Title: The Tying of the Knot

Title: The Tying of the Knot

Year and Month: 88 AC, 2nd Moon

A proposal, no matter how logical, is merely a spark. To start a fire, one needs fuel, air, and a steady hand. My "Unwritten Treaty" was the spark. In the months that followed that fateful night in the solar, my father, King Jaehaerys, became the steady hand, cautiously nurturing my radical plan into a tangible reality. I had provided the architectural blueprint; now, he and Septon Barth had to become master builders, laying each stone with a care that bordered on reverence. For me, this period was an exercise in strategic patience, a tense but satisfying wait as the gears I had set in motion began to turn.

My days continued under the guise of princely education, but our lessons took on a new, practical dimension. Barth would bring me sanitized reports on the negotiations, framing them as theoretical exercises. "My prince," he would say, "imagine two great lords with overlapping claims. How might a wise king persuade them to see a shared interest?" I would play my part, offering "childishly" simple insights that were, in fact, direct, strategic advice, helping them navigate the complex emotional and political currents of the discussions.

My nights, however, were for unfiltered intelligence. The Red Keep, once a mere prison of stone, had become a theatre, and through Balerion's senses, I had the best seat in the house. The King, acting on my counsel, understood that a grand council announcing the betrothals would be a mistake. It would seem reactive, forced. The knot had to be tied in private, with each party convinced that they were acting in their own best interest.

The first meeting was with his sons. My brothers, Aemon and Baelon.

Jaehaerys summoned them to his private chambers, a space so intimate that the presence of the Hand was a clear sign of the gravity of the meeting. From my vantage point—a mental projection into Balerion, who clung like a gargoyle of shadow to the exterior wall of the Tower of the Hand, feeling the vibrations through the granite—I witnessed a masterclass in kingship.

My father did not speak of future wars or rivalries. To do so would have been an insult to the genuine love and loyalty his sons held for each other. Instead, he framed the proposal as a celebration of their strength, a way to build an unshakeable foundation for the future of House Targaryen.

"Aemon," he began, his voice warm with paternal pride, addressing his heir. "You have given the realm a jewel in your daughter, Rhaenys. Her Velaryon blood makes our house strong on the seas." He then turned to Baelon. "And you, my son, have given us the future in Viserys and Daemon. Your strength is the shield of the throne."

He let the praise settle in the quiet room. Aemon, ever dutiful, nodded solemnly. Baelon, more emotional, beamed with pride.

"Our house is stronger than it has ever been," Jaehaerys continued, his voice taking on a graver tone. "But strength invites challenge. Not just from without, but from within. Lesser lords, ambitious men, will always seek to find a crack, a sliver of daylight between the princes of the blood, so they might widen it for their own gain. They will whisper in the ears of your children and your children's children. They will manufacture slights, invent rivalries, and nurture grievances, all to advance their own positions."

He looked from one son to the other. "I wish to shut that door. Forever. I wish to build a wall of unity so high that no man will ever dare to try and climb it."

He then laid out the first part of the plan: the betrothal of Baelon's son, Viserys, to Aemon's granddaughter, Laena Velaryon.

Aemon was the first to speak. He was a thoughtful man, not prone to rash reactions. "It is a strong match, Father. It would bind my blood to my brother's. No man could doubt the strength of that union."

Baelon, however, looked stunned. His love for Aemon was fierce and true. The implication that their lines could ever be seen as rivals was a genuine shock to him. "Do you fear we would quarrel, Father?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "Aemon is my brother. I would die for him. His heir is my heir."

"And I for you, brother," Aemon added immediately.

"It is not your quarrel I fear," Jaehaerys said gently, placing a hand on Baelon's shoulder. "It is the quarrel of a hundred years from now. I am building a legacy that will outlive us all. This union is not a remedy for a sickness, my sons. It is an inoculation against a plague we have not yet seen."

Seen through the cold lens of my business acumen, it was a brilliant piece of management. He was selling them on a long-term strategic vision, appealing to their loyalty and their desire to protect the family brand. They agreed. There was no hesitation. The love they bore their father and each other was the essential ingredient that made the first part of my treaty possible. They saw it as a symbol of their unity, which, in a way, it was. A unity I was carefully manufacturing.

The second part of the plan, the negotiation with Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, was a far more delicate and dangerous affair. Corlys was not bound by the same filial love. He was the CEO of a rival corporation, a man of immense ambition whose recent marriage to my cousin Rhaenys had effectively been a hostile takeover of a competing claim. He was "new money," fabulously wealthy from his voyages, and he deeply desired the one thing his gold could not buy: the ancient, unshakeable prestige of the Targaryens.

He was summoned to King's Landing on the pretext of discussing fleet deployments. He arrived on his great ship, the Sea Snake, a vessel whose opulence was a deliberate statement of power. He strode into the throne room not as a supplicant lord, but as a visiting potentate.

The negotiations took place over three days in the Small Council chamber. Again, I was a silent observer, my consciousness miles away yet focused on every word, every subtle shift in posture. Jaehaerys, wisely, allowed Septon Barth to take the lead in the initial discussions. It was a negotiation between two of the sharpest minds in Westeros.

Barth began by praising Lord Corlys's voyages, his acumen, his wealth. He spoke of the Crown's desire for a stronger, more permanent naval presence. He laid the groundwork, making Corlys feel valued, respected. On the second day, he introduced the betrothal of Laena to Viserys.

Corlys was shrewd. He saw the implications immediately. "An interesting proposal, my Lord Hand," he said, his voice smooth as silk. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "My daughter, a future queen consort. My grandson, a future king. House Velaryon has always served the dragons. This would seem to cement that service." He paused. "But what of my wife's claim? Rhaenys is the daughter of the Prince of Dragonstone. By rights, her children should sit the Iron Throne, not merely stand beside it."

He was probing, testing for weakness, trying to gauge the true purpose of the offer. This was the critical moment.

"The King does not see it as a matter of competing claims, Lord Corlys," Barth replied calmly. "He sees it as a matter of merging strengths. This is not about setting aside Princess Rhaenys. It is about elevating her line to the absolute heart of the succession. The child of this union will carry the blood of Aemon, Baelon, and the ancient sea-lords of Valyria. Their claim will be ironclad, indisputable. It is a path that avoids all future conflict."

Corlys smiled, a thin, humourless expression. "Conflict can be profitable, Septon. For the victor."

"And ruinous for the vanquished," Barth countered. "The King does not gamble with the fate of the realm. He builds certainties."

On the third day, my father entered the negotiations. He did not come to haggle. He came to close the deal. He laid the final part of my proposal on the table.

"Lord Corlys," Jaehaerys said, his voice resonating with royal authority. "Your ambition is as vast as the oceans you have conquered. I do not see this as a flaw. I see it as a resource the realm has underutilized. Septon Barth has spoken of the betrothal. I am here to speak of your place in my kingdom."

He then made the offer. A permanent seat on the Small Council. The revival of a dormant title, 'Master of Ships,' to be combined with a new one, 'Lord Admiral of the Royal Fleet.' He was not just giving Corlys a job; he was giving him an office of state, a position of immense power and prestige that would make House Velaryon second only to House Targaryen in the hierarchy of the court.

I could feel the shift in the room, even through the cold stone. Corlys's carefully constructed mask of detached negotiation faltered. This was more than he had ever expected. His ambition was to see his blood on the throne. This plan gave him that, and it gave him personal power beyond his wildest dreams. It satisfied both his dynastic and his personal pride.

"And what of Daemon Targaryen?" Corlys asked, his mind clearly working through the angles. "Baelon's second son. He is a boy with fire in his veins. He will not be content to be a spare."

"My grandson will be betrothed to your second daughter, should you be blessed with one," Jaehaerys said, directly addressing the point I had insisted upon. "Failing that, we will find him a bride of suitable standing. But his ambition will be harnessed. He will have a place in the command of the City Watch, and a path to glory in service to the Crown. He will be a shield of the realm, not a rogue dragon."

Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, the man who had sailed to the ends of the earth, leaned forward. He looked at the King, at the Hand, and he saw a deal from which he could not possibly extract more value. He saw a future where his grandchildren would rule the Seven Kingdoms, and he would be the power behind the throne.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice resonating with a new, deeper respect. "You have built a legacy of peace and wisdom. House Velaryon would be honoured to be the anchor of that legacy for all time. We accept."

The knot was tied.

In the weeks that followed, a series of royal decrees and announcements were made. The betrothal of Prince Viserys and Lady Laena was proclaimed at a grand feast, celebrated as a joyful symbol of the unity between the two senior branches of the royal house. Lord Corlys Velaryon was invested as Master of Ships and Lord Admiral in a solemn ceremony in the throne room. The moves were hailed by the court as yet another example of Jaehaerys's brilliant statesmanship, his foresight in securing the future.

No one saw the hand of the seven-year-old prince who had architected the entire affair. No one knew that the greatest political treaty of the last fifty years had been conceived in the mind of a child, a reincarnated executive with a deep-seated aversion to chaotic market conditions.

I stood beside my father during the investiture ceremony, a small, silent figure in the vastness of the throne room. He placed his hand on my head for a moment, a seemingly casual gesture of paternal affection. But I felt the slight pressure of his fingers, a silent acknowledgement. It was a confirmation of our secret partnership. He was the public face of power, the wise king on the Iron Throne. I was the silent, unseen strategist, the chairman of the board, ensuring the long-term stability and profitability of our shared enterprise. The succession was secure. The path ahead was clear. The waiting could continue.