Chapter 8: Silver Chains and Careful Lies
The fifteenth day of the eighth moon brought a crisp wind off the Gods Eye, carrying the scent of turning leaves and distant woodsmoke from the smallfolk's harvest fires. Prince Aegon Targaryen stood on the battlements of the Kingspyre Tower, silver-gold hair whipping across his violet eyes, watching a lone raven circle once before diving toward the rookery. Another letter. The third in as many weeks.
Tommard waited below in the solar, already breaking the seal when Aegon descended the winding stair. Lanna hovered near the brazier, warming mulled dragon's-breath for the prince's cup. Ser Oswell stood by the door, hand resting lightly on his sword hilt—the habit of a man who now trusted no outsiders.
"It's from the king again, my prince," Tommard said, holding out the parchment. "Thick this time. And there's a second scroll inside, sealed with the Citadel's archmaester's mark."
Aegon took both, settling into the high-backed chair that still felt too large for his nine-year-old frame. He broke Daeron's seal first, reading aloud in the clear, boyish voice he had perfected.
My dear brother Aegon,
I have received a full reply from the Conclave in Oldtown regarding the unfortunate matter of Maester Walys. They write that Walys acted without the knowledge or approval of the Citadel. He had grown overly fearful in his isolation at Harrenhal and confided in a fellow maester, one Elbert of the Vale, who was visiting on scholarly matters. The pair apparently shared wild suspicions about your recovery from fever. The Citadel states plainly that such treasonous thoughts have no place in their order. They have already dealt with Maester Elbert—executed quietly in Oldtown for his part in the correspondence—and express deepest regret for any distress caused to our house. They affirm that Harrenhal requires no replacement maester at this time and will await your word should you ever wish for learned counsel again.
Your swift justice has preserved the peace. I am proud of your care for the seat and the smallfolk. Continue your school and your drills; the realm needs strong lords who think of the future. We will speak more at Riverrun when the roads clear.
Your brother and king,
Daeron
Aegon set the letter down gently. The second scroll—shorter, written in a precise, spidery hand—confirmed the same tale almost word for word, signed by Archmaester Theobald himself.
He passed both to Tommard and Lanna. The boy read quickly, frowning. "They killed their own man? Just like that?"
Lanna's eyes widened. "To make it look clean. Like Walys was the only bad apple."
Aegon leaned back, sipping the warm, honeyed spirit. The fire spread pleasantly through his chest, but his mind stayed ice-cold. Of course they did. One rogue maester and his "friend." Executed quietly so no questions linger. No admission that the Citadel has whispered against dragons for centuries—poisoned eggs, stillborn babes, the slow rot of madness in our blood. They fear what I might become. And now they hide behind silver chains and pretty words. Aloud he said, in a small, thoughtful voice, "The Citadel is wise to punish its own. King Daeron will see that justice was done on both sides. No new maester will come. Harrenhal remains ours alone."
Ser Oswell grunted approval. "Saves us the trouble of turning another one away. The smallfolk already say the curse itself struck the old chain-man down."
Tommard handed the letters back, still uneasy. "But… do you believe them, my prince? That it was only two men?"
Aegon met his squire's eyes with perfect innocence. "What matters is that the king believes it. And now the Citadel has washed its hands. We thank them politely in our next raven—grateful for their swift justice, loyal as ever." He smiled the bright, boyish smile that made Lanna's cheeks pink. "Then we forget them. The school opens wider tomorrow. Any child who walks through the gates learns. No chains required."
The rest of the day unfolded in its now-familiar, unhurried rhythm. Morning court in the great hall: Aegon settled a dispute between two shepherds over winter grazing rights, using printed tallies that showed exact pasture shares for the coming snows. The farmers left bowing and murmuring thanks. Afternoon: he sat on a low bench in the Tower of Ghosts academy, listening to a miller's daughter of ten summers read haltingly from a simple history of the Conquest. The other children—fifteen now—watched with shining eyes. "The dragon-prince teaches us himself," one boy whispered loudly enough for Aegon to hear. He pretended not to notice, but inside the selfish warmth grew. Minds loyal to me, not to Oldtown.
Evening brought another quiet distillation session in the cellar. Tommard measured the new batch of lavender-scented spirits while Aegon adjusted the copper coil. "This one for gifts," Aegon murmured. "A cask for King Daeron's nameday. Scented so gently a lady would wear it. He will like that we thought of the court."
Lanna, standing watch at the stair, smiled softly. "You think of everything, my prince."
As the moon rose, Aegon stood once more at the solar window, the Citadel's scroll and Daeron's letter laid side by side on the table beside the faded weirwood leaf. The old emptiness flickered—rain-slick streets, headlights, the nothing—but he crushed it beneath the steady beat of control. The Citadel had lied to save face. Daeron had accepted the lie. Harrenhal grew stronger every day: disciplined guards, educated smallfolk, spies who reported only to him.
He picked up a fresh quill and began the reply to his brother-king—grateful words, loving words, perfectly childish.
Fire and blood, he thought as the ink dried. But lies first. Always lies first.
End of Chapter 8