Kings Landing - 2

39-AC

Red Keep

A year had passed since the somber day King Aegon the Conqueror breathed his last, leaving the Iron Throne to his eldest son, Aenys. The transition had brought with it the inevitable reshuffling of the Small Council. Lord Triston Massey, a respected lord from the Stormlands known for his keen legal mind, had been appointed the new Master of Laws. In his stead now sat Prince Maegor Targaryen, who had recently claimed Balerion, the new king's formidable younger brother, a man whose very presence seemed to crackle with barely contained power. Grand Maester Orland remained a constant, his wisdom and counsel still sought amidst the shifting tides of the court. However, the Queen Dowager, Visenya Targaryen, a figure of immense influence and a rider of the magnificent dragon Vhagar, continued to attend the council meetings, her sharp intellect and unwavering opinions a force to be reckoned with in the Red Keep. The realm held its breath, observing the new king and his advisors, wondering what the future held under the reign of Aenys Targaryen.

The air in the Small Council chamber was thick with the weight of royal business. King Aenys Targaryen, a man whose gentle nature often seemed ill-suited to the sharp edges of the Iron Throne, sat at the head of the table, a concerned frown creasing his brow.

"My lords, and my… mother," Aenys began hesitantly, his gaze flitting between his councilors. "The Dornish situation… the reports from the Prince of Dorne remain… troubling. They chafe under the terms agreed upon by my father. There are whispers of unrest, of old grievances being stirred."

Prince Maegor, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his dark eyes narrowed, slammed a gauntleted fist on the table, the sound echoing sharply in the chamber. "Troubling? They spat on my father's peace, brother! They murdered his kin! The only language the vipers of the south understand is fire and blood. Send me, Aenys. Let me take a host and remind them of the price of defiance."

Grand Maester Orland, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to Maegor's fiery pronouncements, stroked his long white beard. "Patience, Prince Maegor. King Aegon understood the cost of war with Dorne better than any man. We must tread carefully. Perhaps a royal envoy, bearing assurances of His Grace's good intentions…"

Queen Dowager Visenya Targaryen, her silver hair braided with threads of gold, her violet eyes sharp and assessing, cut in, her voice like the rasp of dragon scales. "Good intentions are often mistaken for weakness, my son. The Dornish have always been proud and stubborn. Maegor speaks with a certain… pragmatism. We must show them that the dragon's teeth have not been dulled."

Lord Triston Massey, the Master of Laws, leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. "Your Grace, Perhaps a more nuanced approach is required. While a show of force might incite further rebellion, ignoring their grievances could also prove perilous. I propose we dispatch a delegation, not just with assurances, but with a willingness to listen to their concerns and seek a mutually acceptable solution within the framework of the peace treaty."

Aenys sighed, running a hand through his silver-gold hair. "A delegation… yes, perhaps that is the wisest course. But who should we send? Someone who commands respect, yet also possesses the patience for delicate negotiations…"

Orys Baratheon, the Hand of the King, a man whose booming voice and straightforward manner often cut through the subtleties of courtly intrigue, turned his attention towards the Master of Whispers, Quenton Qorhys. Qorhys, a gaunt man with eyes that seemed to absorb every shadow and a network of informants that stretched across the Seven Kingdoms, sat quietly at the table, observing the interplay of the other council members.

"Qorhys," Orys began, his voice loud and direct, brooking no nonsense, "you've been quieter than a Dornishman in the snow today. Spill it. What are your little spies chirping about in the rest of the realm? Forget the sand snakes for a moment. What's brewing in the Stormlands, the Reach, the Westerlands? Any lords getting ideas above their station? Any common folk grumbling louder than usual?"

Quenton Qorhys, the Master of Whispers, finally stirred, his gaze flicking from Orys Baratheon to King Aenys and then around the Small Council chamber. His voice, when it came, was soft and raspy, like the rustling of dry leaves, yet every word carried a chilling weight.

"My Lord Hand," Qorhys began, his eyes never quite settling on any one person for too long, "the whispers are… varied. From the Westerlands, Lord Tybolt Lannister remains firmly in control, though there are murmurs of his ambition for greater influence at court, now that the strong hand of the Conqueror is gone."

He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his thin lips. "In the Reach, the fertile lands remain prosperous, yet the shadow of the Tyrells' rapid ascent still casts a long shadow. Some of the older houses grumble about their perceived slighting, though no open defiance has yet bloomed."

Qorhys' gaze flickered towards the Queen Dowager. "From the Stormlands, your own vassals, Lord Hand, remain loyal, though there are concerns about the increasing number of Dornishmen traveling north along the Kingswood. Their intentions remain… unclear."

He then turned his attention to the Riverlands. "The Riverlands, as ever, remain a tangled web. Lord Tully holds Riverrun, but old grievances between the various houses still simmer beneath the surface. There are whispers of bandits along the borders, preying on trade routes, though whether this is mere lawlessness or something more organized remains to be seen."

Finally, his gaze settled briefly on King Aenys. "And in the Vale, Lord Arryn remains a staunch supporter of the Iron Throne, though the isolation of the Eyrie often breeds its own unique brand of pride and independence. They watch the happenings in the south with a wary eye.

Quenton Qorhys steepled his thin fingers, his gaze now troubled. "Your grace," he continued, his raspy voice taking on a more concerned tone. "It is the North that troubles me most. While I can relay tidings from every other corner of the Seven Kingdoms – the squabbles in the Stepstones, the harvest reports from the Westerlands, even the latest fashions from King's Landing itself – from the vast expanse north of the Neck… there is a distinct silence."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the council. "My usual channels, the merchants, even the less savory elements who ply their trade in the northern ports… their reports have become thin, fragmented. They speak of a great influx of people moving south through the Neck, wildlings in numbers unseen before, yet organized, almost… purposeful. They speak of strange alliances, whispers of giants, and Children of the Forest moving openly. But from within the North itself, from the lords and their keeps, from Winterfell… my spies have fallen silent. It is as if a great, silent snow has fallen, muffling all sound and obscuring all paths. This… this lack of information from the North is more unsettling than any tale of rebellion in the south."

A skeptical murmur rippled around the Small Council chamber.

Grand Maester Orland raised a questioning eyebrow. "Giants, Master Qorhys? And the Children of the Forest? These are creatures of myth and legend, tales told to frighten children. Surely, even your network of whispers can be misled by fanciful rumors brought south by superstitious merchants."

Prince Maegor snorted derisively. "Giants? Hah! Next you'll be telling us the Others have returned. Wildling boasts and old wives' tales are hardly reliable intelligence."

Even Orys Baratheon, usually more pragmatic, frowned. "While the silence from the North is concerning, Qorhys, are you certain your informants haven't simply been… overwhelmed by this influx of wildlings? Giants and the Children… it strains credulity."

Queen Dowager Visenya, however, regarded Qorhys with a keen, almost predatory interest. "The North has always been a land apart, holding to its ancient ways. Perhaps these… legends… hold more truth there than we in the south understand. This silence you speak of, coupled with these unusual reports… it warrants further investigation, at the very least."

King Aenys, looking troubled, leaned forward. "Master Qorhys, do you truly believe these tales of giants and… the Children?" He seemed genuinely perplexed and a little frightened by the implications.

Quenton Qorhys inclined his head slightly, his gaze flickering across the skeptical faces of the Small Council. "Your Grace, my lords," he replied, his voice retaining its soft, raspy quality, "I cannot claim to know the absolute truth of these matters. Giants and the Children of the Forest… they are indeed the stuff of legend in the south. However, the consistency of these unusual reports from the North, coupled with the unsettling silence from my established sources, gives me pause. It is not the sort of fanciful tale one hears once or twice; it is a recurring theme in the fragmented information that reaches us."

He paused, his gaze settling briefly on Queen Dowager Visenya. "No, I cannot stand here and swear that giants roam the northern lands and the Children of the Forest walk openly. But neither can I dismiss these whispers entirely, especially given the lack of reliable information from the North itself. Therefore," Qorhys concluded, "I will dedicate my resources to investigating these claims. I will seek out more reliable sources, send trusted agents north, and endeavor to pierce this veil of silence. Only then can we ascertain the truth of what is happening beyond the Neck."

"See to it then, Master Qorhys," King Aenys said, a hint of relief in his voice that the unsettling topic would be investigated further. Orys Baratheon nodded in agreement, his usual booming tone subdued. "Aye, get to the bottom of this northern mystery. The less we know about what's happening up there, the more uneasy I become."

Queen Dowager Visenya fixed Qorhys with a sharp look. "Your methods are your own, Master of Whispers, but I expect answers, and I expect them swiftly."

Grand Maester Orland offered a more measured response. "Prudence is key, Master Qorhys. Gather your information carefully, and ensure its veracity before presenting it to the council."

Once the matter of the North had been addressed, Orys Baratheon shifted in his seat. "Now then, Qorhys, what other tidings do you bring? Surely the realm hasn't fallen completely silent save for the frozen north." He gestured for the Master of Whispers to continue with his report.

Quenton Qorhys leaned forward, his attention shifting to the more familiar landscape of southern politics. "Indeed, my Lord Hand," he rasped, his voice regaining some of its usual certainty. "There are rumblings emanating from Oldtown, and they center on the High Septon. His sermons have become increasingly… pointed. He speaks of the 'abomination' of incest sitting upon the Iron Throne, a clear reference to the Targaryen tradition of sibling marriage, and by extension, to His Grace himself."

A ripple of unease went through the Small Council. King Aenys shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Qorhys continued, his gaze sweeping across their faces. "More concerning than the High Septon's rhetoric are the whispers of action. There is talk within the more zealous elements of the Starry Sept, and among some of the more fervent septons throughout the realm, of a potential… formation. They speak of reviving the Faith Militant, the armed wing of the Faith of the Seven, which was disbanded centuries ago. They believe it is their divine duty to cleanse the realm of what they perceive as sin and heresy."

He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in. "These are not just idle threats, my lords. There is a fervor building, a sense that the High Septon's words are stirring something deep within the faith. Should the Faith Militant be reformed, it could represent a significant challenge to the authority of the Iron Throne, a power base independent of royal control, fueled by religious zeal and potentially capable of raising armies."

A palpable tension gripped the Small Council chamber. The news of the High Septon's inflammatory sermons and the potential resurgence of the Faith Militant hung heavy in the air. King Aenys, his earlier unease now bordering on alarm, looked to his advisors for guidance.

"This… this cannot be allowed to fester," Aenys stammered, his voice losing its usual gentleness. "The Faith Militant? We cannot permit it. What must be done?"

Orys Baratheon's booming voice filled the sudden silence. "We nip this in the bud, Your Grace. Send a strongly worded message to the High Septon. Remind him of the Crown's authority and the consequences of inciting rebellion. Perhaps even summon him to King's Landing to answer for his words."

Prince Maegor's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. "Words are wind, brother. The only language these fanatics understand is steel. Let me take a company of guards and my dragon to Oldtown. A sharp lesson now will save us a bloody war later."

Grand Maester Orland cautioned, "Violence could backfire spectacularly, Your Grace, Prince Maegor. It risks turning the High Septon into a martyr and further inflaming religious fervor. A more diplomatic approach, at least initially, might be wiser. Perhaps a delegation of respected septons, loyal to the Crown, could be sent to reason with the High Septon."

Lord Triston Massey, the Master of Laws, offered a more legalistic perspective. "We must also consider the legal ramifications. The Faith Militant was outlawed. Any attempt to reform it is a direct violation of royal decree. We should issue a proclamation reaffirming this and warning against any such action. Perhaps even dispatch royal investigators to Oldtown to gather intelligence on who is involved in these seditious talks."

Queen Dowager Visenya, her gaze sharp and calculating, surveyed the council. "A multi-pronged approach might be necessary. A firm message to the High Septon, coupled with discreet investigations into the movement's strength and leadership. Maegor's instinct for decisive action is not entirely wrong, but we must choose our moment carefully. A premature show of force could unite the disparate elements within the Faith."

King Aenys, listening intently to the varying counsel, finally spoke, a newfound resolve hardening his voice. "Very well. Lord Hand, you will draft a royal decree to the High Septon, making clear our displeasure and reminding him of the law. Master Massey, you will dispatch royal investigators to Oldtown. Grand Maester, see if you can identify any influential septons who might be willing to mediate. And Maegor… stand ready. But for now, we will proceed with caution. We will not repeat the mistakes of the past. We will not allow the Faith Militant to rise again." The council, finally united in their concern, began to discuss the specifics of their respective tasks, the shadow of potential religious conflict looming large over the Red Keep.

As the midday sun cast long shadows across the Small Council chamber, the urgent discussions regarding the High Septon and the potential resurgence of the Faith Militant gradually wound down. The initial flurry of proposed actions had been laid out, and the respective members now had their tasks to undertake. A weary silence settled over the table, the weight of the kingdom's concerns evident in their drawn faces.

King Aenys, his earlier resolve seeming to ebb away, sighed softly. "Very well, my lords… and my mother. It seems we have enough to occupy us for the nonce. Let us reconvene on the morrow, once Master Qorhys has had more time to… listen to his birds."

Orys Baratheon rose, his usual booming energy somewhat subdued. "Aye, Your Grace. A man needs to break his fast. This talk of fanatics has soured my appetite."

Prince Maegor pushed back from the table, his expression still thunderous. "See that these investigations bear fruit, Qorhys. I have little patience for threats to the Iron Throne, be they cloaked in piety or born of Dornish sand." He gave a curt nod to the King and strode from the chamber.

Grand Maester Orland gathered his scrolls, his movements slow and deliberate. "Wisdom and caution, Your Grace. Let us pray that cooler heads prevail in Oldtown."

Queen Dowager Visenya regarded her son with a piercing gaze. "Do not underestimate the power of faith, Aenys. It can move mountains, or topple kings." She rose gracefully and followed Maegor out of the chamber.

Lord Triston Massey, ever the diligent servant, lingered for a moment, exchanging a few quiet words with the King before taking his leave.

Finally, only King Aenys and Quenton Qorhys remained. Aenys looked pale and troubled. "This… this High Septon. He speaks such harsh words. Does the realm truly see me as… an abomination?"

Qorhys, his voice soft as ever, replied, "Words are weapons, Your Grace. But they are not always the truth. It is our task to ensure they do not become the spark that ignites a fire."

With that, the Master of Whispers also slipped away, leaving King Aenys alone with his anxieties in the echoing silence of the Small Council chamber, the midday sun a stark reminder of the troubles that lay ahead.