**The Red Keep - Small Council Chamber - 98 AC (Three Months After The Revelation)**
The Small Council met in a room that had witnessed five decades of decisions—some brilliant, some catastrophic, most somewhere in between. Lord Ryam Redwyne sat at Jaehaerys's right hand, looking more tired than usual. The position of Hand of the King was demanding. The position of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was demanding. Holding both simultaneously for the past two years had aged the man visibly.
"Your Grace," Ryam said, setting down yet another report about grain stores and tax collection, "I need to speak with you. Privately."
Jaehaerys dismissed the other council members with a wave. When the door closed behind the last maester, he turned to his Hand with concern. "What troubles you?"
"Everything," Ryam admitted. "Your Grace, I'm failing. Not catastrophically—the realm functions, laws are enforced, trade continues—but I'm failing to give either position the attention it deserves. The Kingsguard needs a commander who can train them, inspect them, maintain their standards. The realm needs a Hand who can dedicate full days to governance without distraction."
"You've been doing both admirably—"
"I've been doing both *adequately*," Ryam interrupted with the bluntness that came from decades of service. "Which isn't good enough. Not for you. Not for the realm." He straightened. "I'm asking—formally asking—to be relieved of one position. Keep me as Lord Commander. Find a new Hand. Someone younger, more energetic, who can give the role proper attention."
Jaehaerys had expected this conversation eventually. Ryam was in his late fifties, had served faithfully since before Jaehaerys's own coronation, and was showing signs of the wear that came with too much responsibility and too little sleep.
"Who would you recommend?" Jaehaerys asked.
"That's your decision, Your Grace. But—" Ryam hesitated. "Princess Rhaenys."
Jaehaerys blinked. "My granddaughter?"
"She's brilliant, experienced in court politics, commands respect from the nobility, and has something to prove after being passed over for the succession." Ryam leaned forward. "Moreover, she's *here*. She understands King's Landing, knows the major players, has connections to both old nobility and the new merchant class through her husband's trading empire. And—" He paused. "—appointing her sends a message. That women of House Targaryen are valuable for more than marriages and heirs."
"That's a radical suggestion," Jaehaerys observed.
"These are radical times. Your great-grandchildren are radical children." Ryam's lips twitched. "I'm old, but I'm not blind. Those three are *different*. The whole court knows it. If they're going to reshape anything, they need examples. Women in power who aren't just queens by marriage but leaders in their own right."
Jaehaerys sat back, considering. The idea was audacious. No woman had ever been Hand of the King. But then, no woman had been seriously considered for the Iron Throne until Rhaenys either, and that debate had at least happened.
"I'll consider it," he said finally. "Thank you, Ryam. For everything. For your service, your honesty, and your willingness to admit limitations. That takes strength."
"I'm too tired for pride, Your Grace. I just want to do right by you before I get too old to do anything at all."
After Ryam left, Jaehaerys sat alone in the council chamber, thinking.
*Rhaenys as Hand.*
The more he considered it, the more sense it made—not just politically, but practically. She was sharp, experienced, and would take the role seriously. More importantly, appointing her would send exactly the message those three strange children had suggested: that Targaryen women could lead.
But there were complications. Rhaenys lived at Driftmark with her family. Accepting the position would mean relocating to King's Landing, at least part-time. That meant Corlys would need to manage his trading empire remotely, or travel frequently, or—
Or Perseon would come to King's Landing with his mother.
Jaehaerys felt something click into place.
The boy was remarkable. Everyone saw it. Two years old and designing ships, predicting tides, demonstrating understanding of naval architecture that made master shipwrights nervous. Having him in King's Landing, growing up alongside his cousins, learning statecraft from his mother—
That wasn't a complication. That was an *opportunity*.
Jaehaerys made his decision.
---
**High Tide, Driftmark - One Week Later**
Princess Rhaenys Targaryen read the letter three times, certain she was hallucinating.
"He wants you to be *what*?" Corlys asked, looking over her shoulder.
"Hand of the King." Rhaenys's voice was faint. "Grandfather wants me to be Hand of the King."
"That's..." Corlys stopped. Started again. "That's unprecedented."
"That's insane," Rhaenys corrected. "Women don't—that position has always been—"
"Held by men," Corlys finished. "Which means you'll be the first woman to hold it. Congratulations. You're making history."
Rhaenys set down the letter and stared at her husband. "You're not surprised."
"I'm very surprised. I'm also not surprised, if that makes sense." He moved to pour wine, handing her a cup. "You're brilliant. Everyone knows it. You should have been queen. Since that didn't happen, this seems like appropriate compensation."
"Compensation for being passed over for the throne is being given the most demanding administrative position in the realm?"
"Compensation for being brilliant is being given a position that actually uses that brilliance," Corlys corrected. "You've been wasted at Driftmark, beloved. Managing household accounts and entertaining visiting lords—you could do that in your sleep. This is *real* work. Real power."
Rhaenys took a long drink of wine. "It would mean moving to King's Landing."
"Yes."
"You'd have to manage your fleet and trading operations remotely."
"I've been doing that half the time anyway. I travel constantly. This just changes which port I sail from."
"The children—"
"Will come with us," Corlys said firmly. "Laenor and Laena are five. They need proper education, court exposure, training in politics and diplomacy. King's Landing offers that better than Driftmark. And Perseon—" He paused. "Perseon *needs* to be in King's Landing. With the twins. You know that."
Rhaenys did know that. She'd spent two years watching her youngest son gravitate toward his cousins like a compass finding north. The three of them had some kind of connection—the dragons proved it, the way all three hatchlings had synchronized, the way they grew at identical rates despite being from different clutches.
*If they even are from different clutches,* she thought, not for the first time. *Those eggs were too similar. Too coordinated. Something happened there that the maesters still don't understand.*
"What about High Tide?" she asked. "This castle, our seat—"
"Remains ours. We keep a skeleton staff here, visit regularly, maintain our presence." Corlys sat beside her. "We're not abandoning Driftmark. We're expanding our influence. If you're Hand of the King, that makes House Velaryon the second most powerful house in Westeros. That's good for us. Good for our children. Good for our legacy."
"You've already decided this is a good idea," Rhaenys observed.
"I decided the moment I read the letter. But I wanted you to reach the same conclusion on your own." He took her hand. "This is what you were meant to do, beloved. Lead. Govern. Show the entire realm what the lords were too stupid to see—that you would have been an excellent queen."
Rhaenys felt something warm and painful lodge in her chest. She'd spent eighteen years being told she wasn't good enough, wasn't right, wasn't *male* enough to rule. And now her grandfather—the king who'd allowed the Great Council to pass her over—was offering her a position that no woman had ever held.
It felt like apology. Like recognition. Like a chance to prove what she'd always known: that she was capable of so much more than decorative royalty.
"I accept," she said quietly.
"Good." Corlys kissed her forehead. "Now we just have to tell the children they're moving to King's Landing."
"Laenor will be thrilled. Laena will complain for exactly three days before deciding it's the best decision we ever made." Rhaenys paused. "Perseon already knows."
"How could he possibly—"
"Because he's *Perseon*," Rhaenys said. "He knows things he shouldn't know. Predicts things he shouldn't predict. I stopped questioning it months ago."
As if summoned by mention of his name, their youngest son appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in salt-stained clothes that suggested he'd been at the docks again, his silver-white hair messy from wind, those impossible green eyes bright with intelligence no two-year-old should possess.
"Mother," Perseon said with perfect diction. "Are we moving to King's Landing?"
"How did you—" Rhaenys stopped herself. "Yes. Your grandfather has asked me to serve as Hand of the King. We'll be relocating to the capital."
"Good," Perseon said, and his smile was both childlike and ancient. "I miss Annabeth and Calypso."
Rhaenys and Corlys exchanged glances. Their son occasionally said things like that—mentioned names that didn't exist, referenced people they'd never heard of, spoke as if he'd lived other lives. They'd learned to nod and change the subject.
"You mean your cousins?" Rhaenys suggested gently. "Rhaenyra and Annara?"
"Right. Yes. Them." Perseon's smile didn't falter. "When do we leave?"
"Two weeks. We need to organize the household, make arrangements—"
"I'll tell Typhōnas," Perseon said, and disappeared before either parent could respond.
"Our son is very strange," Corlys observed.
"Our son is perfect," Rhaenys corrected. "Just... unusual."
"That's diplomatic."
"I'm going to be Hand of the King. Diplomatic is my new full-time job."
---
**The Red Keep - Queen's Chambers - That Same Week**
Queen Alysanne was dying.
She knew it. Jaehaerys knew it. The maesters knew it but pretended they didn't, offering increasingly elaborate treatments that did absolutely nothing except make her uncomfortable.
She was seventy-four years old. She'd given birth to fourteen children, lost more than half of them, ruled a kingdom beside her husband for five decades, and survived more tragedy than most people could imagine.
Her body had simply decided it was done.
"I'm not afraid," she told Jaehaerys one evening as he held her hand by the fire.
"I know," he said softly.
"I'm frustrated. There's so much left to do. Those children—they need guidance. They need—"
"They need you to rest," Jaehaerys interrupted gently. "You've done everything you can. Rhaenys will be Hand. The twins are being educated personally. Perseon will be here soon. The seeds are planted, beloved. They'll grow without you."
"I wanted to see them grow," Alysanne admitted. "Rhaenyra especially. She's so fierce. So determined. I wanted to see her become the queen she's meant to be."
"You will," Jaehaerys said. "Just from a different vantage point."
Alysanne smiled weakly. "You believe in the Seven's heaven now?"
"I believe in you," he said simply. "If there's an afterlife, you'll find a way to meddle from there too."
That made her laugh, which turned into coughing. Jaehaerys held her through it, patient as stone.
When she could breathe again, Alysanne said: "The children told me something. About their dragons."
"What about them?"
"The dragons know what they are. What the children are." She looked at him with those faded purple eyes. "Typhōnas, Syrax, Brightfire—they're not normal dragons. They're bonded to souls that carry divine power. That makes the dragons different too. Stronger, smarter, more... *aware*."
"Aware of what?"
"Of their purpose. The children will need their dragons for what's coming. Not just as transportation or weapons, but as partners. Equals." She squeezed his hand. "When I'm gone, watch the dragons. They'll show you things about the children that the children themselves might not reveal."
"You're asking me to spy on my great-grandchildren via their dragons," Jaehaerys said dryly.
"I'm asking you to pay attention. There's a difference."
Over the next two weeks, Alysanne's condition worsened. She slept more, ate less, spoke only when necessary. But during her waking hours, she insisted on seeing the twins.
Rhaenyra and Annara would sit by her bed, small and solemn, holding her hands while she told them stories—some from history, some from her own life, some that might have been advice disguised as anecdotes.
"Remember," she told them on what would turn out to be their final conversation, "that power is neither good nor evil. It's a tool. What matters is how you use it, and why."
"We'll remember," Rhaenyra promised.
"And be kind," Alysanne continued. "Not weak—never weak. But kind. The smallfolk will remember kindness long after they forget laws and treaties."
"We will," Annara said.
"And protect each other." Alysanne's voice was barely a whisper now. "You two, and Perseon. Whatever happens, whatever pressures pull you apart—stay together. You're stronger together than any of you could be alone."
"We know," they said in unison.
Alysanne smiled. "Good. Then I can rest."
She died two days later, in her sleep, exactly as the children had predicted. Silverwing, her dragon, keened from the Dragonpit—a sound of grief that echoed across King's Landing for hours.
The funeral was magnificent. All of King's Landing turned out—nobles in formal blacks, smallfolk weeping in the streets, dragons circling overhead in some instinctive gesture of respect. Jaehaerys delivered a eulogy that was eloquent and brief, because anything longer would have broken him.
But the twins noticed something odd during the funeral procession. Every time they passed a group of smallfolk, the people didn't just mourn—they *prayed*. Not to the Seven. To Alysanne herself.
"Good Queen Alysanne, watch over us," an old woman whispered.
"She flies with angels now," a man told his child.
"She was too good for this world," another voice said. "The gods wanted her home."
*She's becoming a folk saint,* Annabeth realized with a start. *They're canonizing her in real-time.*
*Good,* Calypso's thoughts carried satisfaction. *Saints have power. Even dead ones. Especially dead ones.*
After the funeral, after the guests departed, after the formal mourning period began, Jaehaerys called the three children to his private solar.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to cushions. He looked older than he had a month ago—grief aged him in ways that years couldn't.
They sat. Waited.
"My wife," Jaehaerys said slowly, "spent her final months working toward your goals. Establishing precedent. Planting seeds. Making connections that would bear fruit after her death." He looked at each of them. "Now she's gone. And I'm here. And I need to know—*specifically*—what comes next."
"Rhaenys becomes Hand," Perseon said immediately. "That's the first critical step. A woman in a position of real power, proving competence, setting precedent. When Viserys eventually has daughters who he might want to name heir, there's already an example of women governing successfully."
"Agreed. That's already arranged. What else?"
"Education," Annara said. "We three need to be educated—properly educated—in governance, law, history, warfare, diplomacy. Not just normal royal education. We need to be *exceptional*. Undeniably competent. So that when we're older and start making suggestions, people listen."
"I can arrange that," Jaehaerys said. "Private tutors. The best maesters. Access to the royal library."
"We also need combat training," Rhaenyra added. "All three of us. We can't just be politicians. The Dance is a *war*. We need to understand warfare, strategy, personal combat. Our dragons will fight. We need to be able to guide them effectively."
"You're two years old," Jaehaerys said. "You can barely hold a wooden sword."
"Now, yes. But in five years? Ten?" Rhaenyra's purple eyes were intense. "We grow. We train. By the time we're teenagers—our bodies' teenagers, not our souls' teenagers—we'll be ready."
Jaehaerys nodded slowly. "I'll arrange for weapons training. Discreetly. The court doesn't need to know I'm teaching princesses to fight."
"One more thing," Perseon said. "Otto Hightower. Queen Alysanne was investigating him. What did she find?"
Jaehaerys's expression darkened. "Nothing illegal. Nothing we could act on officially. But—" He pulled out a letter and handed it to Perseon. "She compiled this before she died. Her observations. Her concerns."
Perseon unfolded the letter and read aloud, his child's voice lending strange gravity to Alysanne's elegant script:
*"Otto Hightower is not evil. He is ambitious, which is different but equally dangerous. He believes—genuinely believes—that his House deserves greater power, that his bloodline should be elevated, that marrying his daughter to a king would benefit the realm. He's not wrong about his administrative competence. He would make an excellent Hand in terms of pure governance.*
*But he's also ruthless. He's been building networks for years—owing favors, making connections, positioning allies in key locations. When the time comes to push Alicent at Viserys, Otto will have already constructed the political machinery necessary to ensure that marriage happens and is accepted.*
*He must be watched. Not as an enemy—he's too useful to make an enemy unnecessarily—but as a potential threat. Keep him close when possible, distant when necessary. Never fully trust him. Never underestimate his ambition."*
"She was thorough," Annara said quietly.
"She always was." Jaehaerys took the letter back. "So what do we do about Otto?"
"Nothing," Perseon said immediately. "Not yet. Right now, he's in Oldtown, serving as a loyal servant of House Hightower. He's not our enemy yet. Might never be, if we play this right."
"Explain."
"Otto becomes dangerous when he sees an opportunity—specifically, the opportunity to marry Alicent to Viserys after Aemma's death." Annara leaned forward. "But that opportunity only exists if Viserys is vulnerable, isolated, desperate for comfort. If we prevent those conditions—if Viserys is surrounded by family, if his daughters are present and emotionally supportive, if he's not *alone*—then Otto's window closes."
"You're talking about Aemma's death," Jaehaerys said. "Which happens—"
"In approximately five years," Rhaenyra said. "105 AC. During a difficult labor. Viserys forces the maesters to cut her open. She dies. The baby dies. Viserys is devastated and vulnerable. Six months later, Otto—who will be Hand by then—introduces Alicent as a 'comfort.'"
"Can we prevent Aemma's death?" Jaehaerys asked.
The three children exchanged glances.
"Maybe," Perseon said carefully. "If we can figure out *why* the labor was difficult. Was it the baby's position? Aemma's health? Age? Repeated miscarriages weakening her body? If we knew the specific medical cause—"
"We could intervene," Annara finished. "But we don't know. The histories just say 'difficult labor.' That could mean anything."
"Then we have five years to figure it out," Jaehaerys said. "Five years to make sure Aemma survives. Five years to ensure Viserys doesn't need Otto's 'comfort.'"
"And if we can't save her?" Rhaenyra asked quietly.
"Then we make sure Viserys isn't alone when she dies," Jaehaerys said firmly. "We make sure his daughters are there. His family. His support network. We make sure he grieves surrounded by people who love him, not political opportunists offering daughters as consolation prizes."
"That could work," Annara said slowly. "If we can't prevent the tragedy, we at least control the aftermath."
They talked for another hour, planning steps, identifying critical moments, discussing contingencies. By the time the children left, Jaehaerys felt something he hadn't felt since Alysanne's death: hope.
This could work. With Rhaenys as Hand, with the children being educated and trained, with careful attention to the timeline—this could actually work.
They could prevent the Dance. Save the dragons. Preserve the realm.
Or they could make things catastrophically worse.
But at least they were trying.
---
**The Red Keep - Three Weeks Later**
The appointment of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen as Hand of the King caused exactly the uproar Jaehaerys expected.
Half the Small Council was horrified. A woman? In the second most powerful position in the realm? Unprecedented! Dangerous! Against tradition!
The other half was intrigued. Rhaenys was capable, they admitted. Sharp. And her appointment sent a clear message about Targaryen women's value. Plus, having the Sea Snake's wife as Hand strengthened ties to House Velaryon and their considerable trading wealth.
The realm's reaction was mixed. Oldtown sent a carefully worded letter expressing "concern about this departure from traditional governance." Dorne sent enthusiastic congratulations—they'd been ruled by women frequently and saw no issue. The North's response was essentially "weird choice but okay." The Reach and Westerlands grumbled but accepted it.
Rhaenys herself handled the transition with the confidence of someone who'd been preparing for power her entire life. She arrived in King's Landing with her entire household—Corlys, the three children, servants, guards, and enough luggage to supply a small army.
The children's reunion happened in the courtyard and was captured by approximately forty witnesses who would later swear they'd never seen anything quite like it.
Perseon, age two, leaped from the carriage before it fully stopped and *ran*—actually ran, with surprising coordination for a toddler—toward the twins who'd been waiting on the steps. Rhaenyra and Annara met him halfway, and the three collided in a tangle of limbs and silver-blonde hair.
They didn't speak. Just held onto each other like drowning people finding shore.
Then the dragons arrived.
Typhōnas, who'd been flying escort with Meleys, dove from the sky and landed in the courtyard with a spray of seawater (where the water came from, nobody could explain—they were nowhere near the harbor). Syrax and Brightfire, kept in the Dragonpit but sensing their clutch-mate's arrival, *broke containment*.
The Dragonpit's massive bronze doors weren't designed to be opened from the inside by two-year-old dragons. That didn't stop Brightfire from figuring out the locking mechanism—actual intelligent problem-solving, using her claws like tools—and releasing both herself and Syrax.
The two female dragons flew straight to the courtyard, ignoring the frantic shouts of dragon-keepers, and landed beside Typhōnas in perfect formation.
All three dragons immediately began chirping, trilling, and making sounds that dragon-keepers would later describe as "conversation" despite that being impossible because dragons didn't converse.
Except these three apparently did.
"Seven hells," muttered Lord Commander Ryam, watching from the battlements. "They're not just bonded. They're *synchronized*."
"Has that ever happened before?" asked a nearby maester.
"No. Never. Dragons are territorial, even clutch-mates. They don't—" Ryam stopped. "They shouldn't be doing that."
"That" was the three dragons arranging themselves in a circle around the three children, creating a protective barrier while the kids had their reunion. When a servant tried to approach—to welcome the new Hand's family—Typhōnas made a warning sound that sent the servant scrambling backward.
*They're guarding them,* Ryam realized. *The dragons are actively protecting their riders from interruption.*
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, the three children separated. Perseon's face was wet—he'd been crying, which was normal for a two-year-old but looked strange on someone who moved and spoke like a miniature adult. The twins were also tearful but smiling.
"Better?" Rhaenyra asked quietly.
"Better," Perseon confirmed. "Gods, I missed you two. Mental communication is good, but it's not the same as—"
"Being in the same place," Annara finished. "I know. We felt it too."
The dragons settled down, apparently satisfied that their humans were happy. Typhōnas positioned himself next to Perseon with the casual possessiveness of a large dog, which was comical given the dragon was already the size of a horse.
Corlys and Rhaenys had descended from the carriage, and Jaehaerys came down from the castle to greet them formally.
"Welcome," Jaehaerys said, clasping arms with Corlys. "Your chambers are prepared. Your office is ready. And your children seem to have already made themselves at home."
"My children are unique," Rhaenys said diplomatically, watching the three kids whisper among themselves. "I've stopped questioning their behavior and just appreciate that they're healthy."
"Wise policy," Jaehaerys agreed. He turned to address the gathered crowd. "Lords and ladies, I present Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, Hand of the King. She comes to this position with my full confidence and authority. Any who wish to contest her appointment may present their objections to me directly—*after* giving her a chance to prove herself."
That was a warning. Nobody objected.
The formal reception took place that evening—a dinner where Rhaenys was officially introduced to the Small Council and various lords who'd come to witness this unprecedented appointment. She handled it with grace, answering questions about her priorities, her vision, her plans for the realm.
But the three children—seated at a side table, theoretically being supervised but actually left alone—were having their own meeting.
"We have to be careful," Annara said quietly, cutting her food with the precision of someone who'd learned table manners in another life. "Now that we're all in the same place, people will notice if we're too coordinated. Too synchronized. We need to act like normal cousins, not reincarnated souls planning a revolution."
"Define 'normal cousins,'" Perseon said.
"Argue sometimes. Disagree. Have different interests. Don't always be together." Annara glanced around, making sure no one was listening. "We can still plan privately, still coordinate—but publicly, we need some distance."
"I hate that you're right," Rhaenyra said. "But you are. We're already strange enough. If we're always together, always agreeing, always speaking in unison—people will think we're unnatural."
"We *are* unnatural," Perseon pointed out.
"Yes, but they don't need to know that." Rhaenyra sipped her watered wine. "So we'll be cousins. Close cousins who like each other but aren't weird about it. We'll have separate tutors—"
"Wait, separate tutors?" Perseon looked alarmed. "But we need to be educated together—"
"We need to be educated *consistently*," Annara corrected. "Same subjects, same level, same expectations. But if we're always in the same lessons, people notice. Better to have our own tutors who coordinate behind the scenes."
"King Jaehaerys can arrange that," Rhaenyra said. "He's already planning our education. We just need to specify that we want individual attention but consistent curriculum."
They continued planning in whispers, three minds that had saved worlds before working to save this one. Around them, the dinner continued—nobles gossiping, servants pouring wine, musicians playing in the corner.
Nobody noticed the three children having conversations that would reshape the future.
Or if they did notice, they dismissed it as childhood play.
After all, they were just children. What could children possibly be planning that mattered?
Everything, as it turned out. But nobody would realize that for years yet.
---
**The Red Keep - Hand's Tower - One Month Later**
Rhaenys Targaryen looked at the mountain of correspondence on her desk and wondered if this was what divine punishment felt like.
She'd been Hand of the King for exactly thirty-one days. In that time, she'd dealt with: a trade dispute between Lannisport and Oldtown, a succession crisis in the Riverlands, reports of wildling activity beyond the Wall, complaints about taxes from approximately every region simultaneously, and a truly baffling incident involving a pig, a knight, and a blacksmith's daughter that somehow required royal intervention.
"Being Hand is terrible," she said to her husband, who'd dropped by with lunch.
"Being Hand is powerful," Corlys corrected, setting down a tray of food she'd probably forget to eat. "You're literally running the realm. That's not nothing."
"I'm drowning in paperwork about pig theft."
"That's what delegation is for. Train junior administrators to handle minor issues. Reserve your time for things that actually matter."
"Everything matters to someone," Rhaenys muttered, but she was already making notes about delegation. Corlys was right—she needed to build a competent bureaucracy that could filter problems before they reached her desk.
A knock interrupted them. "Enter," Rhaenys called.
Perseon slipped in, followed immediately by a dragon that barely fit through the door anymore. Typhōnas had grown alarmingly in the month since they'd arrived—already the size of a small boat, with those distinctive ray-like wings folded tight against his body.
"Mother," Perseon said with perfect formality. "Do you have a moment?"
"For you? Always. What do you need?"
Perseon closed the door carefully, then placed a rolled parchment on her desk. "A proposal. The twins and I have been working on it."
Rhaenys unrolled the parchment and blinked. The document was *comprehensive*—detailed enough that it could have been written by a maester, formatted in the formal style of official proposals, complete with citations and supporting evidence.
It was also written in a child's handwriting, because of course it was.
"Public Works Initiative for King's Landing," she read aloud. "A proposal for improving sanitation, water supply, and disease prevention in the capital. By..." She looked at the signatures. "By Perseon Velaryon, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and Annara Targaryen. You're two years old."
"Old enough to notice that King's Landing smells like death and sewage," Perseon said bluntly. "The city has a population of roughly half a million. The infrastructure was designed for maybe a hundred thousand. The waste management is nonexistent. The water supply is contaminated. Disease spreads through Flea Bottom like—well, like disease through a population with no understanding of hygiene."
"And you want to fix this," Rhaenys said slowly.
"We want to *propose* fixes that you—as Hand of the King—could implement if you find them reasonable."
Rhaenys read further. The proposal outlined: covered sewers to replace open trenches, public fountains connected to aqueducts bringing clean water from outside the city, requirements for waste disposal, and most ambitiously, a public health initiative teaching basic hygiene.
"This would cost a fortune," she observed.
"This would save thousands of lives," Perseon countered. "Disease kills more people in King's Landing than wars do. If we can reduce dysentery, cholera, and other waterborne illnesses by even twenty percent—that's thousands of people annually."
"How do you know that?" Corlys asked. "How could you possibly have those numbers?"
"Math," Perseon said, which was both true and completely inadequate as an explanation. "Population density, death rates from the maesters' records, comparison to—" He stopped himself. He'd almost said "comparison to ancient Rome's public health improvements," which would raise questions they weren't ready to answer. "—comparison to other cities with better sanitation."
Rhaenys set down the proposal. "I'll review this. Properly. But I'm not promising anything. The cost alone would require approval from the Small Council, the King, probably half the lords who don't want to see their taxes go toward 'coddling smallfolk.'"
"That's fine," Perseon said. "We don't need immediate action. We need you to plant the seed. Talk about it in council meetings. Let the idea percolate. When the next outbreak happens—and there *will* be another outbreak—you'll have a ready-made solution that people will suddenly be very interested in funding."
"That's cynical," Corlys observed.
"That's practical," Perseon corrected. "People don't act on prevention. They act on crisis. We just need to be ready when the crisis comes."
---
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