Chapter Text
Word of the Sea Snake's death would take some time to reach King's Landing. For now, Jacaerys fretted over what to do with the child in his arms. When Aemond had begged Alicent to kill the babe, a strange pity had stirred in him—it was only an innocent child, after all. So he had snatched it away, giving no thought to what it meant to take up such a burden. He might send the child to some village in the countryside and have it raised in secret, but its hair and eyes were too conspicuous—silver hair and violet eyes. Any man who set eyes on it would know at once that it had dragon's blood. To hide it in the Red Keep meant risk. So he walked back to his own chambers, brooding. The moment he stepped inside, Helaena fell to her knees before him.
"Your Grace," she said, her voice full of courtesy. Then she reached out for the child in Jacaerys's arms, as if she had known all along that he would come. She took the tiny babe with great care. The little one, who had been quiet, woke as soon as he lay in her arms. He opened his eyes, and when he saw the woman before him, those violet orbs crinkled in a smile. The sight made Jacaerys remember what Alicent had said the moment she first laid eyes on the child. She had spoken truly: his eyes were indeed much like Aemond's.
"Do you know whose child this is?" Jacaerys asked.
"I do not know, Your Grace," Helaena answered without hesitation. "But the gods have told me that I shall have a child not born of my body. He is not of my blood, yet he is bound to me. I shall be his mother. I shall tend him and love him until the day I die."
With that, she paid Jacaerys no further heed, but bent her full attention to the babe in her arms, amusing him with soft sounds.
It brought to Jacaerys's mind his own father—not the man who had sired him, but Ser Laenor. Laenor had known that Rhaenyra's sons were not his own, yet he had loved them as his own sons, giving them ten years of steady devotion. If Laenor could do that, why could Jacaerys not learn to love a stranger's child?
And so a thought took shape in his mind. If this was indeed the will of the gods, why should the child not become his own trueborn son? He had been wed to his queen for two years, and she had borne him no child. The small council had pressed him on the matter more than once. There were whispers that the king was impotent, and others that his throne was accursed because he held it unlawfully. In truth, a child would shut the mouths of gossips well enough. The hour was late, and he had been careful. Few knew of this babe. With proper handling, no trouble need arise.
Yet to return to King's Landing and announce a newborn at once would be too sudden; the realm would hardly swallow it. He needed a moment—perhaps some solemn occasion, perhaps only a whisper. Until then, he must keep everything hidden, and not let the cracks show as they had before he left the city. He thought of his mother. She had needed only to sit on Dragonstone, and others had made her cause seem strong, bringing her whispers from all over Westeros and even beyond the Narrow Sea. But here in the Red Keep, he was blind and deaf. No one served as his eyes and ears, his voice and hand.
Which brings us to a man who had vanished from the changing court for a long while: Larys Strong, called Clubfoot, the former master of whisperers who had served the greens. When the blacks took King's Landing, he had melted away like water into the sea. No one knew where he had gone. And then, just as suddenly, he reappeared. Jacaerys had caught him on the road back, outside the city gates of King's Landing. "Caught" is not quite the word—Larys had given himself up. He did not run. When the guards shoved him to the ground, he was grinning. He raised his head to the king on dragonback and said, "You will have need of me one day, Your Grace."
He had spoken true. For a man of his talents in the gathering of whispers, Jacaerys had little choice but to use him.
When Larys saw Jacaerys, he composed his robes with unhurried grace, leaned on his cane, and bowed. "At your service, Your Grace."
Jacaerys's face was dark. "You threw yourself in my path on purpose. Did you foresee this day?"
Larys only smiled and said nothing.
Jacaerys continued, "I have heard of your talents. My uncle is a mediocre man. That he gathered so many allies before the war — you and Otto deserve much of the credit."
Larys bowed again. "You flatter me, Your Grace."
The more humble Larys made himself, the more wary Jacaerys grew, for he could not read him. He weighed whether to use the man before him. Larys saw the young king's doubt at once. He opened his cane, drew a roll of parchment from a secret compartment within, and pushed it respectfully toward Jacaerys, bidding him to read. It was the last will and testament of King Viserys, in black and white, plain as day, naming his firstborn daughter Rhaenyra as his heir to the Iron Throne, decreeing that the rule of the Seven Kingdoms should pass from her to her descendants for all time. The signature, the king's private seal, even his handprint — all were there. Jacaerys studied every mark. When he was small, Viserys had often taken his grandson's hand and taught him to write, stroke by stroke. The kind smile of the old king and his peculiar hand were burned deep into Jacaerys's memory. This was Viserys's unsealed will, beyond doubt.
Jacaerys laid the parchment back on the table. "I thought Otto and Alicent would have destroyed it."
"They destroyed the one he dictated on his deathbed, of course," Larys said with a smile. "A wise king does not make only one plan. While he could still move his own hand, he drafted this will and gave it to a trusted member of the small council. That man, alas, was a fool who lost his head too soon, and so this precious document fell into my hands."
Before Jacaerys could speak, Larys went on. "After you took King's Landing, word reached me that my prince, Aemond, whom I served, had begun to doubt my loyalty. He slaughtered my kin at Harrenhal. I gave him my every effort, and this was my reward — it cut me deeply. I believe you are different from your cruel uncle. The first moment I laid eyes on you, I knew that you are truly worthy of being the firstborn son of Queen Rhaenyra, the merciful 'Light of the Realm'. You will surely become a gracious and benevolent king."
Jacaerys said flatly, "Spare me your flattery. I do not trust the words of a turncloak."
Larys grinned. "I understand, Your Grace. I served the greens before. But now I am your man. You need only tell me what you want, and I shall do it. Whatever news you wish to hear, I shall speak. Set your demands before me, and I will satisfy them as best I can."
Jacaerys made his decision. He laid out his demands. "I know you claim to know everything that happens in this city, great and small. I require you to hide nothing from me. I must be told of every move the greens make. Moreover, I need you to hide a child. Until I give leave, no one else is to know that child exists."
Larys listened, then said, "I can do this, surely. But there is one in court who hinders me. You know whom I mean — the White Worm at Daemon's side. While she is here, it would be as hard as scaling the Seven hells to smuggle a child out of the Red Keep. She sees all that passes in this castle. To master the Red Keep, she must vanish."
Jacaerys had loathed the White Worm for a long time. He knew well that she was the one who had helped Daemon find Aemond. Yet his heart was torn. She had also helped avenge Lucerys, and if Daemon discovered what he was planning, the man would surely turn against him.
Larys smiled still. "I offer no counsel. But whether this can be done — that rests entirely in your hands, Your Grace."
Jacaerys asked Larys what else he required. Larys wanted little: a comfortable chamber, and one loyal servant. Jacaerys granted both. He allowed Larys to receive visitors in that room, and the servant might come and go freely, but Larys himself was not to set foot outside. To this, Larys agreed cheerfully. As the lame man turned to leave, Jacaerys said abruptly, "I should call you uncle, I suppose."
Larys answered, "You honor me too much. I do not recall my own long‑dead brother having any Targaryen blood, nor did he ever wed a princess to become her prince consort."
Three days later, the White Worm's house went up in roaring flames. From the ruins they dragged a charred corpse, her face frozen in terror, her limbs twisted. The soft, pale skin she had been so proud of was blackened and hard from the fire. Men took it for Mysaria. The people of King's Landing had never loved their low‑born mistress of whisperers. Someone spat on her face.
Surprisingly, Daemon seemed to show little reaction to Mysaria's death. His life went on as before—attending to matters of state by day, drinking and merrymaking by night. If there was any change at all, it was that he had become somewhat more hurried than before. In the past he had handed much of his own work to his trusted former lover; now he had to see to it all himself.
Meanwhile, word of Lord Corlys's death finally reached King's Landing after several days. That old man, who had weathered so many storms, had given his all for the blacks. Jacaerys flew to Driftmark in person to attend the funeral. When Vermax's vast wings cast their shadow over the island like a dark cloud, all men bowed to the king. Joffrey and Adam had already arrived. Rhaena wept bitterly in Joffrey's arms, scarcely able to stand. Jacaerys's gaze paused for a moment on the delicate tension between his brother and his stepsister, then moved on.
Baela came to greet him. Since Corlys's death she had been busy—seeing to her grandsire's final rites, fending off the false inquiries of kin. Her eyes were red; plainly she had wept more than once. Yet she stood straight as a beacon, her bearing as steadfast as a tower at sea. Jacaerys embraced her, holding a little longer than usual, for they had lost another whom they both had loved. He had come not only for the funeral, but to witness his stepsister's inheritance in person, for he had promised Corlys that the crown would guarantee Baela's claim. Only thus would it be secure.
Daemon was the last to arrive. Only after he came did the funeral formally begin. The septon said his prayers; one by one, the mourners stepped forward to speak. It was not the first Velaryon funeral Jacaerys had attended. Once he had been afraid that if he himself were given to the waves, he might be turned away for lacking Velaryon blood. Now that childish fear seemed absurd. At that earlier funeral, all the Targaryens had gathered. His brother had taken Aemond's eye with his own knife. Viserys had tried with all his might to mend the breach between them, yet in the end it was all for naught. If the old king looked down from the heavens and saw that less than half of those who had stood there then were here now, would he sigh?
The eulogies ended. One by one the mourners bade farewell to the departed. The casket was closed and lowered into the deep. Corlys Velaryon was no longer a man of this world. Now came the reading of the will. The faint sorrow that had hung in the air vanished at once, and a tense unease seeped into every corner. The old lord's last wishes would decide the future of his house. In his will he named Baela his heir, and commanded that the inheritance ceremony take place immediately after his funeral. He also declared that his adopted son, Adam Velaryon, should become the husband of Baela Targaryen; they would wed, and Adam would counsel his wife in the governance of House Velaryon. As for Rhaena and Joffrey, they were granted certain properties and a generous yearly stipend from the Velaryon coffers. Nothing more. Joffrey was stunned. When Baela and Adam walked hand in hand before the assembly, he felt both rage and shame. He had long thought himself the heir to Driftmark; now all that was a mockery. He looked about him. Jacaerys sat smiling and applauding with calm ease. Plainly he had known all along.
After the ceremony, Joffrey pursued his brother. He raged at Jacaerys, claiming his rights had been stolen from him unlawfully.
Jacaerys said, "No one ever promised you that Lucerys's place would fall to you. By rights of age, Baela is older than you. She should inherit. You must accept your station."
Joffrey cried, "Is this because I refused to obey you about the marriage? Is this how you treat me? You let that man who came from nowhere—Adam—climb over me! You have made me a laughingstock!"
Jacaerys stopped. "This has nothing to do with your marriage. I cannot twist our grandsire's will. He made this choice long ago."
Joffrey felt the humiliation keenly. "Then what am I?" he demanded.
Jacaerys answered, "You are the king's brother. Is that not enough for you?"
Joffrey stormed off.
As he left, Daemon happened to be approaching. One look at Joffrey's dark face, and he saw the boy walk off alone to brood on the terrace—a scene Daemon knew only too well.
When Jacaerys saw Daemon coming, he turned to go, but Daemon blocked his path. Seizing on the occasion, he drew a comparison with Corlys, who had set his affairs in order before his death, and urged Jacaerys to name an heir. He enumerated the benefits—it would soothe the strife between the brothers, it would add a measure of security to the throne. Jacaerys listened with a cold face, giving no answer.
Daemon had raised the matter many times before. Jacaerys thought Joffrey unfit for such a burden: the boy had ambition but lacked sense. To grant him the title Prince of Dragonstone would only invite disaster. Yet Jacaerys's delay in naming an heir had given some men false hope. He suspected Daemon now had another scheme in mind: if both he and Joffrey died unexpectedly, the crown would pass without dispute to Aegon the Younger—Rhaenyra's fourth son, but Daemon's firstborn. Jacaerys was not a jealous elder brother, but he would not abide being plotted against.
At last he could bear it no longer. He cut Daemon off. "I have already decided who my heir shall be. On a fitting day, I shall announce it myself."
Daemon smiled. "That would be best, indeed."