King's Landing
98 AC (Eighth Moon—Day 19)
Gael I
The sun hung high, a pale disc scorching through the Red Keep's haze, spilling light over the garden's tangled heart—a nook few ever found, walled by gnarled vines and crooked yews.
Gael sat cross-legged on a wool blanket, the grass beneath prickling through, her sundress—a light thing of cream linen, stitched with tiny bluebells at the hem—fanning out around her. The fabric clung soft to her skin, sleeves short and loose, a rare freedom from the stiff gowns she wore for court.
Her love sprawled across her lap, head heavy against her thighs, silver hair spilling like molten metal through her fingers as she toyed with it, tracing its shine. His eyes were shut, face slack with peace—high cheeks, lips curved just so, beautiful in a way that told of story.
She lunged for them, a sudden haze of want clouding her—hands snagging his tunic, lips brushing his in a quick, clumsy peck. No fire, no sting—just a fleeting press. Maelys didn't flinch; his mouth curved slow, eyes creasing with a grin.
This sly indulger.
A wicker basket sat open beside them, its bounty half-spent: crusty bread torn to chunks, a wedge of sharp white cheese flecked with herbs, a clay pot of honeyed figs—sticky and dark—spilling their scent into the air, and a clutch of red apples, one notched where Maelys had bitten it and left it to gleam in the sun.
A bottle of sweet-wine lay tipped against the roots of a stunted oak, its clear glass sweat-beaded from the heat.
The garden hummed—bees droning in the lavender, a faint wind rustling leaves—no footsteps, no voices, just them.
Gael's thoughts wandered as her fingers slid through his hair, teasing loose the soft snarls—silver strands yielding under her touch.
She savoured these times, these quieter stretches of closeness, romance stripped to its bones. They never dulled, never grew rote—not like the tales she'd overheard, ladies hissing envy through the Red Keep's hidden veins when she'd crept those damp, whispering tunnels.
She pressed for them to push on… dogged as ever, even as they trudged to their new holdings, into a house that'd reek of strangeness and empty roots.
That thought curved her lips—a wry smile at the greedy knot in her chest, craving this unbroken. A dream carved in sunlight, this hour, yet dreams never lingered long. Nay, children would come swift enough—sweet, clamouring things—and they'd gnaw these quiet times to scraps.
The thought didn't sour her, not truly—small feet pattering these stones, laughter chasing the bees—but it shifted something. Would she be good at it, mothering? Stern like Viserra, who ruled Jaedar with a voice like a whip yet kissed his brow when he slept? Or soft like Aemma, all patience and murmurs, even when Rhaenyra wailed the keep down?
Maelys, sprawled here so easy—would he cradle them as he did her, steady and warm, or drift to his own ends, as their father had too often done? She frowned, realizing she'd scarce spared a thought for names—boy or girl, nothing fixed in her head.
That jolted her, a gap she hadn't seen till now.
"Maelys," she called, tone low, tugging a strand of his hair to stir him.
His eyes cracked open, violet and glinting, a smirk curling slow. "Aye, sweet? What's that tone—plotting my demise already?"
She huffed, half a laugh. "Names. For… later. Children, I mean. I've not thought on them proper."
He shifted, propping on an elbow, grin widening. "Gods, Gael, we've scarce started tumbling regular, and you're naming a brood? Your appetite will be the death of me—I'll be grey before they're weaned."
Her cheeks warmed, but she swatted his shoulder, light. "Hush, you—don't tease. I'm serious. Girls, at least—what'd you reckon?"
He flopped back, hands behind his head, staring up through the branches. "Girls, eh? You've got that gleam—spit it out, then. What's brewing in that head?"
She hesitated, twirling a lock of his hair round her finger. "Alysanne, mayhap—after Mother. Or Maegelle—for our sister. Both feel… right, but heavy too."
Maelys hummed, a low sound, eyes narrowing thoughtful. "Alysanne's a queen's name—strong, but it'd weigh on a lass, all that shadow. Maegelle, though—soft, pious. Suits you more than me—I'd not saddle a girl with sermons."
"You'd rather her a dragonrider than a septa?" she asked, brow arching.
"Aye," he agreed, grinning. "Let her burn something before she prays it—I'd teach her myself. But Alysanne… might be I'd bend to that, if she's got her fire."
Gael smiled, small and real, her fingers stilling in his hair. "You'd name her for fire, not duty?"
"Fire's what lasts," he said, catching her hand, pressing it to his lips quick and warm. "Duty's just the leash—girls of ours would snap it, I'd see to that."
She laughed outright, the sound startling a bird from the branches. "You'll spoil them rotten—me chasing them with a switch while you stoke the chaos."
"Not too rotten, mind—I'd not have them grow like Saera, all scorn and shame, bitter as a lemon left to rot," Maelys said, easing back into her lap, eyes fluttering shut once more. "We'll hash this out again—names and the rest—after I've had you proper, sweet."
Saera's name stung, a bitter thorn pricking Gael's calm.
Mother had murmured of her—Father's favoured girl once, the child who'd shattered him and left him a husk. A whore now, so the tales went, lolling in the bastard dens of Essos—Lys or Volantis, mayhap—her whelps weaned to scorn, spat on by lesser men who'd bow to their blood if it shone pure.
Folly, the lot of it—pure rot. Nay, she'd not let her own babes drift into whispers of warning and disgrace.
"How's she faring—Saera, I mean?" Gael's gaze drifted to the horizon, thinned by the breeze rustling soft through the yews. "You've sailed to those lands of sin for your schemes—Lys, Volantis, the lot. Surely you've sniffed after her, asked a name or two. Met her, even?"
Maelys let her words fester, unanswered for a few slow thumps of her heart, but Gael held her tongue—she'd not prod him. The wind hummed, soft as a sigh, and she waited, fingers still in his hair.
"She's a sad thing," he said at last, eyes shut, voice low and steady. "Chasing lust for love, for kin to fill the hollow. I reckon she's waiting on Father's call—not to drag her back, but to prove her rutting and rebellion weren't sin in his eyes."
He shifted, a faint crease on his brow. "Met her once, in Lys—she came at me, all honeyed words and hands. It's her craft, all she's got left. I brushed her off, and that lit a fire of hate in her—spat my name like poison after."
Gael's lips twisted, a bitter smile cracking her charm—why had love turned its back on her sisters, casting them to sin and shame, chasing Maelys's hands he'd never yield to their grasp?
Mayhap the old sins had called doom's eye to her kin—taints of blood and fire from aeons past, dragging misfortune like a chain. Did they need some pure deed to break the grip of Old Valyria's ghosts, to cleanse the filth of the bastard cities and set them free? Mayhap it was so…
…Mayhap.
"Your silence sets me on edge, Gael," Maelys whispered, his violet eyes cracking open to fix on hers. "Tell me you're not stewing on dark things—malice or worse."
"Kinder thoughts, I'd say," Gael said, plucking a green grape from the basket and popping it between her lips. "How're your parleys with Lord Hightower, love? Has the man found his wits yet?"
Maelys sank back, a deep hum buzzing in his chest as he chewed it over, eyes slitting lazy once more.
"Dragging on, aye—Leyton's clawing for more sway in the deal, the grasping fool." A laugh broke free, sharp with jest, crinkling his face. "Matters little what he settles on—I've Vaegon stirring the maesters at the Citadel, a pot well-simmered. Spoke with Septon Barth too, and Father—a title's no hard prize to pry loose."
Gael shook her head, a thin line forming on her lips—Maelys's scribing press was a marvel, a clatter of iron and ink that spun words like magic.
Yet handing it to Oldtown chafed her, a move she misliked, though he swore it was the quickest road to woo the godly and win the maesters' nod. He hungered for the Faith's blessing on his Essos gambit—flesh dealings that'd reek to the nobles—hoping a holy stamp would muzzle the lords who'd bare their teeth at him.
Nay, that wasn't the sole path. He could plant it here instead—raise a second Citadel in King's Landing, manned by the swarm of maesters he'd bent to his will. Aye, it'd sow rancour with the Hightowers and those stiff-necked Archmaesters, but Gael reckoned it no steep cost—not when the prize was his own forge of lore.
"You've a tender spot for these lords who puff themselves grander than they are, Maelys," Gael said, a smile prettying her countenance. She knew well why he danced on the brink of courtesy and calm—his game demanded it—yet it rankled her still. "And Otto? You've been sour as old milk since he spat on your offer."
Maelys lifted from her thighs, twisting to face her, a frown creasing his lips—an ugly mar on that fair face. "I pray you don't spill every scrap to Viserra," he said, tone light but laced with a warning's edge. "I know she's been feeding her fancies through you."
His jest carried teeth, and Gael felt heat flood her cheeks, a flush she couldn't stifle. Viserra's counsel had its uses, damn her, and he knew it too well.
Maelys pressed on, voice dropping low, a glint of malice in those eyes. "Otto's muzzled for now—some sweet crumbs tossed through Maynard to keep him scrambling. He'll whisper to his brother, and Leyton will heap whatever Otto mutters into the bargain. That's why I let him strut and prance—slow venom, love, seeping deep. It won't cripple yet, but mark me: the Hightowers will kiss our boots this century. Come the next, they'll be dust on the wind…"
He wove it with deft hands, this silent treachery—chains of fool's gold draped over allies with an honest smile. And Gael, damn her, loved him fierce for it, her heart a fool to the marrow, snared by the lengths he'd stretch to shield their unborn babes from uncertainty.
He'd laid it bare to her once, the shape of things to come—death's shadow creeping close, a tide he half-craved. She saw it in him, that hunger for the ruinous fall, teetering just a breath from breaking loose. It fuelled his games—why he bowed and grinned to lords, tossed bread to the smallfolk, and now angled for the Faith's sanctimonious nod.
All of it a scaffold for the day Baelon's breath stilled, when Father's trembling hand would set the crown on him. For the hour the knives came out, kin turning on kin.
A sharp crack split the air, and Gael's hand stung where it met his cheek. "No dark words here," she said, soft as a whisper, tugging him back to her lap. Her fingers grazed the reddened skin, tender now where she'd struck. "You do it for love—there's no venom in it. You'll shape them right, these highborn—lift them higher, truer. Kindness repaid with kindness."
"You're mad, sister," he said, a laugh rumbling through him. "And I'd have you pay for that, come nightfall."
Her cheeks blazed, a tide of heat she wrestled to bury, shoving the wicked thought aside. "Speak of something else," she urged, weakly. "Tell me of the first lot bound for Havenhall."
Maelys spared her, seizing the new thread with no feigned zeal. He'd always burned for his schemes, even when he granted them but a sliver of his mind.
"A tally's been scratched out for the first settlers—three thousand, all told," he said, tone excited as he traced the thought. "Maester Jon's lot have their names etched down, faces roughly sketched, each pinned with a number and stowed safe in the archives. They'd be drilled there, shaped for fat purses once the early grit's scraped past."
She'd heard Father would yield nigh a quarter of King's Landing's rabble—most no more than gutter-rats and souls steeped in vice. Yet they couldn't haul the lot.
Nay, she and Maelys had their marks picked clean, a crop of decent folk fattened by the food houses and honed sharp by the maesters' teachings.
It would be a marvel, that land of theirs, carved by her husband's cunning and peopled thick with souls of sharp wit and proven faith.
"What of the ships to bear them there?" That knot she couldn't unravel. Her love wielded a web of clever means, yet no fleet of his own to ferry stocks for the pacts he'd forged across the known world.
Even the Valyrian stock he meant to fetch would sail on the Sealord's hulls, some bargain struck with the Braavosi to grease the way. He was plenty secret about that one deal.
"We'll parley with Lord Velaryon for that," he told with a sigh, lifting a hand to prod her chest lightly. "The man's in my debt."
She flicked his hand off her, a light blush reddening her face before it eased. "It'd best not be blackmail, love." Rhaenys was too dear a friend and Gael wouldn't abide her turning foe…
…not yet, leastways.
"You'll ride the wind with me to Spicetown," Maelys said, a faint smile tugging his lips. "We'll linger a few days—Rhaenys and her little brood would relish your company. Pack some of those wicked scraps for our niece."
Gael pinched his arm, though she'd do it anyway—two babes was a meagre count, especially for Rhaenys, with hips made for birthing a dozen.
They should aim high, she reckoned—mimic the Good Queen, who'd pushed out nigh on a dozen babes from hips too narrow for the task. Gael's own were broader, a generous span, a frame fit to birth a horde, if her love never grew weary of her.
Aye, she'd proved the better dam, not one babe snatched to the Stranger's cold arms. Such was a wife's charge, and she'd not let her womanhood be cast in doubt.
A shadow fell swift, the sun swallowed by a thick cloud. Her eyes raked the sky for a storm's promise, but no rain hung heavy—this week held none of it, that wet wrath.
She'd wearied of the mud, and a stray thought flickered—might they ever see a winter stretch a full year? She'd glut herself on frozen cream till her teeth ached, if it came.
That quirked her lips. Mayhap she'd wheedle a vow from Maelys to take wing for the North in the weeks to come.
"What of the orphan houses for the small ones?" she remembered, shifting to prop herself up. "Plenty of these settlers'll be children kissed by ill luck. I'd not have them fall to grim roads, Maelys." Gael misliked how scant the care and steering were for the young in this world of theirs.
She knew Maelys had his plans scratched out and smoothed sharp already, a lattice of order for how things would stand—yet these soft prods did no harm. He clasped her hand again, pressing his lips to her knuckles.
"Keep an ear open for me," he echoed her, voice steady, "this and that of the women, so they're spared those low trades once more. Still, it'll be well. I'd drain every coin I've hoarded to scourge the shadow of want from our haven."
Gael's lips curved—mad as he could be, Maelys bore a heart of truest gold beneath it all.
At last she rose, a gentle weariness fogging her thoughts, smoothing the scant creases from her dress while Maelys whined for her lap, cheeks puffed like a sulking child's.
"We've dawdled too long," she reminded him, "and I'd bet you've duties clawing for you." She had her own ahead—Aemma waited, a talk brewing, not least her wish to tag along on Gael's forays into the city's muck.
She'd relish it—nothing cheered the smallfolk more than their highborn tending to them with care.
"…fair enough," he muttered, still sprawled on the earth, eyes roving her form. It was a proud stare, one he'd taken to wielding often of late. "Though mark this—I've scant duty pressing, save a word with Father come dusk."
Gael couldn't fathom how Maelys, tangled in a web of schemes and trade, carved out such wide swathes of idle hours. Aye, he'd laid it bare once—spilled it all in a breathless tirade about the Yi-Tish ways, though the full grasp of it slipped her still.
She turned from his ogling and played the handmaid, thoughts on Aemma up at the keep. "Then keep close to Viserys. Aemma says he savors your company and aid."
As the crowned face of the sewer works, Viserys had to traipse about, parleying with lords, merchants, and shopkeeps—a grand farce, all of it, for Maelys's men were the ones trudging the muck and turning the wheels.
Yet her love was winsome and sharp-witted beside. He steered the other prince from rotten bargains and the conniving sycophants of the court who'd fleece him blind.
He hummed, a low sound. "Your words have sparked a thought, though I'll need to chew it over with the artisans and maesters first." He hauled himself up. "You'll like this one, sweet—you all will."
Maelys dusted off his breeches, eyes alight with that wild gleam she knew too well, and launched into a storm of words.
"Picture this, my love—a stretch of ground, right there by the outer ward, timber frames sturdy as a keep's bones, ropes thick as a sailor's braid swinging to and fro." He flung his arms wide, pacing the grass like some mummer gone mad, heedless of her earlier nudge toward Viserys.
"Then planks balanced just so—up one end, down the other, creaking with every shift. And wheels, aye, flat rounds of oak spinning fast enough to dizzy a lad till he's laughing sick!"
Gael bent to gather the wicker basket, lips twitching as she tucked the half-eaten bread and sticky figs inside.
His voice rolled on, hands slashing the air to carve shapes she could scarce picture. "Rungs too, lashed tight, for climbing—high enough to scare the piss out of them, but safe, mind you, safe as a septa's prayers!" He spun on his heel, grinning like a fool, and she caught the edge of it despite herself, even as she shook her head.
She brushed crumbs from the wool blanket, folding it neat over her arm, while he prattled on, heedless. "And a chute—polished smooth, steep enough to send them flying, squealing all the way down!" His boots scuffed the dirt, marking some invisible line, and she sighed, half-vexed, half-charmed.
"Gods, Maelys, you're a whirlwind," she muttered, tucking the sweet-wine bottle under her arm, its glass still cool against her skin.
His fervour grated her patience, aye, the way he barreled past her words like they were chaff in the wind.
She straightened, basket in hand, and caught his eye mid-gesturing. "Whatever it is, slow down and breathe, lest you choke on it before it's born."
Maelys stilled, the storm in him ebbing, then leaned close—his lips brushed hers, a gentle echo of her earlier peck.
"I'll hunt down Viserys," he said. "Father bid me keep an eye on him—didn't tell you that, did I?" She feigned annoyance at him, a furrow on her brows. "We'll chew over this tonight, though—my ropes and all."
He was off swift enough, leaving her there alone. Yet Ylvara soon appeared, stepping soft to help with the clearing, a fine gown draped over her arms—cut and stitched proper for Gael's rank.
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Shedding her garb beneath the open sky felt a scandal teetering on the brink, and the whisper of silken smallclothes only deepened the shame. Gael's cheeks blazed hot; she'd never worn a mask for guile with ease.
Ylvara bore no trace of her fluster, though—the maid's hands moved steady and sure, smoothing her hair afresh before the sundress slipped free from her grip.
"You carry no mark of wifely duty on you, my princess," Ylvara said, her tone threading with a faint unease, though her words rang clear—too bold, mayhap, in their prying reach. "Is the prince unwell?"
Gael felt the heat claw up to her ears, a flush she couldn't quell. She knew the unchained Lyseni meant no slight—those lilting tones bore only the scars of her old trade, honed in the perfumed dens of those wretched cities, narrowing her sight to flesh and little else.
Still, it stung her pride raw.
"That… wasn't the aim of this hour, Ylvara," she said, voice tight as the blush seared on. "It's the heart we tend—love and trust, nursed slow and sure." Aye, that's what Maelys had sworn when she'd first pressed him on it.
Ylvara dipped her head, a touch slow, unsure. "It's only… I'd thought—" She stilled her hands, a finger jabbing toward Gael's chest, the breast strap. "With such inviting garb…" Her words faltered, and mayhap the maid caught the snag in her own probing, eyes flicking down.
Gael's lips pulled low, a fair bit, but she shook her head. She'd donned them for Maelys now and then—fanning his fire, as Viserra's sly counsel urged. Yet not this day. Now she savoured their ease, the breath they granted, free of binding layers and heavy folds.
They lent her grace too for the odd twists and stretches she worked through each dawn.
Still, the maid's words chafed her, a burr under her skin—too plain how the once-chained lingered in the dregs of their past.
"Ylvara," Gael said, tone firm yet fraying soft, "your freedom wasn't won to bind you anew—least of all to that sort of yoke." She let out a breath, her gaze easing. "Rest easy. Such would never be demanded—not by me, and surely not by Maelys."
Few truths stood firm in her days, but Maelys's love was a rock among them. He'd never tire of her flesh or her presence. Never. It was why he laboured so, weaving plots, stretching hands, spinning falsehoods—all to forge a bulwark for their unborn brood and carve out more hours to linger with her.
The maid bowed her head low, but Gael knew the matter wouldn't rest there. The once-shackled would still yearn for Maelys, offering thanks in the only coin they'd learned—base and worn from those cursed cities. It fell to her to school them in virtue, to scour the filth of their old ways clean.
Mayhap she'd murmur to Maelys—see if the Faith might lend its voice to guide and turn them true once they struck out for their new home.
Ylvara slid the gown over her now—silk and samite, thick with stitching worthy of a princess's rank. The maid's nimble fingers tugged it taut, a pinching weight Gael once bore gladly but now misliked.
Soon they left the old garden behind, stepping into the shadowed corridors. Ser Arthor of Claw Isle fell in beside them, a sworn shield whose loyalty to her stirred no scorn at court.
She found she liked him well enough—his skill at arms was exceptional, his honor a thing beyond doubt, and his colouring held hints of kin.
"I hope we've not kept you waiting overlong, Ser," Gael said, her words laced with honest care.
"You haven't, my princess," the knight replied, his voice even as stone. "And it'd be churlish of me to grumble at how light this post sits."
It should've weighed heavier, she knew. Yet Maelys set scant store by Westeros's knights—too fickle or too scheming, he reckoned. So Ser Arthor's true burdens came only on these picnic jaunts or when court and grand affairs called him to stand watch.
Still, he drew a fat purse in coin and the shine of prestige that came with being Maelys's sworn man.
"That's good to hear," she said, offering a smile that left a fleeting fluster on the knight's visage. She turned a blind eye to his fondness—such looks were quite common within these walls. Ylvara, though, edged nearer, a quiet shield, slipping between her and Ser Arthor.
Another show of silent fealty, and one she misliked all the same. Let the men stew in their want—brothels and eager ladies aplenty stood ready to slake it. Her maidservants bore no duty to bear its weight.
Besides, Ser Arthor had a wife and babe—he'd not risk them for some wicked fancy.
"What's roused while we idled?" she asked, steering the focus elsewhere.
Ylvara piped up, eager. "A duel in the yards—two knights clashing for Lord Ball's eldest girl, her hand in the balance." One of Aemma's flock, if Gael recalled true. "I didn't catch the end of it, though."
"A draw," Ser Arthor helped. "Both took grave hurts and bled out a truce."
Gael's breath caught, a chill threading through her. It gnawed at her, how quick these men leaped to death's edge over trifles. "Who were they?" she asked, brows arched high.
"The Sloane heir, most like, and some Reacher knight bound to the Balls."
House Sloane—Gael's mind snagged on it. That was the kin of the lass Maelys had dangled to sour Vaegon's vows down in Oldtown. He'd have to step in now, lest this spat swelled too fat to ignore.
Mayhap her discussions with Aemma would yield a trove on House Ball's ties to the Sloanes—beyond their shared roots in ancient blood.
"Anything more?"
"Aye, my princess," Ylvara replied. "Some ladies came sniffing for your ear. Lady Fossoway was among them."
Gael's lips thinned. Reach folk weaving through today's stirrings, it seemed. She could wager why the requests piled up—Maelys's dyes, born of his and the maesters' toil, had spilled into the markets, along with the fabrics stained with their hues.
She didn't fault the ladies their aims—noble life starved out bonds forged for mere fondness, but that didn't mark these women as foes. They sought only the good of their kin and houses, ready to cozy up to her for it.
Mayhap it was time she took on ladies-in-waiting. The principality would crave sworn houses to reap Maelys's bounty, and those vassals would need wives. Gael stood poised to pick them.
Aye, the hour had come for her to step bold and deep into this dance of schemes.
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"One never knows true beast 'til they parry a blow from a knight of the King's Blood—swift as a lash, strong as an ox, and lean as a lance. They say the Mercy took three heads with one sweep of his blade in the Second Iron Rebellion."
—Words of Ser Bran of Manting, etched during the Fourth Winter Tourney (253 AC in Riverrun)