King's Landing
98 AC (Twelfth Moon—Day 04)
Corlys III
"…I believe congratulations are in order, my Lord of Velaryon, or should I address you by your rightful title and station?" The winter princess's voice was as soft as silk and as delicate as blossoms. Never an edge to her, this girl. Ever so gentle and worthy of envy.
She sat there, opposite him, clad noticeably in an eye catching gown of faded blue. A host of gems adorned her neck, with jewels cascading down to her veiled ample bosom. Her small yet plump lips were coloured a shining pink, her brows arched and thick, and her long silver hair was done up into braided twin tails.
She certainly looked every bit the princess that she was, and smelled it too.
Maelys was at her side, eased and quiet as he savored a slice of queer flatbread, with his twin sister acting as his carer.
It was in times like this that Corlys wondered if the girl possessed within her a single bone of anger or any ill sentiment. She never seemed stubborn, not even in her gentleness. Maegelle had wielded a soft stubbornness, and she had been as gentle as Gael was, at least to a measure…
Corlys kept his countenance impassive, withholding whatever ease the girl's air tried to draw from him. He mixed his tea, the steel spoon chiming softly when it clinked against the side of the glass tea cup.
"The lordly title shall still be preferable for now, Princess Gael," he told her, his lips twitching faintly in mirth at her startled expression. Had Maelys not explained matters well to her? "It is only after the king proclaims this decision to the court that the new title shall be honored."
"Oh, then I suppose I must not be over careless with such tidings, lest the surprise be spoiled," Gael said with a light laugh, an elegant fan veiling her lips. "Still, I congratulate you."
"You seem oddly joyful at this development, Gael. Not that I expected bitterness from you, yet the level of jubilation appears beyond the customary," Rhaenys observed after setting down her cup of tea.
The brew itself was a translucent red, tasting of strawberries with a whisper of vanilla. There were even sides of the berries, and the jam served with the toast was wrought from the same. The arrangement was most pleasing, a vivid red akin to a bed of roses, and the flavor was wondrous, though Corlys was inclined to ascribe every measure of ease to the recent tidings.
A principality, along with a Valyrian sword. Gone were the days when only his feats and riches granted him advantage over the ancient houses, the former petty kings and wardens and paramounts. Now his house stood second only to the royal line in esteem.
The Andals would henceforth need to grovel before him and scheme merely to harbor the faintest hope of seating their blood upon the throne.
Corlys felt his ambition stir ravenously. This was a turn without precedent. He had anticipated much, a seat upon the small council, a lasting abatement of levies, a hollow honor, even an apology. But this? What man dreamed so rashly?
Not he. Seven hells, even the mere right to the title would have been a mighty gift. To bear the honor of being hailed as Prince would yield unrivaled prestige.
Yet it was not solely that. He held nigh absolute sovereignty over his lands and lords. Low levies, very low. Right of marriage. A city charter. Right of legitimacy, albeit only for those under his house's rule. Royal favor. There was so much…
His fingers twitched ever so subtly.
…and most of all, that which yet stirred him to wonder if he dwelt within some most sinister dream: the Valyrian sword.
He had yet to bestow a name upon it.
"…it is only meet that I should be so, for none would wish to stand alone in this station of pseudo-royalty, as my beloved terms it," the soft princess declared, her voice gentle as she gazed upon her brother, whose hand clasped hers without a trace of shame or restraint.
Corlys remained ill pleased with Maelys, for the boy had kindled a quarrel that shouldn't have been between him and Rhaenys.
Laena as heir? What folly was that?
"Pseudo-royalty, is it?" His wife's tone was laced with bitterness, her countenance twisting but faintly. "An apt name, though it scarce applies to your own house, does it?"
"Unsatisfied with the lack of dragons?" Maelys inquired lightly, his calm eyes shifting to Rhaenys.
Corlys was not overly troubled by that exclusion of dragonriders. He deemed himself not even owed such a right, let alone slighted by its denial. His wife, however, had been incensed by the king's incredulity at the plea.
"…when has the privilege of dragonriding ever extended to House Velaryon?" When King Jaehaerys had uttered that, his eyes had fixed coldly upon Corlys, as if the request had sprung from his own lips.
"Laena and Laenor bear the blood of dragons in their veins, grandsire. This is their birthright."
"You misconstrue, Rhaenys. Dragons are the birthright of Targaryens, those of the main line. Your children are of House Velaryon. Viserra's boy is of House Sunglass. Not even Aemma herself claims that right, not even after wedding into our house." The old man had leveled a finger at Rhaenys. "Do not presume some special prerogative, child."
That had prompted his wife to storm from the chamber, leaving Corlys alone with the three Targaryens. Perchance he would have followed her, had he already affixed his seal of assent to the parchments, for who could say if the king might retract his offer had he departed in her wake. Perchance not.
All the same, his wife lingered in one of her bitter humors toward him, and that turn stirred questions in him concerning his choice of marriage.
"Your children shall have the choice of dragons," Rhaenys said to Maelys, whose visage betrayed not a flicker of his composure. "How just is it that you are granted this privilege while we are not?"
This was turning into a discussion he had no desire for.
"I shall not play the fool and feign as though you are blind to the reasoning behind this decree, Rhaenys," the winter prince replied smoothly, whilst Gael, with trusting grace, dabbed at the corners of his lips with a napkin. These two were absurd and enviable to behold. The prince continued, "Though I am curious as to your outrage."
Corlys misliked the notion of his wife being made a fool, thus he hastened to quell that discourse.
"We have not come to quarrel over trifles," he declared with ease, laying a hand upon Rhaenys's thigh to bespeak his desire for her composure. "We have weightier matters to broach, not least those touching upon our children."
It was wisest to forge arrangements whilst time yet abounded.
"This cannot concern marriage, surely?" Gael appeared somewhat troubled, her eyes turning to her brother husband in supplication. "I have yet to birth, let alone bear any swelling."
A woman who gazed upon her husband for counsel and final decree. Corlys could not stifle his envy. Whatever bond these two shared was one he had not foreseen in his own match. Moreover, Gael seemed fashioned for the mantle of wife and mother, a bewitching form and a gentle temperament. Her beauty was beyond dispute, and it rang even clearer when she was adorned in her splendid raiment.
All this was not to claim his own wife lacked enchantment, though the comparison scarce proved fair.
Corlys hungered for affection and solace. Never had he been one so readily beguiled. Rhaenys's withholdings were goading him toward unseemly conduct.
"I do not think that is what Lord Velaryon hints at," Maelys said to his wife, soothing her swiftly and without effort. "I would wager you speak of Laenor's fostering?"
Corlys inclined his head. "In the future, of course. Two to three years hence."
"Would you entrust your heir to the tutelage of one who has never plied the craft of ruling? I am yet unproven, surely you know this."
More teasing than truly astonished. Maelys was a man hard to fathom. It was ever difficult to discern if he played the mummer or spoke true.
"Do not feign modesty, Maelys. We know your lands hold order despite their youth," Rhaenys remarked, eliciting a surprised glance from Gael. "Moreover, you have ever shown a rare gift for command."
Maelys allowed a soft chuckled to echo out his lips. "There are subtler ways to reveal you keep spies in my domains, Rhaenys," the youth murmured, shaking his head. "Besides, I bear many duties, duties that shall only multiply in time."
"Since we have been here, I have seen you give most of your time to trifles and children's humors. Laenor speaks fondly of you." Rhaenys's voice echoed soft and gentle. "I am sure you could arrange time to see to his fosterage, Maelys."
They needed to forge relations with Havenhall. That was a bitter truth for Corlys to swallow. The winter prince's domains granted him prime choice to trade with Essos. Moreover, since production of all the commodities would shift to Havenhall, access to them would dwindle sharply.
Those commodities formed a sizable portion of trade passing through Driftmark. The crux was, he required an enduring alliance with Maelys, one that would flow into the next generation, and perchance the one after.
He let forth a sigh. This was demeaning.
"I am half convinced that all women employ the same manipulative arts upon me," Maelys argued, feigning the slightest annoyance. Gael smiled softly at his side. "But before I assent, I shall make you aware of something. Viserra has also besought me to foster Jaedar. I shall have to divide my attention between both boys. Is this agreeable to you?"
Nay, it was not. How was his son to vie with Princess Viserra's child when the hour came to win Princess Rhaenyra's heart? If Maelys sired a son, that would mean three boys contending for a single girl.
Why could matters not be simple?
"I see no hindrance in that," Rhaenys answered. "It would be pleasing for the children to grow up knowing one another, I believe."
"That was my thought as well," Gael exclaimed with excitement. "Though it saddens me that the girls could not join along."
Corlys took a sip of his tea; he resolved to procure these leaves in abundance. It seemed that even with his fortunes, the strife for the throne was not about to prove straightforward. In the interim, it would be wiser if he arranged secondary matches for his son, should this ploy falter.
"I hear tidings that your labors with the slaves shall at last reach our lands," he continued the discourse with distant rumors from Braavos.
At least with this princely elevation, he could finally act against Craghas Drahar. He might even align with those Volantenes; he had heard something stirred between the Triarchy and the elephant humpers.
———————
King's Landing
98 AC (Twelfth Moon—Day 07)
One matter that brooked no dispute was his exhilaration at returning to the royal court. Corlys had sorely missed the arts of intrigue and scheming. He had missed parleying with his peers and gleaning tidings of the realm's unfolding affairs.
This did not imply he had been blind to weighty doings whilst ensconced at High Tide, yet the sheer expanse of knowledge traded in these halls was without peer. Moreover, pacts of astonishing worth could be forged with effortless grace.
Such effortless grace.
"This is truly wondrous, nigh unnatural, I dare contend," thus spoke the Lord of Peake, uttering such words upon perusing the "printed" vellum that bore news of simmering enmities in the savage lands far south of the realm. "How much do you reckon the Yi Tish curs demand of the good prince for this inferior parchment?"
Corlys swirled his goblet of wine, furrowing his brow faintly to mimic contemplation at the foolish query. Plainly these so called "papers" commanded not a steep price if Maelys proved so prodigal in their employ. What purpose served the mass inscription of such trifling events, if not some deeper design?
Mere words had already unveiled stirrings in Dorne. It seemed Yronwood plotted rebellion against the Martells, a treason redolent of foreign intrigue. Yet that was not all; House Wyl had resumed its raids upon the marcher lords, prompting this very Peake to seek him out.
The marcher lord required arms and blades to gird his men and knights against assaults from the south. Not content with that, he begged funds and victuals, the man demanded every accursed boon, and all he offered was stone. What cared House Velaryon for stone?
Still, Corlys resolved to extend aid in return for a favor most dear.
He took a sip of his wine, savoring the bitterness. "I wager he commands his own devices to spew forth these queer vellums." He was certain Maelys bartered little beyond tea and silk to those Yi Tish folk. Seven hells, rumor even whispered that the prince wove silk from seashells.
Corlys yearned to mimic some of the boy's inventions, chief among them these scribing engines. He was convinced certain tidings etched upon these damnable vellums were outright falsehoods, lies crafted to bend the minds and loyalties of the folk.
Such was power beyond measure. What signified the cost of vellum and ink when the sway gained proved so vast and compelling? This was why fair dealings with the boy held such import.
Unwin loosed a hearty laugh. "That would accord with Prince Maelys's brilliance," the man declared, and the awe in his tone gave cause for concern. "Truly a favored of the gods."
Corlys could but nod, for naught else might be said. It chilled him how many lords and ladies clung to the prince's blessed repute. Should Maelys or even Gael grace the court, a throng of nobles would ever flock to their side, fawning for their notice.
Yet it was no ill bargain entire; in these scant days, he had sealed sundry pacts through the clamor for coin to acquire a thousand holy tomes for their demesnes. No Andal wished to bear the brand of false believer.
Corlys was more than eager to exploit that fervor for lopsided bargains. He had already claimed lands from Lord Darkwood. Though it was not quite a sizeable portion.
Yet all the same, it was additional holdings, and holdings that demanded no blood nor toil to claim. Mayhaps in times to come, his descendants might make good use of such lands.
For the now, he was content to swell Driftmark to at least more than fifty thousand souls; Havenhall had but lately surpassed ten thousand, and the tide of folk migrating there showed no sign of ebbing. It galled him that fresh domains should boast greater numbers than his own.
Thus, Corlys resolved to emulate what the winter prince wrought. He too desired to fashion something akin to the Arsenal at Braavos. The Prince of the Seas was a compelling title.
"Have you corresponded with the other marcher lords, Lord Peake?" he inquired. He wondered if this foretold another Dornish war, or merely one of the yearly skirmishes in which the border nobles oft entangled themselves.
Unwin shook his head, a frown creasing his visage. The proud fool was doubtless brooding over some lost glory or like folly. What worth was pride to a beggar lord? Was the Peake addled of wit?
Corlys shifted just slightly, enough to convey
significant care in the matters discussed.
"I would counsel you to do so," he told the aged man. "Though we make merry sport of the Dornish, forget not that they want for naught save water. Their raids seek to thwart the marcher lords' ascent in power, to sap your strength. Yet if you crush them, if you stand resolute in your will to fight, then I am certain the crown shall lend its aid."
More than that, they could have more than two dragons visiting the sandy lands.
Corlys required those accursed Dornish lords humbled and cowed, that they might withhold succor from the pirates. Should the Essosi curs forfeit such backing, their depredations would wane. Achieving that would swell his coffers.
Unwin's jaw clenched, his eyes turning once more to the "printed" vellum that recounted a village raided in the southernmost Stormlands. It spoke of fields set ablaze, fortunate that it came just after the harvest, and of young women dragged off toward the Red Mountains.
Normal doing by the Dornish, but the way the atrocities were recounted flamed the heart. It must've been some twisted mind that quilled this tale. Still, it got the job done. Ladies were appalled by the developments, and he was certain that most lords would be swayed into scorning the Dornish.
Maelys would never lack no prestige from the Reach.
"I shall have words with the others," the aged lord declared at length. "This may herald the rise of another Vulture King."
Corlys cracked a smile. "Know that you shall have my support in this, Lord Peake. We must ever unite to remind those southern savages of their station."
With that, the two men shook hands, thereby engraving the deal in noble oath and honour.
"Your aid shall not be forgotten, Lord Velaryon," Unwin replied, his voice thick and promising.
It was ever so simple to sway these prideful Reach lords, especially when matters touched upon the Dornish. He settled back, easing into repose as he savored the last dregs of his wine. Who would have thought he might miss this fetid city so?
Alas, in the days that followed, he came to grasp the full depths of the stirrings in Dorne.
The accursed Lyseni had arrived at court, bearing with them one of the pillar families of that debauched isle: the Rogares. Daemon was betrothed to a daughter of the richest house in the Free Cities.
How had he not known of this? What of his Laena?
"This shall make matters most complicated," he could not help but exclaim upon the arrival of the Lyseni host, a company welcomed by the king himself. A host that came laden with bulging chests and sundry other gifts.
"You are overmuch pessimistic, my lord husband," Rhaenys said at his side, her countenance far lighter than it had been till now.
Corlys remained unsoothed by her words, for the absence of Maelys and Gael surely bespoke trouble. Tumultuous times were ahead.