57 AC
Kings Landing
In the Red Keep of King's Landing, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen presided over a meeting of his small council. The weight of the realm pressed upon his shoulders, a burden he carried with a weary grace. Around the long, polished table sat the members of his council: each a pillar of the kingdom, each with their own agendas and concerns.
Ser Daemon Velaryon, Master of Ships, spoke of trade routes and naval strength, his voice booming with the confidence of a man who commanded the seas. Septon Barth, the Hand of the King, his brow furrowed in thought, presented reports from across the Seven Kingdoms, detailing harvests, disputes, and the ever-present threat of unrest.
Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin, meticulously reviewed the royal treasury, his words precise and his calculations sharp. He spoke of expenditures and revenues, of debts and investments, his tone reflecting the gravity of his office.
Grand Maester Elysar, his face etched with the wisdom of years, offered his counsel on matters of health and learning, his voice calm and measured. He spoke of remedies and ailments, of the health of the realm, and the progress of the Citadel.
Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood silently near the king, his white cloak a stark contrast to the dark wood of the table. His presence was a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked, even within the walls of the Red Keep.
Notably absent from the gathering was Queen Alysanne Targaryen. She had recently given birth to a son, Vaegon, and was still recovering from the ordeal.
King Jaehaerys I, after listening patiently to the reports, leaned forward, his gaze sweeping across the faces of his councilors. "And what of the realm itself?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of his crown. "What news do you bring of the happenings in the Seven Kingdoms? What stirs beyond these walls?"
Lord Beesbury added his concerns. "The treasury remains stable, Your Grace, but the cost of maintaining the city watch has risen. The influx of people from the countryside, seeking refuge from the unrest, has strained our resources."
Ser Daemon Velaryon, ever mindful of the sea, spoke next. "The Ironborn have been unusually quiet, my king. Too quiet, perhaps. I have increased patrols along the western coast, but it may be wise to send a royal fleet to Pyke, as a show of force."
Grand Maester Elysar offered a more somber note. "A new strain of fever has appeared in the Riverlands, Your Grace. It is not as virulent as the Great Sickness, but it is spreading quickly. I have dispatched healers from the Citadel, but the situation bears watching."
Then Septon Barth spoke, adding to the concerns. "Your Grace, while the Reach enjoyed a bountiful harvest, they face a different problem. They have an excess of grain, but the usual trade routes to the North are disrupted, and they are struggling to sell it. The Riverlands face a similar issue, though their surplus is smaller. They too are finding it difficult to trade northwards."
King Jaehaerys I, his brow furrowed with concern, turned his attention to Septon Barth. "And what of the North?" he asked, his voice firm. "Have you received any news from beyond the Neck? What tidings do they bring?"
Quenton, the Master of Whispers, spoke, his voice a low, silken murmur. "My king, my spies in the North have been... less forthcoming of late. However, I have gleaned some information. It seems there has been a significant undertaking in Winterfell: the construction of a university, called the College of Winterhold. It is said to be a place of learning, intended to educate the future lords and ladies of the North, as well as any talented smallfolk who show promise."
Septon Barth shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowed. "A university in Winterfell?" he questioned, his voice laced with skepticism. "This... College of Winterhold. It sounds like a departure from the traditional ways. Is it truly wise to encourage such... novel ideas in the North?"
Grand Maester Elysar echoed the sentiment, his face etched with concern. "The Citadel has served the realm for centuries, providing maesters to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. We are the keepers of knowledge, the guardians of tradition. This... College... could undermine our authority, our purpose."
He steepled his fingers, his gaze fixed on the king. "And what knowledge will be taught there? Will it be the wisdom of the ancients, the accumulated learning of generations? Or will it be some... new, untested philosophy, some radical departure from the established order?"
Septon Barth nodded in agreement. "The Faith teaches us the importance of tradition, of adhering to the ways of our ancestors. This College... it smacks of innovation, of a dangerous curiosity. It could lead to heresy, to a questioning of the very foundations of our society."
Ser Daemon Velaryon, however, leaned forward, his expression sharp and his voice laced with a hint of defiance. "With all due respect to the Hand and the Grand Maester," he interjected, "I see this College of Winterhold as a sign of strength, not weakness. The North has always been a land of hardy people, resourceful and independent. If they seek to expand their knowledge, to educate their future leaders, then we should commend them, not condemn them."
Lord Lyman Beesbury, ever focused on the flow of coin, added his perspective. "Indeed, Your Grace, the North has consistently improved its tax contribution to the crown year after year. This suggests a growing prosperity and strength in the region, rather than a decline. Perhaps this College of Winterhold is a contributing factor to their increasing economic power."
Septon Barth, however, remained unconvinced. "That is precisely why I believe the North is becoming dangerously independent of the realm," he countered. "Their growing wealth and self-sufficiency, coupled with this... College... could lead them to believe they have no need of the Iron Throne. It is a subtle form of rebellion, a quiet assertion of their own power."
Grand Maester Elysar nodded in agreement with Septon Barth's assessment. "And it is not just their wealth," he added, his voice grave. "The North has been producing goods like crafting glass of remarkable clarity, producing cement, and even manufacturing soaps and... distilled spirits... of considerable quality. Their whiskey and what they call 'vodka' are becoming quite popular." He paused, his expression troubled. "This self-sufficiency in both knowledge and production... it is a dangerous combination."
Grand Maester Elysar's voice hardened. "Given this growing independence and economic strength, Your Grace," he stated, "I believe it is time to consider increasing the taxes levied upon the North. It would serve as a reminder of their place within the realm and help to curb their... ambitions."
Ser Daemon Velaryon scoffed, interrupting the Grand Maester. "Increase their taxes again?" he exclaimed, his voice laced with incredulity. "Have you forgotten the last time we tried that? We've already increased their taxes twice in the past five years. If we squeeze them any harder, we won't just curb their ambitions; we'll plant the seeds of rebellion. And the North, as you all know, is not a land that takes kindly to being pushed."
Septon Barth, ever the pragmatist, offered a different approach. "Perhaps," he suggested, his tone thoughtful, "we should not increase the taxes directly on the North itself, but rather on the luxury goods they produce. The glass, the cement, the... spirits. If, as you say, they are the only ones capable of producing such items, then an increase in the tax on these goods will, in effect, be an indirect tax increase on the North, without the appearance of aggression."
Grand Maester Elysar nodded slowly, his initial reservations seemingly eased by the Hand's subtle approach. "That... is a more nuanced solution," he conceded. "It would achieve the desired result without provoking open hostility. A delicate balance, but perhaps a necessary one."
King Jaehaerys I, having listened to all the arguments presented, weighed the potential consequences of each course of action. He considered the concerns about the North's growing independence, the need to maintain the stability of the realm, and the wisdom of avoiding open conflict. Finally, he spoke, his voice firm and decisive. "Very well," he declared. "We shall proceed with caution. Increase the taxes on the luxury goods produced in the North, as Septon Barth suggests. But do so gradually, and monitor the situation closely. We must not provoke the North, but neither can we ignore the potential threat they pose."
Ser Ryam straightened, his expression shifting from the stern vigilance of a Kingsguard to the proud satisfaction of a mentor. "Your Grace," he replied, his voice respectful but filled with genuine admiration, "Prince Aemon and Prince Baelon are showing remarkable progress. They are both naturally gifted, with a keen aptitude for both swordplay and horsemanship."
He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Prince Aemon possesses his father's focus and discipline. He is meticulous in his training, always striving for perfection. He masters every technique with diligence and determination. He is a true knight in the making."
"Prince Baelon," Ser Ryam continued, his voice warming, "is more like his mother. He has a natural flair, a boldness and a quickness that is breathtaking to behold. He fights with a passion and a ferocity that is truly awe-inspiring. He is a born warrior."
The Lord Commander went on to describe their daily regimen, the hours spent in the training yards, the grueling drills, and the sparring matches against seasoned knights. He spoke of their dedication, their eagerness to learn, and their unwavering commitment to becoming worthy knights of the realm.
He recounted tales of their growing skill, of Aemon's precise parries and Baelon's daring charges, of their victories against older and more experienced opponents. He spoke of their camaraderie, their mutual respect, and the bond of brotherhood that grew stronger with each passing day.
"They are not just learning to fight," Ser Ryam emphasized, his voice filled with pride. "They are learning the virtues of knighthood: courage, honor, and loyalty. They are learning to be true Targaryens, worthy of their lineage and their destiny."
King Jaehaerys listened intently, his expression softening with each word. A flicker of hope ignited in his weary eyes, a sense of reassurance that the future of his house, the future of the realm, was in good hands.