Chapter 61: The Battle for the Hand — The Ambition of the Sea Snake
The bells of the Red Keep's sept tolled long and low, their mournful clang echoing across Visenya's Hill.
Westeros gathered in black. Nobles, maesters, and septons filled the hall for the funeral of Maester Barth, the realm's most learned Hand.
Only days before, the Golden Jubilee of King Jaehaerys's reign had ended in revelry. Now, those same lords who had cheered at feasts came cloaked in grief.
The Silent Sisters had prepared Barth's body, laying him upon a bier of oak and silver. His hands were folded upon his chest, and beside him lay a small blacksmith's hammer, its head engraved with a seven-pointed star — a symbol of his humble birth and his life's work.
Even the High Septon himself had come to preside. "Maester Barth," he intoned, his voice filling the chamber, "was born a common man and rose by wisdom and service. In him, the Seven saw diligence and devotion. His deeds built roads and bridges, his counsel kept peace in the realm."
King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, white-haired and weary-eyed, stepped forward.
"Barth was my friend before he was my Hand," the old king said softly. "Together, we built a realm from chaos. The roads that bind the kingdoms, the learning that flourishes in our halls — they are his legacy."
Queen Alysanne, veiled in grey, wept silently beside her husband.
When the speeches were done, the pallbearers lifted the coffin — Jaehaerys, Prince Baelon, Prince Daemon, Prince Viserys, Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord Lyman Beesbury, Grand Maester Yalar, and Archmaester Vaegon among them.
Together, they bore Barth's remains through the streets of King's Landing, where crowds knelt and wept. The cortege passed through the King's Gate, bound for the Reach, to lay the Maester's bones among the hills of his birth.
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The Council of Succession
Three days later, the Small Council convened beneath the painted ceiling of the council chamber. The smell of incense and dust lingered. King Jaehaerys sat upon the high chair, his face carved with years of rule.
"The Hand's seat cannot remain empty," he said at last. "Maester Barth's wisdom guided us for forty years. Who shall follow him?"
A murmur swept the room.
Grand Maester Yalar adjusted his chain of office. "Your Grace, there is none more capable than Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides. His nine voyages enriched the realm. His grasp of trade and diplomacy rivals even Barth's."
The High Septon nodded solemnly. "A devout man, blessed by the Warrior and the Smith alike. If chosen Hand, Lord Velaryon would bring prosperity under the gaze of the Seven."
The Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury, added, "The Stepstones have fallen to the Triarchy — Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys united. Braavos and Pentos both watch warily. None understand the Narrow Sea as Lord Corlys does. His counsel would be invaluable."
Daemon listened in silence, his eyes unreadable. To him, it was plain: Oldtown's hands were at work. The High Septon, the Grand Maester, and Beesbury — all men tied by blood or oath to the Hightowers or their allies.
Corlys, ever smiling, rose from his seat. "Your Grace flatters me with such talk. But Westeros is not lacking for talent. There are others worthy — Lord Lyonel Strong of Harrenhal, and even Ser Otto Hightower of Oldtown."
At the mention of the name, Yalar's face lit with approval.
"Ser Otto is learned, dutiful, and devout. He is well-suited to counsel the crown."
The High Septon folded his hands. "Otto Hightower is a man of principle. His faith and judgment will honor both gods and realm."
Beesbury nodded eagerly. "Indeed, the Reach has no finer mind."
Daemon's gaze darkened. Oldtown's chorus sings in harmony, he thought. The Hightowers seek to place one of their own at the king's right hand.
Corlys then leaned forward. "Ser Otto is worthy, yes — but there is one whose claim surpasses all. Prince Baelon Targaryen, the King's own blood. Who better to serve the realm than the son who has ever stood beside his father?"
A silence followed. Baelon looked uneasy, almost embarrassed by the suggestion.
Jaehaerys's fingers drummed the arm of his chair. "My son is loyal and brave," he said slowly, "but he is no Barth."
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A New Name
Then, from the shadows at the far end of the table, Archmaester Vaegon spoke. His voice was calm, yet it carried across the chamber like a blade.
"When Your Grace chose Barth, he was but twenty-five — untested, unproven. Age does not make wisdom. I say again: give the realm to youth, not to grey hair."
All eyes turned toward him.
"I speak of Prince Daemon," Vaegon said. "He has reformed the City Watch, strengthened the Kingsguard, and governed his holdings with both justice and cunning. I have watched him closely. His mind is sharper than his sword."
The room murmured. Even Daemon blinked, caught off guard.
He rose, bowing slightly. "Your Grace, Archmaester Vaegon honors me too greatly. I am content as your Commander of the Kingsguard and Royal Advisor. I am a soldier, not a statesman. My father or my brother Viserys are far more suited."
His words were humble — though his tone betrayed neither eagerness nor fear.
Better to hold the sword than the quill, Daemon thought. The Hand serves at the King's whim, but the Captain commands the men who keep him safe.
King Jaehaerys nodded, though a flicker of pride touched his eyes.
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The Queen's Choice
At last, Queen Alysanne spoke, her voice faint but clear.
"If it please His Grace, there is one other whose loyalty is unquestioned — Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
The room stilled.
Ser Ryam, old and scarred, looked up in surprise. The defeat at the Jubilee Tourney still weighed upon him, but at her words, color returned to his face.
"I have served the crown all my life," he said. "If His Grace commands it, I will serve once more — not with the sword, but with my counsel."
Yalar frowned. "Your valor none doubt, Ser Ryam, but governance is not won with a lance."
Ryam bristled. "When Barth was made Hand, he was mocked as a blacksmith's son. Yet he built more than any lord born to power. If a blacksmith could rule with wisdom, why not a knight?"
The High Septon smiled, raising his hands. "The Smith's work was followed by the Warrior's strength. The realm needs both."
Jaehaerys considered long and hard. His gaze swept over each face — Baelon's loyalty, Corlys's ambition, Daemon's quiet fire, Alysanne's weary hope.
"Very well," the King said at last. "Let the Warrior succeed the Smith. I name Ser Ryam Redwyne, Hand of the King."
Corlys Velaryon inclined his head with practiced grace, though the light in his sea-green eyes turned cold.
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The Ambition of the Sea Snake
When the council ended, the Sea Snake departed the Red Keep in silence.
He rode through the twilight streets to Rhaenys's Hill, to the great bronze doors of the Dragonpit.
Above the hill, the sky burned red — the Red Queen Meleys circling in the dying light, wings catching the glow like molten metal.
Upon her back rode Princess Rhaenys, her children Laena and Laenor clasped before her, their laughter echoing through the dusk.
When the dragon landed, the ground trembled. Meleys folded her wings and lowered her neck, allowing her rider and the children to slide to the earth.
Rhaenys turned to her husband as he approached. "Well?" she asked. "Whom has the King chosen?"
"Not me," Corlys said dryly. "Nor Daemon, nor Baelon, nor Otto Hightower. The old King has named Ser Ryam Redwyne."
Rhaenys frowned. "A fine knight, but no Hand. The realm deserves better."
Corlys's smile did not reach his eyes. "The King grows sentimental. But sentiment passes. Time will bring change."
As Meleys was led into the Dragonpit by the Dragonkeepers, the children ran toward the slumbering dragons within — Vermithor, bronze and immense, and Silverwing, pale as moonlight.
"Mother, may I ride her?" asked little Laena, eyes shining.
"And I'll ride Vermithor!" Laenor declared proudly.
Rhaenys's smile faltered. "No, my loves. Those dragons already have riders — the King and Queen. As long as they live, no other may claim them."
"But they never ride anymore!" Laena protested.
Rhaenys only sighed. "Even so, my sweet one. Dragons have wills of their own."
When the children ran off to study the Valyrian carvings along the walls, Corlys turned to his wife, his voice low.
"Daemon and Baelon think they can bar us from dragonkind with their so-called dragon law. I will not see our children denied what is theirs by blood."
Rhaenys's brow furrowed. "You would defy royal decree? That path leads to ruin."
Corlys's gaze hardened. "Barth is dead. He alone kept watch over the dragons and their eggs. Now that his eyes are closed, we have freedom — and opportunity. The Red Queen laid eggs at Driftmark, Rhaenys. I hid them from the crown with the help of the warlocks of Qarth."
Rhaenys's eyes widened. "That is treason, Corlys. The possession of dragon eggs without leave of the crown—"
"—is only treason if they discover it," Corlys interrupted. "Power is not given; it is taken. With dragons of our own, no one — not Daemon, not Baelon, not even the King — can deny our claim."
Rhaenys looked away toward the sleeping dragons. "You speak as though ambition were virtue."
Corlys smiled faintly. "Ambition built our fleet. Ambition brought us home from the Shivering Sea, the Jade Gates, and Asshai itself. Why should it not build our dynasty as well?"
As he spoke, the torches of the Dragonpit guttered, their flames swaying like serpents.
Above them, Meleys stirred, lifting her crimson head.
The Sea Snake's eyes gleamed in the flickering light. "Let the Targaryens keep their throne," he said softly. "But let the Velaryons keep their fire."
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