overtook her. She leaned down, clutching at his tunic, and pressed a clumsy kiss to his mouth. No fire, no urgency—just a soft, fleeting brush. Maelys didn’t stir, only smiled, eyes still closed.

That wicked smile of his.

Beside them, a wicker basket lay open, half its contents gone: crusty bread torn into hunks, a wedge of sharp white cheese flecked with herbs, a clay pot of honeyed figs, sticky and fragrant, and a small pile of red apples—one marked by a bite Maelys had taken, the skin glistening in the sun.

A bottle of sweet wine lay tipped against the roots of a stunted oak, its glass damp with sweat from the heat.

The garden hummed around them—bees drifting through lavender, a breeze shifting the leaves. No footsteps, no voices. Just them.

Gael’s mind wandered as her fingers threaded through his hair, working through soft tangles. Silver strands slid free under her touch.

She savored these moments—quiet and close, romance pared back to something simple and real. It never grew stale, never dulled, not like the tales she’d overheard whispered through the Red Keep’s shadowed halls, where ladies hissed their envy in the damp tunnels she’d once crept through.

Even now, she found herself pressing forward, urging the future to unfold—toward their new lands, into a house that would feel strange and rootless at first.

The thought tugged a half-smile from her, dry and fond. Some part of her wanted to hold this moment tight and never let it slip away. It felt like a dream carved in sunlight. But dreams never lingered. Children would come soon enough—sweet, noisy little things—and they’d tear these quiet hours to scraps.

The idea didn’t unsettle her, not really. She could already picture it: small feet racing over the stones, laughter chasing bees. But it shifted something inside her. Would she be good at it—motherhood? Would she turn out like Viserra, sharp and commanding, ruling her children with a voice like a whip and kissing their brows at night? Or more like Aemma, soft and steady, even when Rhaenyra screamed the keep down around her?

And Maelys—would he hold their children with the same warmth and patience he gave her? Or would he slip into distance, the way their father too often had?

A frown touched her brow. She realized, with a strange start, that she hadn’t thought much about names. Boy or girl, nothing had truly taken root in her mind.

That startled her. A gap she hadn’t noticed until now.

“Maelys,” she said quietly, tugging a strand of his hair.

His eyes cracked open, violet and glinting. A slow smirk curved his mouth. “What’s that tone? Planning to kill me in my sleep?”

She laughed under her breath. “Names. For later. Children, I mean. I haven’t given them proper thought.”

He shifted onto one elbow, grinning wider. “Gods, Gael, we’ve barely started tumbling regular and you’re planning a brood? Your appetite’s going to finish me—I’ll be grey before they’re weaned.”

She flushed, but swatted his shoulder lightly. “Don’t tease. I’m serious. Girls, at least—what do you think?”

He flopped back down, hands tucked behind his head, staring through the canopy. “Girls, huh? You’ve got that look—go on, then. What’s in that head of yours?”

She hesitated, winding a lock of his hair around her finger. “Alysanne, maybe—after Mother. Or Maegelle—for our sister. Both feel right. But heavy.”

He hummed, eyes narrowing with thought. “Alysanne’s a queen’s name. Strong. But that shadow would follow her. Maegelle… soft, devout. Sounds more you than me. I wouldn’t want to weigh a girl down with sermons.”

“You’d rather raise a dragonrider than a septa?” she asked, one brow arched.

“Absolutely,” he said, grinning. “Let her burn something before she learns to pray it. I’d teach her myself. But Alysanne… I might bend to that. If she’s got fire in her.”

Gael smiled, small and genuine, her fingers stilling in his hair. “You’d name her for fire, not duty?”

“Fire’s what endures,” he murmured, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to it—quick, warm. “Duty’s a leash. Ours would snap it—I’d make sure.”

She laughed, the sound sudden and bright enough to send a bird flapping from a nearby branch. “You’ll spoil them silly—me chasing after them while you cheer the chaos on.”

“Not too spoiled,” he said, settling back in her lap again. “I wouldn’t have them turn out like Saera. All spite and scandal. Bitter as a lemon left to rot.”

At that, something twisted in Gael. Saera’s name always did that.

Mother had spoken of her in quiet tones—once their father’s favorite, now just a shadow. A whore, so the stories went, living among the brothels of Essos—Lys, maybe Volantis. Her children raised in contempt, spat on by men who’d bow if her blood were untainted.

It was madness, all of it. She wouldn’t let her own drift that way. Not to ruin. Not to rumor.

“How is she?” Gael asked softly, eyes drifting to the horizon as a breeze stirred the yews. “Saera, I mean. You’ve sailed those parts—Lys, Volantis. You must’ve asked after her. Maybe even seen her.”

Maelys didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched out, slow and steady. Gael waited, her fingers resting still in his hair.

“She’s… lost,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Chasing pleasure, looking for something that feels like love. Like family. I think she’s waiting—for Father to call her home. Not to drag her back, but to prove it wasn’t all sin. That what she did meant something.”

He shifted, a crease forming between his brows. “Met her once. In Lys. She came to me, all sweet words and reaching hands. It’s her trade now—her armor. I pushed her away. That lit something cruel in her. She spat my name like venom.”

Gael’s lips curled into a bitter smile. Why did love turn its back on her sisters? Why did it chase after hands that would never reach back?

Perhaps the old sins had drawn doom’s gaze to her kin—stains of blood and fire from ages long gone, dragging misfortune behind them like a chain. Was some pure deed needed to break Old Valyria’s grip? To cleanse the stain of the bastard cities and set them free? Perhaps…

…Perhaps.

“Your silence puts me on edge, Gael,” Maelys murmured, his violet eyes cracking open to find hers. “Tell me you’re not brooding over grim thoughts—spite or something worse.”

“Kinder ones, I’d say,” Gael replied, plucking a green grape from the basket and popping it into her mouth. “How’re things with Lord Hightower, love? Has the man finally found his sense?”

Maelys sank back with a hum vibrating low in his chest, eyes narrowing again as he weighed her words.

“Still dragging. Leyton’s clawing for more influence in the terms, the grasping fool.” He let out a short, sharp laugh, the corners of his face creasing. “But it hardly matters what he thinks—I’ve Vaegon stirring the Citadel’s pot, letting it steep. Spoke with Septon Barth too, and Father. A title’s no hard thing to pry loose.”

Gael shook her head, lips tightening. His printing press was a marvel, all clattering metal and flowing ink, spinning out ideas like spellcraft.

And yet handing it over to Oldtown rubbed her raw—a move she mistrusted, even if he swore it was the surest way to charm the Faith and win the maesters’ favor. He needed their blessing for the work he was doing in Essos—ventures that would stink to the highborn—hoping holy approval would silence the lords before they could bare their teeth.

But that wasn’t the only path. He could plant it here instead—raise a second Citadel in King’s Landing, stocked with the very maesters he’d bent to his will. Yes, it would stir resentment among the Hightowers and their stiff-necked Archmaesters, but Gael thought the price fair—if the reward was their own forge of knowledge.

“You’ve a soft spot for lords who think too much of themselves, Maelys,” Gael said, a smile touching her lips. She knew well why he played the part—his game required it—but it still bothered her. “And Otto? You’ve been bitter ever since he spat on your offer.”

Maelys lifted from where his head lay in her lap and twisted to face her, a frown cutting across his handsome features. “I hope you’re not pouring everything into Viserra’s ears,” he said, lightly, but with a warning just beneath the surface. “I know she’s been feeding her dreams through you.”

The jab had teeth, and Gael felt the heat rise to her cheeks, a flush she couldn’t hide. Viserra’s counsel had its value, curse her—and Maelys knew it.

He went on, his voice dipping lower, something sharp flickering in his eyes. “Otto’s quiet for now—tossed him some sweet crumbs through Maynard to keep him busy. He’ll whisper to his brother, and Leyton will lap up whatever Otto mutters. That’s why I let him strut—slow venom, Gael, seeping deep. It won’t cripple them yet, but mark me: the Hightowers will kneel within the century. By the next, they’ll be dust on the wind.”

He spun it all so effortlessly, this quiet treachery—gilded chains draped over allies with a polished smile. And Gael, curse her foolish heart, loved him all the more for it—because beneath the games, it was all for their unborn children, for shielding them from a world that never dealt kindly with the unprepared.

He’d told her once, in a moment of rare honesty, how he saw it all unfolding—the breath of death always creeping closer, a tide he half-welcomed. She still saw it in him, that craving for the great fall, always walking the line. It fuelled every bow to a lord, every smile for the smallfolk, every polite plea for the Faith’s nod.

All of it scaffolding for the day Baelon’s breath failed, when their father’s trembling hand would place the crown on Maelys’s head. When the knives came out and kin turned on kin.

A sharp crack rang out, and her hand burned from where it struck his cheek. “No dark words here,” she said, barely above a whisper, pulling him gently back into her lap. Her fingers traced the reddened skin, tender now where she’d hit him. “You’re doing this for love—there’s no poison in it. You’ll raise them up, these lords—make them better. Kindness returned with kindness.”

“You’re mad, sister,” he said, laughing low in his throat. “And I’ll make you pay for that, come nightfall.”

Her face flared red, a tide of warmth she tried to suppress, pushing the wicked thought away. “Speak of something else,” she said, her voice faltering. “Tell me about the first group bound for Havenhall.”

Maelys spared her, taking up the new subject without pretense. He always burned for his plans, even when his mind only brushed against them.

“We’ve drawn up the first list—three thousand in total,” he said, energy sparking in his voice as he followed the thought. “Maester Jon’s lot have their names etched down, their faces sketched rough beside them, each tagged with a number and locked safe in the archives. They’ll be trained there, shaped into coin-bearers once the early hardships pass.”

She’d heard Father planned to send off nearly a quarter of King’s Landing’s poor—most barely more than gutter waifs and lost souls steeped in vice. But they couldn’t take everyone.

No, she and Maelys had already made their selections—a crop of decent folk, strengthened by the food houses and sharpened by the maesters’ lessons.

That land of theirs would be a marvel, shaped by her husband’s cunning and filled with people of keen minds and proven faith.

“What about the ships to carry them?” That was the one knot she couldn’t untangle. Her love had no shortage of clever means, but he didn’t own a fleet to haul cargo for the many deals he’d brokered across the known world.

Even the Valyrian bloodlines he meant to reclaim would travel on Braavosi ships, some quiet arrangement he’d struck with the Sealord. He kept the details of that one close.

“We’ll deal with Lord Velaryon for that,” he said with a sigh, tapping her chest lightly. “The man owes me.”

She batted his hand away, blushing faintly before it faded. “It better not be blackmail, love.” Rhaenys was too dear a friend—Gael wouldn’t stand for her turning into an enemy.

Not yet, anyway.

“You’ll ride the wind with me to Spicetown,” Maelys said, a smile tugging at his lips. “We’ll stay a few days—Rhaenys and her little ones would enjoy your company. Pack something wicked for our niece.”

Gael pinched his arm, though she’d do it all the same—two children was a meager number, especially for Rhaenys, with hips made to bear ten more.

They ought to aim higher, she thought—like the Good Queen, who’d pushed out nearly a dozen despite hips far too narrow. Gael’s were broader, her frame built to carry a horde, if her husband never tired of her.

Aye, she’d proven herself the better mother—no babes taken by the Stranger’s cold grip. That was a wife’s calling, and she’d not have her womanhood brought into question.

A sudden shadow swept over them, the sun swallowed by thick cloud. Her gaze swept the sky, searching for signs of rain, but none threatened. The week ahead promised dryness.

She’d grown tired of the mud. A stray thought crossed her mind—would they ever see a winter that lasted a full year? If they did, she’d gorge on frozen cream until her teeth ached.

That made her smile. Maybe she’d coax a promise from Maelys—to fly North with her, just for a time.

“What about orphan houses for the little ones?” she asked, shifting upright. “A fair number of settlers will be children touched by misfortune. I don’t want them cast aside.”

She hated how little care the world spared for its young. Maelys had plans, she knew—neatly drawn and deeply thought through. Still, her soft questions never hurt.

He reached for her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Keep listening for me,” he said, repeating her own words back. “To the women, too—make sure they’re spared the old paths. But it’ll be fine. I’d spend every coin I’ve stashed to strip want from our haven.”

Her lips curved. As mad as he could be, Maelys had a heart of purest gold beneath it all.

At last she stood, a light weariness in her bones. She smoothed the creases from her dress while Maelys pouted for her lap, cheeks puffed like a sulking child.

“We’ve lingered too long,” she told him. “And I’d wager duty’s clawing for you.” She had her own tasks ahead—Aemma was waiting, eager to talk. Not least about tagging along on Gael’s next visit to the city’s lower quarters.

Gael would welcome it—nothing warmed the smallfolk more than nobles tending to them with real care.

“Fair enough,” he muttered, still sprawled in the grass, his eyes drinking her in. It was a proud stare, one he’d taken to wearing more often lately. “Though mind you, I’ve little duty left today—just a word with Father come dusk.”

She couldn’t fathom how Maelys, so tangled in plots and trade, carved out such long stretches of idle hours. He’d explained it once—in a breathless lecture on the ways of Yi Ti, though the full meaning escaped her even now.

She turned from his gaze and played the handmaid once more, her thoughts drifting toward Aemma up at the keep. “Then stay close to Viserys. Aemma says he enjoys your company.”

As the crowned face of the sewer works, Viserys had to make the rounds—meeting lords, merchants, and shopkeeps in a pageant of diplomacy. A grand performance, really, since it was Maelys’s men who slogged through the filth and kept the wheels turning.

Still, her love had charm and cunning in equal measure. He steered the other prince clear of bad deals and the flatterers at court who’d bleed him dry.

He hummed low in his throat. “You’ve given me an idea,” he said, thoughtful. “I’ll need to run it past the artisans and maesters first, but I think you’ll like this one. All of you will.”

Maelys stood, brushing off his breeches, eyes gleaming with that familiar, feverish spark. Then the words came—fast, tumbling over one another like a storm breaking loose.

“Picture it—a wide patch of ground near the outer ward. Timber frames solid as a keep’s bones. Ropes thick as dock lines swinging back and forth.” He paced across the grass, arms flung wide, caught up in his vision, ignoring her gentle push to go find Viserys.

“Planks, too—balanced just so. Up one side, down the other. And wheels—flat rounds of oak spinning fast enough to make a boy stagger with laughter!”

Gael bent to gather their things, a smile tugging at her lips as she packed the half-eaten bread and sticky figs into the wicker basket.

His voice kept going, hands slicing the air, tracing shapes only he could see. “And rungs, lashed tight for climbing—high enough to scare the piss out of them, but safe, of course. Safer than a septa’s prayers!” He turned sharply, grinning wide, and despite herself, she returned a ghost of it, even as she shook her head.

She folded the blanket neatly over her arm, brushing off the crumbs, while he barreled on. “And a chute—slick and steep, sends them flying down with a scream and a laugh.” He scuffed the earth with his boots, marking out the plan in invisible lines. She sighed, torn between fondness and fatigue.

“Gods, Maelys,” she muttered, slipping the sweet-wine bottle under her arm, its glass cool to the touch. “You’re a storm wrapped in skin.”

His excitement frayed her patience—the way he swept past her words like they were leaves on the wind. She straightened, basket in hand, and caught his eye mid-gesture.

“Whatever this is, breathe. Or you’ll choke on it before it ever takes shape.”

Maelys halted. The fire in him dimmed to a glow, and he leaned in to brush his lips against hers—a soft answer to her earlier kiss.

“I’ll go find Viserys,” he said. “Father asked me to keep an eye on him. Didn’t tell you that, did I?” She gave him a mock-scowl, brow furrowing. “We’ll talk more tonight—about the ropes and all.”

And just like that, he was off, leaving her behind in the quiet. Ylvara appeared not long after, walking lightly, a finely made gown draped across her arms—stitched and cut proper for Gael’s station.

Stripping down beneath the open sky felt like stepping across a line—daring, almost reckless. The whisper of silk against her skin only heightened the sense of exposure. Gael’s cheeks flushed hot; she’d never been one to wear masks with ease.

Ylvara, by contrast, showed no hint of discomfort. Her hands moved with calm precision, smoothing Gael’s hair before letting the sundress fall into place.

“You don’t bear the signs of a wife’s duties, Princess,” Ylvara said, her voice even but tinged with something cautious. The words, though clear, felt too forward—probing. “Is the prince unwell?”

The heat climbed higher, blooming across Gael’s ears. She knew Ylvara meant no offense. The woman’s voice still carried traces of her past, shaped by the perfumed dens of foreign cities where flesh was currency and everything was reduced to want.

Still, the question stung.

“That wasn’t the point of today,” Gael said tightly, the flush refusing to fade. “We’re building something slower—love and trust, not just need.” Maelys had said as much himself, the first time she asked.

Ylvara hesitated, bowing her head slightly. “I only thought—” Her hand drifted, gesturing vaguely at the line of Gael’s breast strap. “With clothes like these…” Her voice trailed off, and for a moment, she seemed to realize she’d overstepped.

Gael’s mouth turned down, though she shook her head. She had worn these pieces for Maelys before, yes—on Viserra’s teasing advice, to stir his passion. But not today. Today she wore them for herself—for the comfort, the freedom of movement, the breath of air on her skin. For the stretches she did each morning in quiet solitude.

Still, the maid’s words clung like grit under fingernails—proof that the past clung close. The old habits of the once-enslaved didn’t vanish with new clothes and a gentler station.

“Ylvara,” Gael said, voice steady but gentle at the edges, “your freedom wasn’t won just to put you in another kind of chain. Least of all one like that.” She exhaled slowly, letting her gaze soften. “You’re safe here. No one—Maelys least of all—will ask that of you.”

If anything endured in her shifting world, it was Maelys’s love. Solid, unwavering. He would never grow tired of her, neither her body nor her company. He worked himself ragged building a future for them both—plotting, feinting, scheming—just to secure time, safety, and space for their yet-unborn children. For her.

Ylvara bowed low, but Gael knew the matter would not end there. Those once in chains still reached for Maelys in old ways, offering thanks in the only currency they knew—worn and bitter, shaped by cities that had stolen their dignity. It would fall to her to guide them toward better paths, to help them unlearn the lies they’d lived under.

Perhaps she’d speak to Maelys—ask if the Faith might lend its voice, once they reached their new home, to help steer these women toward something more lasting.

Ylvara eased the gown over her shoulders—heavy silk and richly stitched samite, fit for a princess. The maid’s fingers pulled it snug. Once, Gael had worn it with pride. Now, she found the weight clinging—almost stifling.

They left the garden behind and stepped into the cool shadow of the keep. Ser Arthor of Claw Isle joined them, his presence silent but sure. His loyalty had raised no whispers, even among the court’s sharp tongues.

She found she liked him well enough. His skill with a blade was unmatched, his honor firm, and his coloring carried faint echoes of her own kin.

“I hope we haven’t kept you waiting too long, Ser,” Gael said, her tone carrying the warmth of genuine regard.

“You haven’t, my princess,” Ser Arthor said, his voice steady and flat as cut stone. “And I’d be a fool to complain—the post is light enough.”

She knew it should’ve been heavier. But Maelys placed little faith in Westerosi knights, calling them too proud or too cunning by half. That left Ser Arthor with few true duties, aside from these quiet garden walks or the occasional formal ceremony.

Still, the man drew a generous stipend and wore the prestige of being Maelys’s sworn shield like a polished badge.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, her smile soft but sure. It left a faint flush on the knight’s face—he tried to hide it, but she saw. She always saw. She’d long since learned to ignore such glances; they were common enough within these walls.

Ylvara, however, shifted subtly closer, placing herself between them. A silent gesture of loyalty—and one Gael disliked all the same. Let the men suffer their desires in silence. There were brothels and women enough for that. Her maidservants weren’t there to carry the burden of another man’s yearning.

Besides, Ser Arthor had a wife and child. He wouldn’t throw that away for a fleeting temptation. Surely not.

“What’s happened while we were away?” she asked, changing the subject.

Ylvara spoke first, eager to be useful. “A duel in the yard—two knights fighting over Lord Ball’s eldest daughter. Her hand was the prize.” One of Aemma’s kin, if she recalled correctly. “I didn’t see the end.”

“It ended in a draw,” Ser Arthor added. “They both took heavy wounds. Called it even once they stopped the bleeding.”

Gael exhaled slowly, unsettled. The ease with which men reached for blades unsettled her—how quickly they danced with death over pride or women. “Who were they?”

“The Sloane heir, I believe, and a knight from the Reach in Lord Ball’s retinue.”

House Sloane. That name caught in her mind. The same kin Maelys had dangled as bait, hoping to unsettle Vaegon’s vows in Oldtown. If this duel drew more attention, Maelys might be forced to intervene.

Perhaps her next talk with Aemma would uncover more—about the Balls, the Sloanes, and whatever hidden threads tied them together.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, my princess,” Ylvara replied. “Some ladies came seeking an audience. Lady Fossoway among them.”

Gael’s lips tightened slightly. Reach blood was threading its way through the day, it seemed. She didn’t need to guess their reason. Maelys’s new dyes—born of experiments with maesters and herbs—had spilled into the markets. So had the silks colored by them.

She didn’t blame the ladies for angling close. Nobility left little room for affection without advantage, but that didn’t make them enemies. They came for the good of their houses—and if that meant cozying up to her, so be it.

Perhaps it was time she took ladies-in-waiting. The new principality would need vassal houses to benefit from Maelys’s vision—and those houses would need wives. Gael would be the one to choose them.

Yes. It was time to wade deeper into the game.

“You never see a knight’s true nature until you catch his blade. The King’s Blood strike fast as whips, hit hard as oxen, and aim clean as spears. They say the Mercy took three heads in a single sweep during the Second Iron Rebellion.”

—Words of Ser Bran of Manting, recorded at the Fourth Winter Tourney (253 AC, Riverrun)