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Jaehaerys Targaryen (101 A.C. First Moon.)
Baelon's funeral
Jaehaerys Targaryen stood before the pyre, his eyes fixed on the still form of his son. The flames had not yet consumed the body, but the fire seemed to scorch his heart just the same. It was an odd thing, this sense of waking from a dream. All week, he had woken expecting his son to rise, stand, and speak, but now, here was the truth: Baelon would never wake again. The gods were cruel, it seemed. What was the point of being king when all his children were taken before his eyes? Ten had already passed, their souls carried up to the heavens of the father. Only three of his thirteen children remained. Yet, they had left him a legacy. Baelon's sons, Viserys, Daemon, and Aemon, stood together across the pyre, united as they had never been before. Even Daemon, ever the stubborn one, wore the face of a broken man. His grief, like that of his brothers, was raw.
Behind them stood Lyanna, quietly sobbing. Beside her, their daughters, little Arya, still as a statue, her face hidden in shadow, and Visenya, clutching her mother's dress as tears rolled down her cheeks. Rhaenyra and Aemma were not faring much better, grief etched into their features, mourning yet another loss to their family. Rhaenys stood among them, her face a mix of sorrow for the uncle she had loved but also cold calculation. The heir had been lost, and now, who would sit upon the throne after him? Her gaze was steady, as though she were already considering the consequences.
Her husband's face, too, mirrored that same calculation.
'Vaegon's arrival couldn't come soon enough. The realm would want answers soon. He knew Corlys would never accept his wife being passed over again, but what would be best for the realm? If only Aemon were older. If only the boy had the time to prove what was so clear to him, Aemon had everything that made a king. He had the blood of both noble houses, he was bonded to Black Dread, and he possessed a wisdom far beyond his years, even though he was barely ten.
The realm, though, would demand that the firstborn succeed, perhaps even the firstborn of his firstborn, even if she was a woman.' Jaeherys thought, and with a deep sigh, Jaehaerys stepped forward, his voice breaking the silence of the Dragonpit.
"All those gathered," he began, his voice steady but tired, "thank you for being here to share in our grief."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the gathered faces.
"With all my heart, I wish I had the power to change places with my son. But I do not. I have lit the pyres of too many children. Perhaps the gods have need of their company more than I."
He looked down at Baelon's body and then to his grandchildren.
"To you, he was the Spring Prince. Baelon the Brave. To me… he was my boy. Someone I will miss until the day I join him." His voice cracked slightly as he turned to the children Baelon left behind.
"He leaves behind five children, and I am proud of them all. They were his joy. There was nothing he valued more."He faltered, emotion rising in his throat.
"And I know," he whispered, "that he watches over them now… as does my beloved Alysanne."
Then, the stones of the Dragonpit trembled, and all the dragons roared as one, a sound so raw and mighty it seemed the sky itself might split open.
Jaehaerys lifted a hand, eyes glistening as they turned to his last and oldest friend.
"Vermithor," he called, his voice firmer now. "Dracarys."
The great bronze dragon let out a mighty roar, and flame burst forth, engulfing the pyre in a storm of bronze fire.
Jaehaerys closed his eyes.
"Farewell, my boy," he whispered.
Tower of the Hand
Hand's Solar.
For almost three years, his son had been his right hand. He had been before that even. Yet, as Hand, his son had taken off a part of the weight of his rule. The room was empty now, and who would become his next Hand had been on his mind, even if his mind still reeled from Baelon's death.
Yet, stepping into his room, he had already made a choice, even if he had considered other options, like Ryam and Corlys, yet both had things he didn't like for the role of Hand. Ryam was a soldier and would be a great leader in war, as was during the rallying of arms during the Dornish War. If his attack with his sons failed, yet the man had no head for diplomacy or stewardship.
Corlys had a bias toward Rhaenys, and his enmourous pride could become a problem with upcoming decisions he had to make.
Lyman was a good man with a smart head on his shoulders. The right one to manage the crown gold and was loyal to the bone. Yet, was he, not a leader, or was he steadfast, what a Hand needed to be.
His son's son wasn't ready, either. Viserys was a bookworm and loved peace and quiet. Even the burden of having a son weighed on his mind. Being Hand only would add to it. Daemon was basically Ryman. If more charismatic, yet he would be too brutal. Also, he would piss off the North on that, he had no doubt. The man still harbored a foolish hatred for Lyanna and her children.
That truly left only Otto or Rhaenys. Rhaenys was a woman. He doubted the realm would accept it.
'No, it would be Otto Hightower,' Jaehaerys thought to himself. He was someone he knew, and he didn't want to summon someone he didn't know, an unknown entity. No not now, with him being possibly close to his end.
Otto Hightower was a second son who had proven himself capable of handling high-stakes situations. He did well with Kingswood questions and other matters in the past. Then, the fact that the man had worked under Barth was another reason he wanted to name him. Then Otto's daughter had told much of her father and his work ethic, that he was always serious and did his duties when needed. Although he knew she was probably a little biased.
Yet Barth had spoken the same words of Otto.
He sat down in the chair behind the desk and poured himself some strong Dornish Red, one the last bottles he had, from the gifts of Mara Martell, to come with an offer of peace between Dorne and the throne.
It was a good vintage as he drank deep and was alone for a while. Contplanting the choses to come. "Ryam, please come in." He commanded.
"Your Grace, how can I be of service." His dutiful lord commander asked.
"Please summon Ser Otto Hightower for me." Ordered, and the man left. Jaehaerys heard Ryam relay some orders.
Some moments later, Ryam walked back inside. "Ser Otto Hightower, Your Grace," Ryman stated as Otto was let inside.
"You can leave us, Ser," He noted to Ryam. "Ser Otto, have a seat."
"Of course, Your Grace, thank you." The man replied as he sat down.
"Ser Otto, you know, the last two weeks have been a misery. For me, my family and the realm. With my son gone, it's time to name a new Hand." He began as the man looked at him silently. "Indeed, Your Grace, you need a steady Hand beside you as king," Otto stated.
He nodded, "Wine, Ser?" He asked as he looked at the man. "With pleasure, Your Grace," The man replied with a bright smile. Otto took the cup, smelled it, and drank deeply before setting down the cup. "Dornish Red, and fine one at that, Your Grace."
"Indeed, this is the last bottle I have of the gift Mara Martell sent as part of the peace offering. After me and my son's. Burn the Dornish fleet." He replied.
"Ah, yes, a great victory for the realm. Not so much for Dorne." Otto added smugly. Reachmen didn't like the Dornish. They were one primary source of conflict for them over the centuries. The Hightower held a special grudge during one of the Dornish wars When Ser Joffrey Dayne marched an army to Oldtown and razed the fields and villages nearby. He also remembered a tale that a previous Lord, named Dalbert Hightower, was slain in a clash in the Prince's Pass about four hundred years before the conquest.
"Indeed, it was an unnecessary waste of life." He added, and Otto nodded in agreement.
"Ser Otto, you are here today, as are all the people I still personally know. You are most qualified to become the next Hand of King." He stated.
"Your Grace, if you think me qualified, it would be my honor to become the Hand of the King. You have already honored me with the position of Master of Laws, and for that, I'm grateful." Otto replied, his voice steady. Yet he heard pride in there. That was expected, and most men would feel pride if they were given the position.
"I hope as much. Then Ser Otto Hightower, I would name you Hand of King." He declared.
"Then, Your Grace, I will accept and serve you faithfully," Otto stated as he stepped away for seat and knelt in front of him. "Rise, Ser Otto, as Hand of King."
A moon later, King's Solar.
"Archmaester Vaegon has arrived," Clement announced. "Very well, Ser, let my son in." He replied as he rose stiffly from his seat, and the door opened, sowing in his son.
"Your Grace," Vaegon announced himself. Jaehaerys looked his son up and down. The grey rob a maester around him, a chain of links, and a face, marred with age, even at forty and one. Where had gone the boy he sent to Old Town.
"None of that Vaegon. I'm your father," He chastised his son. "Father," Vaegon replied reluctantly. "Come here and give me a hug." As he embraced his son after so many years. His heart swelled a little after it. The embrace itself was stiff, yet he felt its warmth, a son embracing his father.
"I hope you would have come, too, to your mother's funeral. Same with the funerals of your siblings, yet you never did." He asked after they broke apart.
"I didn't think I was needed," Vaegon said. "There was family enough. I mourned them in my own way. I never truly felt part of it… not entirely. Yet I loved them."
Jaehaerys gave a quiet sigh. "Perhaps I'm to blame for that. I see now the error of my ways. I didn't spend enough time with my children… perhaps things would be different if I had."
He gestured to the table and poured two cups of wine.
Vaegon took a seat and accepted the cup. "Why did you summon me, Father?"
Jaehearys sight, "To discuss the future of our House. To what is to become of it now with Baelon gone."
"Well," Vaegon said, sipping the wine, "it's something you should have done long ago. You ought to have named the eldest child of your eldest son as heir. In most of Westeros, perhaps not the Iron Islands, a daughter inherits before a younger brother. And yet, you inherited before Aerea, even if she was your brother's heir."
He spoke matter-of-factly, with a scholar's tone. "The Iron Throne has never had a clear line of succession, not since Maegor usurped your brother's place. Since then, heirs have shifted. And I know Mother wasn't pleased when you chose Aemon over Daenerys."
"The realm has its traditions," Jaehaerys muttered.
Vaegon snorted. "Traditions we made, Father. Our House forged the Seven Kingdoms. Before us, each land had its own laws and customs. The idea of a unified realm is still new. New traditions can still be shaped. If you play it carefully, as you did with the Doctrine of Exceptionalism."
Jaehaerys huffed but nodded. "If I could, I would name Aemon to succeed me."
Vaegon's brow rose. "A boy of ten?"
"Yes," Jaehaerys said firmly. "That child is special. He commands Balerion as if he were born to it. It's a sight to behold. He is clever, well-spoken, and already understands his duties. And do not forget, he carries the blood of the realm's two greatest houses."
""It could be done," Vaegon admitted. "With a regency, of course. And the gods willing, you still have a few years left to rule. But naming your third-born son's child as heir sets a dangerous precedent. Will Viserys accept it? Will Daemon? Even Rhaenys might object, though perhaps less so since her daughter is betrothed to Aemon."
Vaegon leaned forward. "Naming Rhaenys would at least make sense, although she is a woman. She still is the daughter of your eldest child and your once-undisputed heir. But naming a ten-year-old over two grown sons of your previous heir… that would not sit well with the realm."
"I know," Jaehaerys said, rubbing his temples. "That's why it cannot be done."
Vaegon offered a wry smile. "Then your choices are clear. Viserys, as Baelon's eldest son… or Rhaenys. And if the realm will not accept a woman, then perhaps Laenor, as a male heir of Rhaenys's line. But he's only seven. Either way, a regency will be needed."
Jaehaerys groaned. "And whichever I choose, I hear that Corlys is raising his fleets. Daemon is also raising men to fight for his brother's claim. If I name one, the other might start a war. Another war for the throne."
"Let the realm decide," Vaegon said simply. "Call a Great Council. Let the lords of Westeros choose the next heir. That way, no claimant can say the process was unjust. If Aemon wishes, he can put himself forward, but I don't know if he would. I don't know his relationship with his siblings."
Jaehaerys nodded slowly. "He would never challenge his brother, and perhaps not even Rhaenys. Yet I have no doubt that he will serve as a guiding hand in the future. A great council would make it fair, and neither claimant can dispute the outcome. I have conditions for the winner. Aemon's line must continue. It must be joined to the winning claimant's line."
Vaegon looked at him curiously. "Why is that so important?"
Jaehaerys exhaled, the weight of secrets pressing on him.
"There is a reason our House conquered Westeros. To protect it and the world of men from something that is coming. I do not know when or how, but I know Aemon is part of it. That boy carries the future in him."
Vaegon said nothing for a long moment, then finally nodded. "Then you have a choice, Father. Name your heir and live with the consequences, or call a Great Council and let the realm choose for you."
"Yes, I will need to." He said as he nodded in agreement, then he studied his last remaining son. The Citadel would want him back, but his house had a greater need of his wisdom.
"Vaegon," he said softly, "would you serve your House? I want you to go to Seadragon Point. Join Aemon there as his advisor. The boy will need a guide, someone stern, someone learned, someone with unbiased views."
Vaegon blinked, surprised by the request.
"If you accept," Jaehaerys continued, "I'll petition the Citadel to send you Seadragon Point when Aemon takes up his place there and to be an advisor to Aemon and join the current maester. Your place, from now on, is with your kin."
Vaegon considered it for a moment, then gave a single nod. "I will, you allow me to become a measter, and for that, I'm grateful. So, Father, I will join my nephew."
"Thank you, son, and for the advice." He noted that he had given his son a warm slime. What he didn't what felt like a lifetime ago.
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