The air was brisk, blowing across the summer sky as purple light suffused across the waking world. Clouds danced in wind, as did leaves in the wake of morn - contrasting their silent, windswept cousins with the methodical rustle and fall of foliage. The trees sat clustered together with one another, overlooking the river and bay where the morning breeze flowed. And though they sat enclosed within pale, red stone atop the high hill upon which they grew, the man who sat amongst them, sword in hand, felt as if they were truly endless. He sat below a mournful young weirwood and brought a cloth up and down, back and forth, with a careful rhythm, almost matching with the sound of the wind around him. His plain, black jerkin along with rough, grey riding leathers and coal-black hair which fell loose to his shoulders made him appear almost common. Yet, there was no mistaking the pale lilac eyes which gazed narrowly at his blade as anything other than the Valyrian ancestry of House Targaryen.
The man, Jaehaerys Targaryen, had always been strangely attached to the acre of elm, alder, and black cottonwood which composed the Red Keep’s Godswood. Here, among the whispered breaths of the Old Gods, he felt tranquil, isolated, content. Though a thousand eyes, both man and heart tree surely watched him, the Godswood still felt insulated from the scheming and plots of the royal court. If only every castle had a Godswood such as this, thought the man, Westeros might be better for it. He inspected the blade in his hand, one smoking grey steel interlaid between ripples and folds. Atop its pommel snarled a white direwolf with ruby eyes. Longclaw, the blade of the Promised King.
He had been the one to replace the old oaken heart tree with a weirwood sampling in some of the final years of his reign. The man remembered the story well; Aegon VI had flown down to the Isle of Faces, where the weirwoods covered all, to meet with the Green Men and return a young heart tree to the Godswood. Here he had planted it, and here he had been the one to carve a face of solemn melancholy into its pale wood. Even now, the man saw, sap the color of blood still flowed from its hollow eyes. It had cried for him for many years now whenever he could not. When his father perished, when his brother died, and now when his mother lay near the Stranger’s door. He almost felt tempted to run, fly away from it all and never look back. But he knew that was no real respite.
“Will you carry me from these troubles, Blackhorn?” he asked the Dragon which lay curled behind the tree, “Do you even hear me?” A puff of smoke from her nostrils told him no. The man sighed. Her folded wings were a dark shade of crimson, one deeper and darker than any dyed fabric or crackling fire. Her scales which rose and fell to her steady breath shone the color of burning embers with a jagged, black horn rising from her snout. Her eyes remained closed. The Targaryen dragons had had many names over the centuries both noble and proud - Dreamfyre, Caraxes, Vermithor, Balerion - but it had pleased the young princess who had named the hatchling nearly a century ago to dub the newborn-dragon Blackhorn.
The man certainly couldn’t question the choice of name. The dragon clearly had a black horn, but he couldn’t help but wish the Princess had been more creative. The Sleepy Dragon, maybe, thought the man, though not harshly. He was beginning to think it would not hurt to just sit and rest in the Godswood for longer when a bold voice echoed throughout the forest.
“Jaehaerys!” called the woman.
Doesn’t sound like Dany, so it must be- “It’s your grace to you, Blackwood!” Jaehaerys said rising, “Or have you forgotten?”
She emerged from behind an alder tree, black tresses free in the wind, wearing a dark ornamented gown, “I don’t forget much,” quipped Bess Blackwood, “Though I do enjoy offending your royal person.”
Blackhorn stirred and glanced up towards the new entrant into the Godswood. She opened her maw and a forked tongue flicked out in what seemed to be a yawn before she curled up once more.
This damn woman. “You’re speaking to the wrong royal then,” Jaehaerys chuckled as he sheathed, “You’ve known me long enough to know how little I care for hollow courtesies outside of court. Is there something I need to be aware of?”
"There is indeed, your Grace,” smiled Bess Blackwood, “The Queen has called a meeting of her Small Council.”
That took him aback: “So early? You’ll hardly be able to wake Delving or that new Grand Maester.”
“Her grace has already sent servants to awake the others. You are all requested at once.”
“I see,” Anything to keep my mind busy. “The realm never sleeps I suppose.” He would have to abandon the grieving son, brother, and man in the Godswoods, and become once again Jaehaerys Targaryen, King-Consort to the Queen.
Jaehaerys had always wondered whose damned idea was it to make the Serpentine Steps so long and treacherous. His own father, the late Prince Aegon, was among the many victims the stairs had claimed over the years, breaking his hip after a long and strenuous fall. That took his life, Jaehaerys recalled, That and the tumors. He pondered how many Kings, Queens, and Princes, how many Lords, Ladies, and Courtiers, and how many servants, urchins, and messengers had tripped on those stairs. You were almost one of them, Jaehaerys reflected.
He had been ascending the stairs from the Godswood when he had lost his footing and nearly tumbled down like a lumpy sack of flesh. Usually, he would have never needed to ascend the stairs in order to reach the Council meetings as the Chambers were down, not up along its path. In this instance, however, he had been specifically instructed to head towards the Great Hall where the Iron Throne sat in order to attend the day’s early morning meeting. These stairs truly are a damn serpent, deceitful and like to cut a life short. Having steadied himself, he proceeded towards the entrance to the Throne Room.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep stood before him, with its great oak-and-bronze doors thrown open as golden sunlight streamed out from tall windows along the eastern and western walls. To either side of each door stood a knight clad head to toe in intricate suits of white enameled scales with flowing white cloaks drabbed around their shoulders.
"Ser Arnold, Ser Lyman." He turned to each Queensguard.
"Your grace," Ser Arnold replied only a little slurred.
"Has the Queen arrived yet?"
"Not as of yet," spoke Ser Lyman, "But Lord Beancounter arrived shortly before you, your Grace. You'll see him just ahead."
"As you were then," Jaehaerys waved them off before proceeding into the Great Hall.
Lord Delving was found stooped over a litany of accounts, books, scrolls, and documents that compiled the finances of the crown. Dark circles ran underneath brown eyes, and his sandy blond hair and beard were more grey than yellow. Behind his chair at the table, crouched the iron barbes, claws, and blades of the Iron Throne, an unenviable beast of a chair if there ever was one, and one that currently saw vacant. Jaehaerys moved to greet his fellow council member,
“Lord Delving, you look-”
“Just call me tired and be done with it,” spoke the Beancounter, “I’ve already lost hours worth of progress due to - apparently - heading towards the wrong chamber; I cannot spare more to compliments!”
“You seem well,” smiled Jaehaerys.
Orryn Delving had been the crown’s Master of Coin for three-and-ten years now by Jaehaerys’s count and never before had he seen such a studious accountant. Born the son of a lowborn sailor out of the Weeping Town, he had to use whatever skills he could in order to make his mark in the world. As it happened, the young Delving had found that he was quite adept at counting, keeping track of numbers, and doing what could only be described as ‘magic’ with coins. Finding work at the Crown Bank established by Jaehaerys’s namesake, Jaehaerys III, he would have likely stayed a low-lying accountant if it were not for a stroke of fate that put him among the likes of Princes and Kings.
A warehouse operated by the bank had seen its stores grow bountiful and plenty save for an ever-growing gap of wheat, barleycorn, and, most importantly, beans. The same incident had occurred elsewhere over many years, with many assets of the bank disappearing without notice, at least until Delving noticed it. Having cataloged the shipments of items to the warehouses, and having systematically counted 9,995 out of the 11,422 beans supposed to be in one of the warehouses, Delving was able to expose the conspiracy at the heart of the disappearances: the High Councilor of the bank had been selling the stolen goods for his own profit. King Gaemon the Gallant knighted and rewarded Delving for his service, and ever since then, he had been known by the moniker Beancounter.
Unlike other highborn lords, Jaehaerys quite enjoyed Delving’s gruffness and wit, something quite a few Lords couldn’t quite stomach. He was fond of the man, far more than the other more scheming members of Daenerys’s Small Council. Judging by the absence of a sitter in a grotesquely ornate Oaken throne shaped to look like a hand, Jaehaerys could assume one such schemer was absent at the moment.
“Have you seen Greenthorn?” asked the King.
“Not in the slightest,” mused Beancounter, “He’s like staring at himself in the mirror inflating his ego even more.”
“You are wrong there, old Beancounter,” said a voice almost a whisper. Jaehaerys and Orryn both turned their heads to the end of the table where a tall, slender man sat back with legs upon the table where there had once been no one. He had a small pointed beard and dark hair without a strand of grey. His grey-green eyes glanced at them both with disinterest as he fingered a dagger of darkened steel between his fingers.
"In what way am I wrong, Lord Baelish?" The Beancounter asked.
Arthor Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, and Master of Whispers gave a hint of a smile, "The Queen and Lord Tyrell are traveling together at this moment. She, the Hand, the Lord Commander, and that Maester who made an absolute wreck of Grand Maester Lucimore's work shall be here shortly."
The way he smiled always made Jaehaerys uneasy.
This one is difficult to read, he thought. Arthor Baelish had the worse set of skills imaginable - or rather, he had the best set of skills imaginable to give Jaehaerys a neverending headache.
A martial man, a steward, a diplomat, and a spymaster, Jaehaerys thought,
He is the type of person to kill a man right in front of you and convince you he didn't do it. A similar method had somehow worked some years prior when the Lord of Harrenhal killed his own cousin in single combat only to never face the full obloquy of his kinslaying.
If ever I have the opportunity, he'll be the first to go, thought Jaehaerys, if that was even possible.
"You seem well-rested, Bitterfinger," Jaehaerys spoke, "I always took you for a night creature."
"Yes, well, my duties do require me to keep active vigilance at all times do they not? It wouldn't be befitting for me to lack alertness to any threats the realm might face."
The Beancounter scoffed: "You like as not sleep whenever we aren't looking! No man can ever look so rested on the Queen's Council whilst doing their duty!"
Bitterfinger sighed and sheathed his dagger with a twirl: "Must I phase it in terms you'll understand, Beancounter?" He withdrew a handful of beans from his pocket and threw one past Orryn's head where it bounced off the floor.
"Each bean is a plot," he threw another, "a scheme," another, "or -maybe- even a conspiracy." yet another, "My job is to prevent these beans from sprouting, to ensure that each and every bean flies safely and harmlessly past your pretty little heads. If I became lax in this duty," he threw a final red bean which bounced off the Beancounter's lined forehead, "You'd know."
That's all well and good, thought Jaehaerys,
but who prevents your beans from sprouting? He might have asked the question himself if a Tyrell guardsman did not enter the Great Hall from a side entrance to announce: "PRESENTING THE QUEEN'S HAND!" before other guards followed. Jaehaerys quickly took his seat before the Iron Throne among away from Baelish as the Queen's entourage entered the Throne room.
After a set of Greenhand guards, Gaemon Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach, and Hand of the Queen entered wearing a rich green gambeson with the Hand's chain of office around his neck. How Jaehaerys resented to see it there. The Hand's narrow eyes and his neatly parted auburn were all fuel the hatred he bore towards that smug man who thought he was the center of everything.
Next emerged the Commander of the City Watch Dennis Marbrand flanked by several guards adorned with their eponymous gold cloaks. Daeron Velyaron, Master of Ships, followed, as did Aenys Hayford and several lower Crownlander lords.
Too many of lords for just a Small Council meeting, thought Jaehaerys,
What is this? The Lords gathered now in the Great Hall represented some of the most powerful houses in the crownlands. Lord Rykker, Blackwater, and Strickland were in attendance, as were Lords Massey, Celtigar, and Bar Emmon.
Just what does Daenerys plan on doing?
The procession came to an end as the Queen surrounded by her Kingsguard emerged from the side hall into the wider Throne Room. Red Normund Fireball was at their head, Lord Commander of the White Swords; next came Ser Qyle 'Littlerock' Royce and Ser Stevron Strong standing to the sides of the Queen, and Ser Cedric Tarth and Tion Rivers as rear guard.
The Queen herself emerged from behind her towering knights, a girl -
no a woman grown - of eight-and-ten. She had a slender frame and small apple-sized breasts. He couldn't help but recall their wedding night at that moment, the tender moment when that had become man and woman together underneath the stars on Dragonstone.
Four years now, four years since we made Aegon our summer prince. She had only grown more beautiful since that day. He had to suppress the urge to lean down - she was more than two heads shorter than him - and kiss her right then and there.
Not now, thought Jaehaerys,
now she must be a Queen.
"So many faces," quipped Bitterfinger, "We can't exactly call this the Small Council now can we?"
"No," spoke Daenerys softly, "I suppose we cannot. Though, this isn't what I would call a standard Small Council meeting anyway."
"What do you intend to do?" asked the Beancounter looking up from his tomes, "So many Lords! You'd think we'd be about to have a feast!"
"There will indeed be many feasts, and many gatherings in the coming days, my Lords," Daenerys replied, "Though I do not intend to stay idle during that time."
Jaehaerys smiled, "You mean to see it all."
Lord Tyrell nodded ascent, "It shall be a progress not seen since the days of the Aegon the Conqueror!"
“From Storm’s End to Gulltown and the Eyrie, from White Harbor to Winterfell and the Wall, to Blacktyde, Riverrun, and Lannisport, and Oldtown as well! A Queen must be seen by her subjects. My Lords!" Daenerys allowed steel to enter her voice, "We are…”
She slammed her hands on the table.
“Remaking Westeros!”
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