JAEHAERYS I

King's Landing, 101 AC

The saccharine tang of the honeyed wine somehow still left an ashen taste in his mouth. Jaehaerys did not know when such rarities had turned into habit. Was it when Aemon died? When his son, both wise and martial in equal measure, all anyone could have ever wished for in an heir, had been murdered at the hands of some barbaric craven - some nobody - from Myr? Or had it started when Alyssa had departed from this world, a once wild girl tamed by marriage and motherhood? He could not tell exactly when it had started, this feeling, that constant stab of sorrow within the confines of his chest, draining him of all the pleasures of this world.

No, this sorrow, this familiar pain, had been a veil that had cast its dark shadow over almost all of his life. From the moment his grandsire had passed, and with his death, the beckoning of unrest and treachery at the door of anyone who bore even a drop of his blood, House Targaryen had known no reprieve from the myriad of tragedies that had dogged it. And how it had continued for so long... When his sire had crumpled to the ground that sweet, sweet summer's day, a man Jaehaerys could remember once admiring, one he could remember trying to replicate, to the suffering he'd had to watch feebly under his great aunt's cold dark purple eyes…

How he had grieved for them all! Brave Aegon who had fallen in battle and Rhaena who had all but died with him, sweet Viserys who they had to leave behind to his vile fate at the hands of their monstrous brute of an uncle and his wicked Pentoshi whore of a concubine, his darling mother who he had lost to that wretched drunkard, the dear niece he could not protect from such a harrowing demise, his first child and heir who had named after the brother he admired so, and whom he had been so cruelly robbed of, little Daenerys who had just come to tell them she had begun to feel cold…

Throughout all of them, he had had her by his side, his Aly, with her warmth and wit. Sweet Alysanne who was always his strength, his heart. His sister. His wife. His Queen.

Gone, he thought forlornly. All gone.

Gone like their siblings. Gone like their mother and father. Gone like their children.

Gone like Baelon.

An invisible hand seemed to claw at his chest again, squeezing it sadistically. Jaehaerys no longer knew whether it was just his imagination or reality. Reality was far darker these days, even darker since Baelon had left him. In his mind's eye, he could still see his son taut with pain on his featherbed, silver hair matted with sweat as he tried desperately to put on a strong face for his sire. Baelon the Brave, they all called him. A prince who knew no fear. Imagine if they knew his last moments were spent with him in tears, his folded body rippling with pain.

That brilliant, brash boy who had once smote Balerion himself in the snout was gone, and he had left behind a father feeling mayhaps even more dead than his son was, and a crisis in the succession that left Westeros teetering on the edge of civil war.

The crown that rested upon his brow had never felt heavier than in that moment. Once he had been taller, stronger. Once he had had more silver in his hair than grey. Once he had two sons, the heir and the spare, and a succession that had been surer than ever. That time was gone however, an era as dead as Baelon now was.

His eyes lifted reluctantly from the gilded edge of his silver cup to look at his only surviving son. The years spent at the Citadel had not changed Vaegon overmuch. He still had the same sour cast to his mouth, the same long face framed with a limp lank of pale gold-silver hair kept trimmed below his ears. Time had only rounded his shoulders even more, making him look shorter than he truly was, and further deepened his stooped posture. The trip from Oldtown had not been unsparing either - his brow was still slick with sweat from the seasickness he'd been prone to since childhood and the discomfort was still evident upon his blanched face. The years had withered him away as much as Jaehaerys, leaving him a frail and pale ghost of an already weedy man. The heavy chain looped around his neck seemed to only drag his shapeless body closer to his book. It was only then that Jaehaerys realised he had been talking.

"- Citadel, father."

"What?" Jaehaerys repeated, his mind still adaze. A frown creeped up Vaegon's lined face, deepening the grooves around his mouth.

"I spoke of the flood of ravens entering the Citadel," his son repeated samely, his lips twisted in its usual sour way. "Even from as far North," he noted with a hint of surprise.

"The North?" The thought alone troubled Jaehaerys. "They have never cared much for the dealings of the South. The North did not even stir when my uncle usurped my brother and tossed the realm into chaos. Why should this time be any different?"

The enmity in his tone was evidently palpable given the way Vaegon's lips twitched downwards. Jaehaerys had never quite forgiven those many lords who stood by and did nothing as his uncle committed heinous crime after heinous crime, least of all the Northerners who did not even care to send even the smallest of acknowledgements of knowing the South's doings. Alaric Stark's less than warm hailing had scarcely endeared him to them as it had Alysanne.

Vaegon only thinned his lips. "The North remembers," his son recounted in a disinterested fashion. "It is a common saying up North amongst the Northerners. It alludes to their loyalties to the Starks of course but… they have always been a mistrustful bunch, especially of the South as they call it. And they remember the losses of Walton Stark and the New Gift well. They will not support the heir of your choosing."

The words made Jaehaerys grimace.

"I have named no heir," Jaehaerys stated coolly.

The Archmaester responded with a doubtful look of his own.

"It is apparent to all that you desire Baelon's son, Viserys, to succeed you," Vaegon noted carefully. His golden archmaester's ring glinted as a stray ray of light danced over his fingers. "To many, it is a matter of when."

Jaehaerys bit back a bark of laughter. "Is that so?" he mused after a beat, his bony fingers running down the length of his long, grey beard. He could barely go an inch down without meeting another tangle.

Vaegon only fingered the sleeve of his grey woolen robes in response, the links of the long chain - yellow gold, bronze, platinum, Valyrian Steel - all clinking together, adorned here and there with garnets, emeralds, black pearls and rubies. The yellow golden links were the most numerous of them all, second only to an array of bronze ones that fell past his chest.

"It is what we at the Citadel theorise to be the most likely outcome," he said finally with a shrug, letting go of the fabric. "Rhaenys was not made your heir once. It would not be surprising if she were overlooked again," he reasoned. "Unless it is her son you worry about."

Jaehaerys gave him a smile, but there was no mirth in it. "I am told Lord Corlys is gathering ships and men to defend his son's right to the throne. Just as I am told Daemon has begun gathering sellswords and men-at-arms in retaliation, to defend his own brother's claim." He sent Vaegon a searching look. "Is it clear to you now, why I have summoned you in such haste?"

"I scarce think it would be to offer me to take the throne," Vaegon stated dryly, though there was no humour in his tone. "So, I must go with counsel then. You wish for my advice upon the matter?"

Jaehaerys merely nodded. "Whoever I desire as my heir means naught. Raising a grown man with feats to his name to Prince of Dragonstone over a girl of eight-and-ten was never a question, especially when it already had precedent before. But now both Aemon and Baelon have male heirs of their blood, young as Laenor Velaryon may be."

Jaehaerys could scarcely keep the disagreement out of his tone. For all that news of his brilliance flooded the capital, he had no doubt that it had been grossly over exaggerated by his granddaughter's spies and supporters in an effort to have him disavow his previous edict and to name. His own regency had made him negatively predisposed to a young child as king, and he knew all too well that it would be Corlys who would be the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

No, he could not let all that he had worked so hard for be for naught… Westeros needed a strong man - a Targaryen -at its helm, one who could command the respect of his lords and deliver due justice when called upon. A woman or a boy could never be ready for such a task, as much as it pained him to admit it. Even Alysanne could not harden herself in times of tragedy. It was in a woman's heart to lament openly and to wither, and in a man's to carry on as always, no matter the weight of the loss.

"If it is enlightenment on the intricacies of succession you desire, then you should know that Rhaenys is undeniably the heir under Andal law, Valyrian law, and even those of the First Men though they almost never allow that to be put into practice. If she were to renounce that claim, then said claim would pass down to her eldest son, Laenor, and after him, his younger brother, Rhaenyx," Vaegon recited, one pale hand resting upon a heavy leather bound tome set upon the middle of the table. He nodded towards it. "Maester Desmor's 'The Law and Customs of Primogeneiture' is a richly written treatise on the matter. Although, I am sure you have already mulled over what I have said."

"Yes, I have."

"What did Baelon want?" Vaegon asked suddenly, curiosity swirling in his pale lavender eyes. His fingers had curled onto the rod of gold that had laid upon the table, until then forgotten by its owner.

"Does it matter to know what a dead man desired?" Jaehaerys replied coldly, remembering his son's weak protests on his sick bed.

She must be made heir now… Father, you said-

His hands curled into fists at the memory, shaking with rage. Vaegon shrugged again at the dismissal, lifting the rod so that its pointed edge dug lightly into the softness of his chin. The ornate carvings that adorned the length of the golden rod were dressed with glittering garnets that shone like flakes of blood. It only made Jaehaerys' stomach churn in remembrance.

"Mayhaps not," he murmured to himself. "Yet one can hardly fault a maester for being curious. Even so… I am well aware of the complications that may arise from any of them being named as your heir. Give the title to Rhaenys now, and many will view you as weak willed; someone subordinate to the gentler sex. Hand it to Viserys, and her supporters and all those who stand behind Laenor Velaryon will be most wroth and will no doubt ferment rebellion. Give it to Laenor Velaryon," he paused, his voice evidently tinged with distaste at the idea. "Give it to the boy of seven, and the lords of Westeros will clamor to have him under their control, all while House Targaryen's enemies make note of the tumultuous time his regent is having at keeping his reign stable."

"Then you see why I have called you here then," Jaehaerys uttered tiredly, slumping into his chair. He had never felt older than in that very moment. His arms seemed to sag against his own will. "I am an old man, my son. I can barely remember who is on my own small council. It seems to me that their faces change every morn, some of them the faces of dead men. At times, I think I hear your mother calling me, other times it is my own mother who calls out my name. Even the names of my Kingsguard sometimes elude me - men who I am to trust with every fibre of my being to protect my person… my confidence."

It irked him how defeated he sounded. How feeble his once commanding voice had turned into a rasp thick with sorrow. How he could feel his eyes burn as tears threatened to flood them once more.

"I am the Conciliator, greatest king of them all or so they say, and I am at a loss."

Vaegon merely traced the outline of the gilded letters stamped upon the leather of the tome with the blunt edge of his nail, his brows drawn together closely. Jaehaerys did not miss the look of contemplation that lingered on his face, or the way his eyes were averted, kept trained upon the glittering letters and the glimmer of gold and little else. A long silence stretched between them, long enough that Jaehaerys had managed to wipe away some of his unshed tears with the back of his hand. His heart - his very being - felt weary of living.

"A council," Vaegon finally said after a moment, breaking the newfound tranquility of the council chambers. His pale eyes met Jaehaerys darker ones. Outside, the evening sky was beginning to purple.

"Your sire suggested it during his own reign," Vaegon continued, his voice surprisingly gentle. "A Great Council to be able to discuss on how best to deal with the cluster of rebellions that erupted after the Conqueror's death. It would be the most impartial way to decide who is to succeed you. The Lords themselves will choose who their future king will be, and none can say there was no fairness involved. Not even Rhaenys and Corlys with the Baratheons and the Starks abetting them. And if it is a man grown they desire as your heir rather than a boy of seven… Well, then it is no fault of yours."

In that moment, Jaehaerys could have sworn he'd seen the barest shadow of a smile fleeting upon his son's pale lips for the second time.

RHAENYS III

Driftmark, 101 AC

"He dares!"

The palm of Rhaenys' hand slammed upon the ornate goldenheart table, the sound of her rings thundering against the wood. Pain shot through her fingers, up to her arms, but her anger had all but made her all but blind to it. Sat three paces away, her husband had scarcely reacted to her outburst, though his hands had turned white at the knuckles where he still gripped the corners of the scroll, the blood red wax seal broken. His dark purple eyes blazed with untold fury.

"A farce!" Rhaenys continued, caring little for how bitter she sounded. "He would rather call for this farce - this absolute mockery of our inheritance laws - to seat my lackwit of a cousin on that damned throne! He would give power to the lords of Westeros - big or small - over the Crown itself! All because he is too craven to recant his previous illmade decision! To not even return Laenor what should rightfully be his by his own 'sound' judgement!? That gods be damned senile rat!"

"Yelling will get us nowhere, my love," Corlys tried to say soothingly, though his own voice was laced with hidden acidity. The sea green silks he wore over, clashing beautifully with silver thread worked around the hems and graced with square cut emeralds, were taut over his body, as if every muscle were tense. His ring-adorned fingers ran over the length of his closely cropped silver beard.

"Neither will staying silent," she rebuked tartly, her arms folded over her chest. The blacks and scarlet of her silks, adorned with strings of blood red diamonds, had never seemed more repulsive. "He is stealing our son's birthright from him! That… That dotard pisses on my sire's ashes once more to satisfy his own oversized ego!"

"The decision has not been made yet," her husband reasoned. Rhaenys sent him a withering glance.

"What hope does our son have? My cousin is a man grown, wed, and with a child of his own, as well as a brother already in his majority. Laenor is a boy of seven namedays, with a boy of four namedays as his own heir and a dragon he only took to the skies not even a moon past! The Lords of Westeros will not choose him, husband. They will not suffer another regency lest it is to their benefit."

"They can be convinced, dearest," Corlys said in an even tone. Rhaenys snorted derisively.

"Wealth can only buy him so many votes, Corlys. My uncle will support us, as will those who still feel they have grievances against my grandsire, but the odds are against us. We have support, but not enough. Viserys will win. I am sure of it. By a small margin mayhaps, but he will win . He has spent more time in the capital than we have, and his wife has all but secured the Vale for him. The Redwynes and the Lannisters will gladly support him if it means weakening House Velaryon, and Lord Grover Tully has never been shy about spouting out his principles to all who will give him the time of the day."

Corlys only stared grimly at her, his almost five decades outlined clearly in the hard lines that were etched upon his still handsome visage. Not even the teal and silver-coloured silks could soften dark eyes that had seen more than some would see in a hundred lifetimes.

"We will find a way," he stated in an almost growl-like voice, his words sounding more like a promise than a statement. There was that ever burning fire blazing in his purple eyes, one of the many traits that had allured that girl of six-and-ten to a man over two decades her elder. It was the fire of a man who would stop at nothing to see their blood on the Iron Throne.

"How are you so sure?" she asked with a fire just as fierce alit in her pale violet eyes. "How can you be certain that they will not treat him as they did me? That they will not say he is too young, too weak." She gave him a hard stare. "How can you be so certain that our Laenor will become king?"

"You said it yourself, my love," Corlys responded with an ardent fervour. "He is different from the rest of them. Not amongst the sons of some lordlings but among you dragonlords. He is the first of his kind since the Dreamer herself. He was chosen by his dragon, was he not? He possesses with the wisdom of a man a hundred times his age, does he not? He is special, Rhaenys . You know it better than even I! He is blessed by the Gods for Seven's sake! The Gods themselves sent him portents and for what if not to rule ? We shall go to Harrenhal in all our glory, unencumbered by such doubt for we know that when our son presents himself to all those lords, middling and great, we know that he will make Viserys look like the bumbling, dragonless oaf with no wits that he is, and they themselves will see their true king."

"And," he paused, his voice quiet though his eyes betrayed his true feelings, "they will crown him."

A/N: Here's a Jae. Depression still kicks but Brandon Sanderson got me in a writing mood. Let's hope for me.