Chapter 12: The Sycophantic Grand Maester Pycelle
News from the Stepstones arrived in King's Landing like a coin with two faces—one grim, one bright.
The bad news came first.
Lord Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King and Lord of Storm's End, had been gravely wounded in battle. Though he yet lived, he lay unconscious, his chest crushed beneath the monstrous blow of Maelys Blackfyre's meteor hammer. Word spread quickly through the Red Keep and the noble manors of the city. Few had ever accused Lord Ormund of being reckless, yet none could deny his courage. He had ridden forward beneath the crowned stag, just as his house words demanded—Ours Is the Fury—and had nearly paid with his life.
The good news followed swiftly, softening the blow.
On Bloodstone, the young knight Ser Barristan Selmy had slain Maelys Blackfyre in single combat.
That single fact echoed across Westeros like thunder.
The Monstrous Blackfyre, last male of his line and leader of the Golden Company, was dead. With his fall, the Blackfyre cause—already rotting—collapsed entirely. Though female descendants of Daemon Blackfyre yet lived scattered across Essos, none could truly threaten the Iron Throne without a male claimant to rally around.
The war, in truth, had already ended.
Lord Ormund had been carried from the battlefield by his son, Ser Steffon Baratheon, first to Storm's End, then by ship to King's Landing. The maesters labored day and night. His ribs were shattered, his lungs bruised, yet the Stranger had been denied. The healers said it was only a matter of time before he woke.
Whispers spread quickly.
They spoke of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, calling him the Lucky One.
Those who had received the young prince's attention—his regard, his encouragement—seemed blessed by fortune. Lord Ormund had survived a blow meant to kill. Though men of reason pointed to the sudden panic of the warhorse that had saved him, the nobles preferred a better story.
Luck was more comforting than chance.
Some time later, darker tidings arrived.
Ser Jason Lannister had fallen in battle.
Even so, the belief in Prince Rhaegar's luck did not fade. Instead, men said that Ser Jason's fate had been sealed long before Bloodstone. House Lannister of Casterly Rock had suffered ill fortune for years. Sons had died young or ingloriously, and many whispered that the curse of Lord Gerold Lannister, accused of kinslaying, still clung to his bloodline.
Why else would the Laughing Lion have emerged?
The fighting in the Stepstones dragged on for a short while longer, but without Maelys Blackfyre, the so-called Ninepenny Kings lost all appetite for Westeros. The islands had become more burden than prize. Unlike the Blackfyres, they bore no deep hatred for the Iron Throne. War, for them, was business—and a failing venture was abandoned without regret.
They returned to Essos.
Across Westeros, one name now traveled faster than ravens.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
Highborn ladies whispered of him in solar chambers. Mill girls spoke his name while grinding grain. Songs were composed almost overnight. Many envied the woman betrothed to him, imagining a future beside such a paragon of knighthood.
Others shook their heads.
A knight who loved honor so fiercely rarely belonged to one woman for long.
Those with insight suspected the truth—that Ser Barristan would one day don a white cloak and give his life not to love, but to duty.
Peace, long absent, seemed close at hand.
In King's Landing, celebration returned.
Within the Queen Dowager's Ballroom, King Jaehaerys II Targaryen sat upon a raised dais beside his queen, Queen Shaera Targaryen. The chamber was modest by royal standards—smaller than the Throne Room, quieter than the Small Hall of the Tower of the Hand—but its elegant tapestries, silvered mirrors, and torchlit walls gave it an intimacy well suited to peace.
The treasury had been strained by war. The tables held lemon cakes, honeyed nuts, and small delicacies rather than lavish roasts. Yet music filled the air—flutes and fiddles weaving warmth into every corner.
These were women who had waited in fear—mothers, wives, daughters, sisters. Now, with Maelys Blackfyre dead, they allowed themselves to smile.
Victory was certain.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen sat between the King and Queen, small enough to appear almost swallowed by the high-backed chairs. Nearby sat Princess Rhaella Targaryen, wife to Prince Aerys, along with Princess Lorenza Martell of Dorne, her presence lending a quiet reminder of fragile alliances.
Lady Joanna Lannister sat composed and unreadable, while Ser Steffon Baratheon stood beside his wife, Lady Cassana Estermont. Though exhaustion still marked his features, the knowledge that his father would live had eased his burden.
Rhaegar watched him closely.
Lord Ormund should have died, he thought.
Yet he had not.
The subtle chime echoed in his mind.
The Tree of Life unfurled before him, its branches thicker, more numerous than before.
Rhaegar Targaryen
Identity: The Last Dragon
Achievements: Lucky One — A minor turning point in history has occurred.
Countless new paths have branched outward.
Rhaegar felt no triumph—only quiet unease.
This is the butterfly effect, he thought. And I have no way of knowing where these branches will lead.
"I must apologize, Steffon," King Jaehaerys II said kindly. "Had you been forced to remain at home, caring for your father, you would have suffered as well."
"You honor me, Your Grace," Ser Steffon replied, bowing. "Grand Maester Pycelle has shown great diligence—consulting ancient texts, summoning skilled maesters, sparing no effort."
The King nodded approvingly. "A young Grand Maester is a blessing. Those who came before were already half-claimed by the Stranger."
At the mention of his name, Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forward, robes plain, beard carefully arranged. He moved with deliberate clumsiness, shoulders hunched, as though age weighed upon him despite his years.
Some of the younger ladies stifled laughter.
Rhaegar felt a chill settle in his chest.
So, he thought, the toad finally steps onto the stage.
Pycelle bowed deeply. "Your Grace honors me beyond measure."
Rhaegar watched silently.
The sycophant had arrived.
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