Lord Beesbury has had quite enough.
Of what? Everything.
He has escaped from a nest of vipers, only to be dropped into the dragonpit.
Lord Beesbury had loved his job. Because he loves burying his nose in ledgers. He loves turning numbers into resources. Lord Beesbury loves numbers. Numbers are predictable. Numbers do not commit treason and abduct you on to the last surviving conquering dragon. Numbers do not cause you so much havoc that climbing atop the Blood Wyrm is a relief. Were it up to him, Lord Beesbury would have spent the rest of his day in the company of the Blood Wyrm, rather than the dysfunctional House of the dragons.
He kicks himself for not seeing what was right in front of him: the Hightowers might share his love for rules, but they view them as theirs to manipulate. Theirs to bend.
The lines of the ledger do not bend.
So complacent he was, in the idea that the world behaved like his ledgers, that Ser Harrold had seen the danger they were in before he! A soldier before a learned man. That he had received word of the King's death with such naivety. He wishes he could say it was bravery that drove him, rather than an unwillingness to turn his head. He is old, after all. Turning one's head takes special effort. But now that he has, now that he has been forced to, there is no turning back.
This world is plagued by vipers, and he has been none the wiser.
He does take solace in the possibility of telling his great-grandchildren about how Grandsire Lyman rode the last conquering dragon and lived. And he was not even the person who fainted afterwards.
Thank you, Prince Jacaerys. For sacrificing your dignity for mine own.
His fainting spell had fortunately distracted everyone from his uncontrollable shakes and the tears — evidence from his sobbing atop Vhagar.
"Stop crying!" ordered the petulant child who styles himself King. "You are an insult to the memory of Visenya."
He'd at least had both enough, yet not enough, wherewithal to gesture to the auspiciously named Visenya's remains. "The people responsible for this are the true insult."
Being violently tossed from a dragon is truly less terrifying than riding one.
I miss my ledgers.
His day improved after their midday meeting when Lady Rhaena had shown him his new office and supplies. He thought of how he now has an opportunity to make new ledgers! A whole new set of data awaits him. And Prince Daemon is such a keen scholar of all matters Valyrian that the library is stocked with Valyrian supplies. Including classic Valyrian ledgers and Valyrian wax tablets for erasable calculations.
It will be a challenge, most certainly, consolidating the data from multiple sources of wealth from multiple houses at that. But Lord Beesbury is up to the task. And apparently he is not the only one to believe so. "I have to admit," he'd overheard Prince Daemon say begrudgingly. "I'm relieved to have him. I was worried we would have to give the role to Lord Bartimos."
But then his efforts had been interrupted by yet another useless meeting, with yet another family argument.
"Why do the Princess Rhaenys and Prince Daemon despise each other so?" he had asked Lord Bartimos after their midday council.
"Are you daft? Who do you think hired the man that killed Ser Laenor?"
"Certainly you are not suggesting that these fabrications have truth behind them!"
"I know not, nor do I wish to. You should learn from mine own position on this."
"But I was at the Green Council. They originally wanted to depose the Queen entirely! They wanted to murder the entire family! They only took this path because it seemed more convenient; you cannot trust any accusation they hurl to justify it."
"Then that is the line you should stick to, My Lord."
One of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting finally leads to his own rooms following the second, late-night meeting. "I am sorry for the delay, My Lord. We are running short on quarters for men of your high station. Times are desperate, so you may have Ser Laenor's old quarters."
"These are quite distant quarters for a consort," he notes.
"It was a personal preference. Ser Laenor… enjoyed his privacy, and his quiet," Lady Elinda says, somewhat uncomfortably it seems.
Fortunately, Lord Beesbury could appreciate privacy and quiet after his series of days, for he does have one advantage over others: he knows when to go to sleep. If there was nothing to be done but worry or sleep — then sleep it was. He is grateful for that habit, especially after witnessing Prince Daemon's deterioration, and that of everyone else, to a lesser extent. He imagines that for many of the council, the past few days had all blended into one single nightmare. But Lord Beesbury has a clear mind. Clear enough to see the truth:
This family is insane.
The Hightowers are dysfunctional, yes. Morally corrupt, for certain. But they do not possess the level of insanity and potential for outright shenanigans he has witnessed here thus far.
This hive needs its Queen Bee. These children need their mother. And that dragon needs a keeper. And they're all going to die tomorrow, should they try that foolish stunt. The Hightowers, he now knows, have been preparing for this for far too long.
He has only just settled into bed when a knock sounds at his door.
"Come," he calls.
No one enters. They knock again.
"Come."
They hesitate. Then knock again.
"Come!"
Another knock.
He huffs and stands upright, dawning his housecoat on the way to the door.
"Just open the door," a girl's voice comes through.
"No, you know the rules," a boy says.
"He does not. I do not think it applies here."
"You don't know that. You saw him laugh at that feast. That man surely f—"
He opens the door to find Lady Rhaena and Prince Jacaerys, both holding several mysterious vials and instruments.
They jump. Prince Jacaerys greets him. "Good… midnight."
"My Lady, My Prince, how might I be of assistance?"
"Do you," Lady Rhaena hesitates. "Have any honey?"
Lord Beesbury may not have raised dragons, but he has raised children; he knows a childish scheme afoot when he sees one. Then again, the adult schemes today have not been much better. And there is much to be said for the wisdom of the youth in times of trouble.
He lets them in and gestures for them to sit. "I am an old man and a tired man. I have faced enough artifice these past few days to last a lifetime. Tell me honestly what you intend, and in these once unfathomable circumstances, I may actually consider it."
Lady Rhaena adopts a posture that is too innocent. "We simply need to mix something for the kitchen staff to deliver. But we cannot do it in the kitchens. And it has to be a different honey, there has to be… a reason it is kept separate. They allowed you to bring a trunk of your possessions, I saw. I was hoping…"
"That I keep tiny decorative jars of Honeyholt honey amidst my things to hand out as advertising and political favours?"
"Well, do you?" she asks.
"… yes." He narrows his eyes, more at home with mischievous children than vipers or dragons. "What do you need it for?"
"I have heard that your honey is the sweetest, that you need very little for even the bitterest tea. I worry only for my father's health is all."
"I do not think sweets are his trouble."
"No..."
"We're going to get him to go to bed," Prince Jacaerys blurts. "We're going to do what my mother would."
"Children! I know that you are Targaryens, and that the Prince has made clear his… flexible tastes. But this is no wa—"
"See Rhaena! I told you," he says triumphantly.
"Alright, alright." Lady Rhaena turns back to him, still wearing her facade of innocence. "Rhaenyra had a… special medicine for my father. He has insomnia, you see. But he never takes his medicine when he is stressed. So Rhaenyra would mix it into the honey. But the kitchens are so busy right now with all the guests, we need do it ourselves away first."
"You want to addle him?"
They both hesitate, then Prince Jacaerys breaks. "Yes."
"Jace!"
The Prince turns to him. "You've seen him; he's going mad! My mother had ways of containing him, and now without her…"
Lord Beesbury sighs. "Very well." If I'm executed for assassination…
Such is his fatigue, his desperation, his frustration with this family that he complies. Lady Rhaena begins to mix her 'medicine.'
And then Lord Beesbury sees the insanity. "Wait, wait, wait. Absolutely not!" he says as he removes her mixture from her reach. "You cannot simply pour it in. The distribution will be unpredictable. You must heat it first." He leads them over to a table with candles to demonstrate and lets them take over once satisfied they understand.
He shakes his head.
Children.
Vermax and Moondancer circle above, but Arrax lands next to Prince Lucerys, as if aware of a significant milestone. Mayhaps a few days ago the tiny dragon might have terrified him. But he has sat atop Caraxes. He has sat atop Vhagar as she stared little Arrax down.
Even their dragons are children.
Lady Baela is late. He takes his last chance to talk to Prince Jacaerys, who stands speaking to the Lady Rhaena and Prince Lucerys. "My Prince, I must request—"
"No need," he says. "You will not be mentioned. You were but an innocent bystander."
"Besides," Lady Rhaena says. "Without you, I might have actually poisoned him."
"Wait," Prince Lucerys says. "Him?"
"Shh," Lady Rhaena says. "Father need not know. I will deal with him myself."
"I do not envy the task ahead of you," Prince Lucerys admits, "I would sooner face the hostile lords and skies.
"She will manage," Prince Jacaerys assures him. "It seems as if Rhaena has a Daemon on her shoulder as well. He will guide her."
"Wait," says Prince Lucerys. "Do I have a Daemon on my shoulder?" Prince Lucerys asks.
"Most definitely," Lady Rhaena replies.
"What about Baela?"
Prince Jacaerys smiles. "Baela is her own Daemon."
Lady Rhaena hops in place. "Still, imagine if everyone has a Fa— a Daemon on their shoulder, and they all got together or saw each other. They would for certain kill each other."
Prince Jacaerys rolls his eyes. "Or have sex with each other." He considers. "Probably both, in truth."
They all laugh, forgetting he is there. And all he can do is stand there horrified. Crass as those words are, those are whimsical japes of children.
And then the crowd parts and Lady Baela emerges — skipping.
"No!" Prince Lucerys shouts, incredulous and impressed.
Prince Jacaerys grins. "You did not!"
Lady Baela twirls Dark Sister in her hand. "Oh yes I did!"
Lady Rhaena shakes her head. "Father is going to kill you."
"Not while I have his sword."
"You are insane," her betrothed says like a compliment.
"Thank you. Alright." She hops up and down. "Let us get married!"
These are children. These are children and we are wedding them. These are children and we are sending them to war.
The worst part is, he sees no other option.
He returns to the Chamber with the Maester, Lord Bartimos, Princess Rhaenys and Lady Rhaena. The girl's demeanor matures in the absence of her siblings, and she works with competence. The parchments to be hand delivered had been written in a hurry. But it is common knowledge that a short message takes far more work than a long one.
The Maester points out their additional obstacle. "The Hightowers possess far more ravens than we do. The rookeries at the Red Keep and Old Town dwarf ours; they have ravens assigned to far more castles than we do."
Princess Rhaenys answers as if she's already thought it through. "Then we will need to write these messages with the intention they be passed forward."
"Grandmother," says Lady Rhaena, likely emboldened by the smaller audience. "Joffrey is capable of flying to Driftmark. He might deliver scrolls to the rookery there as well."
"Sharp Point and Stone Dance are also quite close," the Maester says. "Their lords sit our table, I am certain they would give us use of their rookeries. And Prince Joffrey has flown there before."
"How does that help us though?" Princess Rhaenys asks. "Many of the ravens would overlap in destination."
Lady Rhaena smiles as if enlivened by the intellectual exercise. "But the castles they fly to have ravens for castles we do not, Grandmother. With the additional ravens, we might send additional scrolls for them to pass forward. And it would be an interesting way to gauge loyalty — who does not even bother to pass them forward?"
"But how would we determine where the chain breaks?" Lord Bartimos asks. "How would we even plan that type of complex network?"
Lady Rhaena turns to him. "Lord Beesbury, are you able to design such a system?"
Lord Beesbury opens one of his new Valyrian ledgers. "Am I ever."
They continue as such into the evening. Lord Beesbury charts the routes the scrolls should take whilst the others finalize the message. They then conscript anyone of able hand to transcribe the copies. They decide that Prince Joffrey should take the first batch, whilst the last be sent out from Dragonstone.
They are half-way through the Dragonstone batch when one of the Valyrian priests enter. He speaks in High Valyrian to the Princess Rhaenys, and Lady Rhaena takes an interest.
"What is it?" he asks.
"They were preparing to intern Visenya's ashes," Lady Rhaena says. "But they found something in the pyre."
With her words, the priest sets a cloth bag on the table. Lady Rhaena approaches, and Princess Rhaenys steps aside, acknowledging her precedence as Visenya's sister. She empties the bag into her hand.
Rubies. Five of them.
"What in the…" Princess Rhaenys mumbles.
"Why were they there?" he asks.
"I… I do not know," Lady Rhaena answers.
"Where might they be from?" asks Lord Bartimos.
"I… think maybe…" Lady Rhaena scratches at the top layer. There are threads of gold melted onto the surface in some spots. "But I would not know why." She elaborates no further.
"Gold?" he presses.
"Yes," Princess Rhaenys says. "They say there was melted and cooled gold scattered amidst the ashes,"
The Maester also peers at the rubies. "Were they in the pyre the whole time? It is strange that no one saw them near the end."
"We…" Lady Rhaena mumbles and refuses to look at anyone. "We all left early, before the embers even cooled. There was a matter of some urgency."
"Do you think the Pri— the Queen, planted them?" Lord Bartimos asks.
Lady Rhaena stares at the rubies a few moments longer. She blinks, then pours them back into the bag. She says something to the priest that leads him to depart. She stands and puts the bag into her skirt pocket. "If you don't mind, My Lords. I would like to see to my father."
She does not wait to be dismissed.
Everyone turns back to their transcription. It is a tedious task, to be certain. Lord Beesbury examines his communication network for the Dragonstone scrolls one last time.
Expendable, the Hand called him. In his earshot, whilst loading him onto a dragon like cargo. He is no threat to us with them, he knew not of what we planned for years. He is but a bee amongst dragons.
The problem with wronging one bee, is that they know how to organize with other bees. Bees might not be manipulative, but bees are methodical. Bees form complex networks that neither dragon nor viper could dream of. Bees make order out of chaos, chaos out of order.
The viper's venom? The dragon's fire? Not once, did the Hightowers mind his House words.
Beware our sting.