Pre-Chapter A/N: Here we go with another chapter, coming in right on time. Next three chapters on my patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)— same username as here and link in bio.
XXXX- GRAND MAESTER RUNCITER (EARLY 121 AC)
It felt more and more with each day that passed that the Council only met with truly serious business when Laenor Targaryen was involved. First had been the meeting when Lord Darklyn had received reports of his involvement in the war in Dorne, where the Council had worked itself into a frenzy preparing to mete out some sort of punishment, only for His Grace to walk into the meeting and state that he had been warned of his intention to involve himself in the war and that he had approved it. Of course, it was the King. There was no questioning the Lord Protector of the realm.
This time, the meeting was convened because of the letter a messenger from Driftmark had come with, addressed to the King. It had gone straight to His Grace, and now the meeting was convened for it to be discussed.
"Laenor has succeeded in Dorne. Yorren Yronwood has been installed as Prince of Dorne, and has agreed to stop all raids across the Boneway and the Prince's Pass. Starfall has sworn to House Velaryon directly and now will be integrated as part of Westeros through the Velaryon holdings in the Stepstones," the King said. The first bit of that statement had been expected, but the second half? That...that was problematic. Very problematic. Looking around the room made it clear that he was not the only one to think so. Eyes were wide, and it seemed that gazes were passing from person to person as they all wondered who would point it out.
The King's affection for the Velaryon lord was well known. Even the Hand knew better than to disparage him these days, but surely this was a step too far. Surely someone would speak and stop this danger to the realm before it was allowed to materialise.
"Your Grace, I fear that I must speak on this matter. We...we have concerns, Your Grace." Lyonel Strong chose to be the one to bell the cat in this case. Or would feeding the dragon be the more appropriate metaphor?
"Speak them, my friend. Speak them and let me put them to rest," he said.
"The Stepstones, Your Grace. They are nominally sworn to the Iron Throne, yes. But they have freedoms that are more consistent with those of a kingdom in their own right. The Velaryon Navy grows without so much as a by-your-leave from the Crown. And then there are the whispers of these so-called Legions. A powerful navy could be understood and perhaps even excused as necessary for the existence and maintenance of territory in that part of the world, but a land army as well armed, trained, and prepared as those Legions has only one purpose. All these are enough to concern most of the realm, Your Grace. But I, as well as some others, have been able to excuse both. However, holding territory in Dorne sworn only to him. It feels like the beginning of a pattern, Your Grace," he said. Starting with the groundwork for the concerns and then escalating to the present situation could either be a good touch or a poisonous one. On one hand, it could help the King see all the signs of the incoming disaster they were racing towards at full gallop. On the other hand, by starting with older concerns, it ran the risk of seeing the King write off the present situation as nothing more than a restatement of concerns he had already addressed, as far as he was concerned.
"A pattern of what, my friend? What do you want to say? Speak it plainly and speak it true. I have never fought the truth," His Grace said, and Runciter tried his hardest not to show just how amusing he found that statement.
"We fear that Lord Velaryon might grow too powerful, has already grown too powerful, even. And history teaches us that there are some things lords tend to do when they grow too powerful. Laenor Velaryon was a child when he stood before the realm and argued for the throne. We can hope that he has forgotten the ambition, but no man forgets the desire for a crown. We fear that he might look upon the Iron Throne once more and seek to make it his," he said.
"Laenor has no wish to be King," the King said.
"Every man wants to be King." The Hand was the one that spoke now.
"Every man?" His Grace asked, looking around the room.
"Nothing more than a fleeting fancy in our case. We have neither the blood nor the wealth nor the might. And perhaps most importantly, we are sworn to you and your heirs till death. Laenor Velaryon might have our oaths...or some version of them...but he has to contend with the temptation of wealth, blood, and might," the Lord Hand spoke, and the King even looked to be considering it for a moment.
"I trust Laenor. He is my cousin. His children are betrothed to my own. Even if he were to find such ambition, the bonds of family would restrain him," Viserys said.
"Not for a throne, Your Grace. Never for a throne. But there is something that can be done," Otto said, and it felt like the wind within the room had shifted. The change was almost imperceptible, but once you noticed it, there was no way to not notice it.
"I will not censure him for an act that I approved. There is nothing kingly in that," he said.
"Not that, Your Grace. I believe the Lord Hand was speaking of the obvious. Your son Aegon squires under him and is betrothed to his daughter. It seems that the only way to avoid him seeking the throne is to give it to him. Or to his grandchild, rather. Name Aegon heir as custom demands, Your Grace, and the matter will be settled." Darklyn was the one who spoke.
The King was silent for a while. His breathing, heavy and somewhat laboured from his many illnesses, was the only sound that could be heard through the room. Even Lord Strong, who used to speak up for the Princess, did not speak on this occasion. It was truly the right answer. The problem of Laenor Velaryon had plagued the Council for too long. Giving him a queen dealt with it in one fell swoop, and at the same time, it achieved one of the Hand's greatest goals.
"You speak wisely, Lord Darklyn. But you are wrong. Rhaenyra is my heir, and that will not change. But she has a son already, yes? Her son will marry either Aegon's daughter with Laenor's daughter when the time comes, and Laenor will have a great-grandchild on the throne, or Laenor's own daughter if he is to have another," he said, and that was when Runciter realised there would be no saving this kingdom. A kingdom could deal with impatient kings, brash and stupid ones, even. But a king too scared to act when the perfect solution was placed before him? That was no king. And if that was no king, then he had to begin making his preparations. It would be war in the end, after all.
Runciter watched the faces of all the men around the table as they all seemed to realise the same thing he had. No one was pleased, but they were all accepting.
"A brilliant plan, Your Grace. Only you could have thought of it," Lord Darklyn said, and there was an undercurrent in his tone that made it somewhat obvious for those who knew what to listen for just what those words truly were. The Hand gave him a sharp look at that. Within the look, a warning.
"It is settled," His Grace said, and then he rose. But it was not settled. It was, in fact, far from settled. Before he left, though, he spoke once more.
"Your words have convinced me. Have a messenger sent to Rhaenyra. She must understand that this is no negotiation. For the fate of the realm she is to one day rule, the match must be made," he said.
"Shall we send a message to Lord Velaryon?" Lord Strong asked.
"No. The match is many decades away still. It relies on his child growing the years remaining until her majority, and then for her and Aegon to marry and then have a daughter of her own," the Hand responded.
"Otto is right. The match is decided within the Council, and Rhaenyra will be informed so she knows not to explore any matches for young Baelon. That is all that is necessary," His Grace said. Runciter could have pointed out that it made much more logical sense to break the match between the daughter and Aegon or even Aemond now and betroth her to Baelon. But then, logic was not the goal here. It was silence. No one could have thought this plan solved anything. But His Grace suggested it, and so it was accepted. The will of the King superseded all things, after all. If only the King himself knew that. Or at least acted like it.
Even in his thoughts, Runciter did not enjoy criticising His Grace, but it was reaching the point now where he struggled to make any sense of it. Rhaenyra should have been brought to heel. If she refused to wed her child to the child of the Crown's most powerful vassal, who had dragons in his House and a kingdom of islands to his name, then she should have been set aside. He had no strong personal feelings on the Aegon or Rhaenyra question, but one of them was allowing her own grudges to actively harm the Crown she sought to one day inherit. It was stupid in the superlative. The King should have laid down the law, but he bent in the end. Would that be what he was known for after he passed? The King Who Bent?
Runciter hoped not, but Runciter struggled to see how it would be avoided. The realm was at the precipice, and three people alone had taken it there. Rhaenyra and her immaturity, Laenor and his ambition, and then Viserys and his weakness. And Runciter could only say it in the comfort of his own mind, but it was Viserys he blamed the most. This man had campaigned for the throne. He had contested and then won it. And when the time came to make the hard decisions that the throne necessitated, he shied away. The realm would have been wiser to have put the child Laenor on the throne. Was it treason that Runciter believed he would have done a much better job?
The room emptied out after the King, and then it was only Runciter and the Hand.
"You know what just happened," Lord Otto said. Runciter nodded.
"I mean for the Conclave to begin working. The scales will tip Aegon's way when the time comes. See to it that the Citadel plays its part," he said, and then he dismissed him. Runciter bowed and left.
XXXXXX- DOMYRR VEYRO
The bowels of the Iron Bank were a place that saw more business than the rest of Braavos as a whole, by his reckoning. Not in terms of volume, but in value. This was where massive contracts were negotiated and inked between the men who meant something in this city. One could not hope to attain true wealth in Braavos without first becoming a Keyholder. And then at the same time, one could not become a Keyholder without true wealth on one's side.
"The Sealord wishes to put this matter to the wise Keyholders of the Iron Bank to decide," he said, and then he directed a clerk to read out the letter. He had read it a dozen times himself and so did not listen too closely. His attention, instead, was on the Keyholders, the most powerful men in the city. The Sealord had made his decision already, of course. But one did not stay Sealord for long without giving, or at least seeming to give, these Keyholders what they felt was their due—a say in how the city was governed. A say in what Braavos did.
There were five men of note that Domyrr made certain to watch above all. Their reactions would be the most telling. First of the lot was Tevario Antaryon, from a family as old as Braavos itself. He was a figure carved from stone as he listened. Cassaro Nestoris and Orlio Dimittis, men whose legacy stretched to the founding of the Iron Bank and whose ancestors had shaped it, were less careful. Both straightened up, leaning forward with what could only be described as excitement on their features. Like sharks, they smelled blood in the water. Marello Otherys, with his merchant roots and status as the richest self-made (for all that a Braavosi could claim to be self-made) man in the city, had his eyes studying the room just as surely as Domyrr was. He would go wherever the wind was seeming to tack. Renzio Terys' displeasure was plain to see. His family owned so many ships that he was second only to the Braavosi military fleet in terms of volume. He was one of those who considered the business with Laenor Velaryon to be stupidity. And he could see where this letter would take Braavos just as surely as the Sealord had. To war.
The letter itself was nothing that had not been expected. The Dornish and their proclivities were well known to the Braavosi. They had dealt with them for centuries, after all. So after Laenor Velaryon had unified the region under one man, it was only a matter of time before that one man came to the Braavosi seeking to slip his leash. An alliance where the Braavosi would support Dorne with food and ships, and where Dorne would give them preferential access to not just their markets, but to glass. The letter did not say it plainly, but the Dornish hinted that they knew how to make Velaryon glass. Knowledge that they would share if the alliance was agreed to.
Nestoris was the first to speak when the letter was fully read. "We must act immediately. A messenger should be sent to Dorne. We can move quickly and form this alliance," he said.
"Turning a new ally against the Dragonlord mere nights after he formed it would be a coup. And we would barely have to do much for it."
"Is that not precisely the problem? I know enough to know that when an opportunity seems too good to be true, it is because it is. Even if they deliver the secrets to glass, which it is not certain that they will be able to, I struggle to see how further escalation against Velaryon serves our purposes. We are already in a war too expensive for us to maintain, and a decision to expand the fronts that war is fought across will bring even more costs down on our heads," Terys spoke, and when he spoke, the room listened. His ships were the ones that competed with Velaryon's across Essos. For a time, common sense seemed inclined to win out.
"The Bank can afford it. We can afford it. What we do now, we do for the future. Velaryon has hatched one dragon each for all four of his children. There are seven dragons in the Stepstones. We all know it is a matter of time before the Triarchy falls to him. Shall we see Valyria resurgent in our lifetimes? The gods forbid it. We must do our duty. As Braavosi, no matter what the cost is," Nestoris spoke now.
"Will you vow your own gold in the effort?" Terys pressed.
"The Bank has a duty. Bank gold must be used. If the Stepstones are allowed to become the empire we fear they might rise to, then the Velaryon bank goes from a novelty to a true threat. The Bank has a mandate to prevent that at any cost," Dimittis spoke now. The two of them together presented the best argument for banning hereditary Keyholders. They never thought about the big picture. Only how to maintain the status quo and the Bank they had been raised to value above all else. But Braavos was more than the Iron Bank. And the Keyholders were more than just shareholders in the Bank. They were the greatest men in Braavos brought together to act to guarantee Braavos' future. At least, that was what they were supposed to be. Instead, they were for the most part selfish men who could only be stirred to act when it brought more gold to their vaults or when it gave them something to feel proud about.
"Fears. Is that what we have become? Men who spend gold at fears and shadows and what-ifs? We are Braavosi. If Laenor Velaryon seeks the rebirth of Valyria, then we will stop him when the time comes. Acting now is wasteful. Worst of all, this Yronwood offers us little and less. Shipping access to Dorne to do what? Sell food to paupers and peasants? Or what? The makings of an idea of how to make Velaryon glass. Right when Velaryon is selling so much of it that even his prices are dropping? The only value is in robbing Velaryon of an ally. An ally that is not a very good one if they are seeking to leave already." he took a breath and looked around the chamber, getting several nods before continuing.
"No, there is no need to support Dorne, because Dorne will loose the chains around their neck whether we help them or not. There is naught to gain and much to lose. And if Laenor Velaryon manages to keep Dorne as an ally, what does it matter? Our ancestors sat in these halls and considered the worth of Dorne when she was a thousand times stronger, and even they found it wanting. Shall we now tie ourselves to a ship that is sinking already? We are men of business. Men of reason. Not fools who quiver at shadows and moan at what-ifs. We are Braavosi. It is no question. If Dorne chooses to stand, they will stand alone. If they choose to bow, Laenor Velaryon will spend his gold feeding malcontents," Antaryon spoke, and the debate ended there. Right where the Sealord wanted it to. Dorne would receive platitudes but no real help. Not from Braavos, at least.
A/N: One more fallout chapter for the logs.
Next chapter comes on here by Sunday night. Next three chapters up on patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga) (same username as here and link in bio), you can support me there and read them early. Also, the new story I mentioned last week is up now. It's called Can You See the Vision and is an SI into Vision from the MCU. It's up wherever you can see this now and we did one chapter a day last week so we're already on chapter nine. You can go read that by clicking on my profile and looking at my other stuff.