Chapter 11: Outmaneuvered
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My younger son Aegor seems to be growing strange, believing that the nannies and maids are trying to hurt him or at least steal away his treats. At first I dismiss them as childish ramblings, but he persists in his beliefs. Is this the curse of the Targaryens? They say when a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin and the world holds its breath. In any event, he is my second son, not my firstborn and heir. I judge that getting him into regular education and all the trappings that come with it may help dissuade his notions, and after talking with Kennett we agree that Aegor should be trained in the art of numbers. It is not as noble as war, but no wars could be fought without the coin-counters and moneylenders.
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My nights of passion with Kennett are still regular and still greatly enjoyable. I am blessed to be with a fourth child! I am only thirty, and wonder just how many more I might bear before my body stops being able to bring children forth? My joy turns to ashes when the child is stillborn. We had planned to name him Aenar, but he never had the chance to live. I have little time for mourning or self-pity.
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I turn my attention back to the plot against King Gulian. We have spent months gathering evidence and now, with it in hand, we make a case that will show the world he is not the son of Steffon Baratheon. As many believe Steffon himself was not the son of Stannis, the harm done to the Baratheon line increases and few are taking Gulian seriously as King.
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If Aegor has been unlucky in the eyes of the gods, Visenya is the precise opposite. Not only is she already a beautiful child, as her lessons begin she is demonstrating astounding ability, already the equal of children twice her age. I believe she may outdo both myself and Kennett in time.
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Speaking of my dear Kennett, he has worked hard to improve his abilities and, at a tourney held here in Sharp Point, demonstrates as much with a convincing victory. I applaud him and am deeply proud of this man I love.
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Before the tournament has fully finished a raven comes with news that Lord Paramount Renly Baratheon, last of the traitor brothers, has passed away of natural causes. His son Boremund assumes the Lord Paramountcy of the Stormlands. Some of us had recently identified Boremund’s son, also called Renly, as a weak link in the Baratheon chain and had intended to kill Boremund so Renly would ascend. We continue with the plot, with renewed caution.
My spymaster, Symond, has been murdered. According to his last letter to me he was investigating possible misdeeds on the part of one Ser Pandes Grammaton. Apparently he discovered precisely what he meant to and Ser Pandes was most displeased. I appoint my friend since childhood, Moelle, as new Master of Whisperers. She is not anything special in the field of intrigue, but competent enough, and which is more I trust her.
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News comes that has me in a fit of rage which even Kennett cannot calm me from. I send everyone away and destroy half my chambers in disgust. My plan has not had the desired results. Here I was eagerly awaiting the inevitable wars which would break out when Gulian proved too weak to hold the throne, when schemes in King’s Landing gave me his removal in an entirely peaceful way. I don’t know how he was persuaded, but he agreed to relinquish his hold on the Iron Throne in favor of Jonquil Baratheon, Renly’s middle child. She is a formidable speaker and diplomat, and has apparently used her charms to garner tremendous support for her appointment.
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And the nerve of that misbegotten Baratheon harlot! Just days into her reign she has sent ravens all around the Realm asking for the approval of her vassals, from Lords Paramount to the lowest barons, to lower the authority of the Iron Throne! This authority is mine, not hers! So that is how the bitch managed it - she traded away the power of the Iron Throne in exchange for the chance to sit upon it. Worse, this gains her favor with just about every Lord and Lady in the land, all eager to forge their own paths with less control from King’s Landing.
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With that single move my efforts to secure support for Jonquil’s assassination come to pieces. Few, if any, lords are now willing to move against her. In a single act she has ensured her popularity as well as done yet another injury to my house. Fine. I can still find a way. It may cost me dearly, but there are always people who can do this sort of job.
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Jonquil is granted the blessings of the High Septon (himself only in his role for a few days, after the last died of old age) and this further secures her rule. I do not know whether someone is actively opposing me or I am simply unlucky, but seeing my years of work undone by this bitch in her first few weeks as Queen is galling beyond my ability to bear.
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At a feast in some court whose Lord I forget, I am finally approached by a Faceless Man, one of the impossibly skilled assassins of Braavos. At first he seems just an ordinary reveler until he catches me alone for a moment and informs me, without ceremony, that I cannot afford his services. It is all I can do to retain my composure, and I soon excuse myself from the revelry under the guise of lightheadedness. I know I am not wealthy, but there are always other ways to pay. The Faceless Men have taken limbs, lives, children, and more as payments. I had hoped he would just cut off a hand.
I manage to remain calm at the feast, but make my excuses and leave soon. When I arrive back home in Sharp Point, I lock myself in my chambers and admit nobody, not even Kennett or the children, for over a day. I merely rage, cursing Jonquil’s name to any gods who may be listening; the Seven, the Old Gods, the Drowned God, the Lord of Light, the Black Goat of Qohor, the Lion of the Night. At one point I pulled a book from the shelves to browse it for the gods they worship in The City of Winged Men, but found no reference to their faith. In time I calm down. I am a Targaryen. I am the Dragon incarnate. I will find a way and I will not be denied.
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