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Janos - IV

The sun over Blackwater Bay had the color of watered milk, bright enough to sting the eyes yet carrying none of the summer’s bite. A shy veil of mist still clung to the waves, and the wind was sharp with brine and tar and the faint, sour note of rotting fishnets hung out to dry along the quays. Gulls screamed over the water, diving for silver flashes, only to scatter whenever the greater shadow glided past.

That shadow was Red Eyes, metallic pitch‑black from snout to tail‑tip. His scales looked forged of midnight metal: every plate the color of coal until a slant of sunlight teased out a slick, oily sheen. In his skull burned two red jewels of blood‑diamond irises ringed by thin stars of brighter ruby. No other color dared intrude.

“É preciso dar um jeito, meu amigo…” Janos Celtigar sang beneath his breath as he guided the dragon through a lazy banking turn. The words came soft, half‑spoken, half‑remembered, in a tongue no maester’s tome had ever recorded. His voice was hoarse from salt and too many sleepless nights, but the melody rode the wind all the same.

He sat high in his saddle, scarlet hair whipping about like a pennon, the dark pouches under his eyes as permanent as any heraldic device. One gloved hand held the reins lightly; the other pressed against Red Eyes’ warm neck, feeling the steady thunder of flight through scale and leather and bone. “É preciso dar um jeito, meu amigo…”

“The Port of Whispers is growing, but it still leans on those salt mines too much. The warehouses along the eastern docks were filling faster than his clerks could tally the ledgers, yet it was still the white crystals that paid for the timber, the bricks, the brewer’s copper. We need to diversify or we will stagnate” Janos told himself, mind already miles ahead of the flight path, hearing his late father’s gravelly lessons in the back of his mind.

“And then there were Alyssa and Lucious… They’ve not forgiven me” he admitted in his mind with a wince. “Why would they ? Yesterday’s proud vassal lords become today’s basic hereditary glorified stewards, all because their little brother fancied a cleaner chain of command. It was only logical… with all my reforms I could not let the Hardys be exempt from them, their people stuck in the past because of familial bonds… But how to explain this to my sister and her husband I practically stripped of powers and privileges…” Lamented Janos.

“Descansar não adianta…” He lifted his voice again as Red Eyes clawed through a thin scud of cloud. Vapor burst around them, cold droplets hissing against the dragon scales. “Rest gains me nothing”, he echoed inwardly. “Not while the ledger grows fatter than the granaries.”

They broke the sun‑side of the cloudbank, the bay spread beneath them like hammered bronze. Janos’ gaze drifted back northward, toward Crackclaw’s ragged coastline. Schools, he counted silently. “Six stout houses in the south with stone walls, slate roofs and good teachers pulled from the orphan‑scholars. And still half the children stay in the furrows because their parents need the hands. In the north, there were only promises and a single cartload of timber that had yet to leave the sawmill. I could conscript the parents for a week, pay them in grain, force the attendance… but forced minds learn nothing. It was an old struggle: the ideal in one palm, the material conditions in the other.” Thought the young lord deeply.

He thought of his mother next, unbidden. “Gael has spoken even less this past moon, Alicent spoke. Some days she answers only by touch…” Janos’ chest tightened behind his boiled‑leather jerkin. “The court still whispered that Gael Targaryen was “simple,” too delicate for intrigue, too fragile for grief. They did not understand the silent storms that hid behind her violet eyes, nor how deeply the world’s cruelty scored her skin. If I could give her silence without sorrow, I would…. But gods, I barely patch the roofs of my people, let alone the cracks in my mother’s heart.” Thought Janos, both saddened and enraged.

Red Eyes tilted a wing, diving in exuberant spirals toward the water. Janos let him drop until spray leapt and stung his cheeks. A few loose droplets spattered the leather of his boots before the dragon hauled skyward again, triumphant. The rider laughed, a short laugh, surprised and a little raw.

“Quando a gente se levanta…” The lyric came out on that laugh, the tune bright for a heartbeat before slipping back to melancholy. “The new septon of Claw Isle was another weight. Septon Maurice ugh…” Janos thought, grinding his teeth. “Every sermon a scold, every visit a reminder I’m too lenient, that the smallfolk dare call my name louder more than they call Smith’s. As though piety were a loaf of bread that grew smaller with each hungry mouth. And what did the man expect Janos to do ? Beat humility into the populace ? Hang a few of  those “heretics” in the square ? Not today, he promised to the salty wind. Not ever, if I can help it.” Thought the lord, determined.

His mind quickly fed him another concern, a flash of worry for Alicent joined his thoughts. “Eight months growing close to nine months already; the maester waffled, but the bump beneath those emerald silks left no doubt. The babe kicked strong and healthy, I remember as if it was yesterday... Alicent smiled, dutiful, serene… And still, there’s something behind her eyes, something she will not say. Perhaps it was court gossip, or something I did, or simply the fear every new mother carried…” Whatever it was, it gnawed at him in the quiet hours between ledger

Ahead, the pale sprawl of King’s Landing climbed the horizon. Black‑tiled roofs and timbered lanes sprawled beneath a haze of chimney smoke; the Red Keep’s towers speared the sky like bloody lances. Their shadow spread wide across the bay, swallowing wave and wake alike.

“Quanta coisa aconteceu…” Janos finished the final line of the chorus as that shadow slid over him and his mount “so much has happened. These words feel heavier than the armor i use…” reflected the Celtigar inside his mind.

Red Eyes answered with a contented rumble, expelling twin plumes of steaming breath that twirled in the chill air. The dragon did not understand the song’s tongue, perhaps, but he felt its ache. Janos could tell by the way the great head turned back, those ruby eyes soft with an impossible empathy.

“Você gostou, não é, meu amigo?” Janos spoke aloud, so the wind might carry the gratitude he felt to be listened to by his dear friend. “A beautiful song for an ugly world.”

The descent to the Dragonpit was gentle for a beast of two hundred tons. Talons found ancient, gouged stone; wings folded with a sound like ship‑canvas snapping; the earth itself trembled and then sighed in stillness. Janos swung down, boots thudding on the flagstones. He reached up to scratch the warm seam where neck scale met jaw, and Red Eyes answered with a series of low chirps, happy, almost foolishly so for a creature who could swallow a draft horse.

“Stay calm while I’m inside,” Janos told him, resting his forehead against cool, midnight armor. “No toasting dragonkeepers. No fighting with the other dragons. I promise I will visit as much as I can.”

The dragon’s only reply was another short trill, but the sound washed something heavy out of Janos’ lungs. For a heartbeat he could almost believe the day might be gentler than his doubts foretold.

He turned toward the exit of the dragon pit then, the song still echoing in the hollow between heartbeats, its refrain stitching itself to every task awaiting him in his standing in Kinslanding. “a meeting with the Master of Coin, good old uncle Bartimos ever the sharp… then a talk with King Viserys and the court… then an eventual supper with the Velaryons to discuss trade between driftmark and claw isle… and I still need to finally speak with Otto after all this time…” Thought Janos tired, while the tune lingered like a hand on his shoulder. “É preciso dar um jeito, meu amigo…”

…

The harbor of King's Landing bustled like a living thing under the pale gold of morning. Light glinted off the choppy waters and the salt-bitten hulls of multiple ships, each of them groaning with cargo or creaking as crews rushed to unload goods, lash sails, or pull anchor lines taut. The stink of fish, sweat, and hot tar clung to the air like a second skin, mixing with the high, constant din of shouted orders, hammering tools, bleating livestock, and the deep-throated calls of sailors. Ships creaked, ropes snapped taut, seagulls squawked, and the stink of fish guts mingled with tar, horse dung, and sweat. Sunlight glinted on polished helms and the copper studs of merchant scales. Smallfolk bustled past in roughspun and patched cloaks, hauling crates, lifting anchors, shouting to be heard over the din. Nobles disembarked from finer ships under the watch of retinues in liveried silks, some of them already shielding their noses with perfumed sleeves as they moved toward the city gates. It was the capital at its truest and foulest, teeming, loud and indifferent.

Lord Janos Celtigar sat his brown gelding just off the dockside, one hand on the reins, the other resting on the pommel of his sword. His black and brown dragonrider leathers creaked slightly as he shifted in the saddle, crab sigils embroidered in deep red at the shoulders. A simple darker crimson cape hung from his back, snapped gently by the salt-kissed breeze. 

At his back stood his escort, half a dozen house guards in polished steel with the red crab sigil stitched into their surcoats, and behind them, a finely wrought carriage of dark Myrish wood and Claw Isle lacquer, bearing the same heraldry. A handful of servants bustled about with the quiet competence of those who'd done this often enough to be invisible.

But all his attention was fixed on the great ship that had just pierced the horizon: an immense silhouette of carved ebony, hull sleek as an eel and bristling with sail and ornament. It moved like something alive, not a ship but a beast. The figurehead was a titanic crimson crab, claws outstretched as if daring the sea to oppose it. Painted sails snapped with heraldry of red crabs on white, towering above the other merchant and naval vessels like a leviathan among guppies. The Crab King.

“My father would’ve wept if he’d seen her. One of his dreams realized too late for his eyes…” Janos murmured under his breath, swallowing a tight knot of pride and sorrow. “So much of what father had built had been for this, for strength, for dignity, for proof that the Celtigars could be more than a footnote on some maester’s parchment.”

The dock workers scrambled like ants as the ship pulled into place, her ropes flung down like the limbs of giants. As soon as the gangplank hit the dock, Janos dismounted in one smooth movement and strode forward, boots clacking on stone. The guards falling into formation behind him.

The first to descend the gangplank was a pair of guards in Targaryen black and red, followed by a white-haired woman cloaked in the same colors. Gael Celtigar, nee Targaryen. Her hair, a pale silver-blonde touched with time, was pinned simply behind her head. Her face, pale and angular, was largely emotionless. Her eyes flicked across the harbor as if trying to see something that wasn’t there. She looked thinner than three years ago, almost like a wraith wrapped in mourning. Her eyes found her son’s, and a faint glint of life flickered for a heartbeat before dimming again. 

Behind her came another figure, slower, aided by handmaidens and carefully managing her step on the swaying wood. The current lady Celtigar, Alicent Celtigar, formerly Hightower. She wore a long white gown trimmed with green and grey embroidery that caught the sunlight in gentle waves, her gold collar resting against the delicate slope of her collarbones. A single sapphire, large and deep as a summer sky, hung at her throat. Her hair was done in braids, Hightower modesty woven into an almost queenly poise. And her belly, heavy with child, pressed gently against the fabric of her gown. She moved with the deliberate grace of late pregnancy, the kind that looked beautiful and unbearable all at once.

Her eyes met her husband’s, and she smiled, although the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Wife,” Janos said, stepping forward with a smile carefully placed between pride and gentleness. “Mother. You honor the docks.”

Alicent smiled, graciously and flawlessly. “You’ve grown more dramatic since last we spoke,” she said lightly, brushing her hand against his as he helped her down the last step.

“Blame the new bards,” Janos replied. “Since I employed them in claw isle to try to create new songs, they now follow me everywhere now, scribbling verses on their “inspiring lord”.” The last words said with sarcasm and a joke tone.

“She chuckled. But I saw it. A moment, just a flicker. Her eyes flinched ever so slightly as her hand left mine. Gods, what’s she holding back ?” Thought the young lord.

 Janos stepped forward and took her hand carefully, kissing her knuckles. “You all arrived perfectly on time.” Said the young lord.

“We had good wind,” she said with a warm tone and lowered lashes. “And a splendid ship. It's even grander once you go inside of it, rather than just looking at it in the docks.”

“Yes, I tried to make my father proud,”  Janos replied proudly, searching her face. “He always wanted a ship to match the Velaryons. I’d like to think he’d approve.”

“You’ve done more than that,” she said, her smile softening. “You’ve done so much...” She said softly, almost whispering.

The Celtigar lord nodded, but a strange note tugged at the back of his mind. “Something in the way she spoke, not insincere, no. Her voice had all the right notes of admiration, but the warmth underneath felt… mixed with something… melancholy maybe …?  Or maybe I was imagining it. The Gods know, I do overthink sometimes…” Reflected the redhead in his mind, while maintaining a happy expression. “Are you comfortable? Was the voyage easy on you and the baby?” He asked.

“More than easy.” She rubbed her side absently. “We’ve been well tended. The captain said it was the smoothest crossing he’s had in years.”

“Good.” Said Janos. “I wanted to say more. Ask more. What do you need? What do you want ? But the words clotted behind my teeth.” Thought the lord.

“Mother,” I said instead, turning toward Gael. She had paused halfway down the gangplank and was staring at the harbor with glassy eyes. 

She blinked as I approached, as though emerging from a deep cavern. “Janos,” she said simply, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in a smile. “It’s good to see you, my son” She said softly, her voice lowering as she spoke.

“I’m also happy to see you mother…” Her son spoke in a kind tone. “Are you happy to see Kingslanding again ? We're gonna finally see Aerea after all these years.”

“Too many people,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Too loud. But… it will be good… to see my daughter….” Her fingers brushed mine briefly, then retreated into her sleeves. Her face folded back in on itself like a closing book. Janos’ chest tightened.

They made their way to the carriage. Alicent and Gael climbed inside, helped by the servants, while Janos mounted his horse again, falling into pace alongside as the procession began its way through the streets of King’s Landing. They rode through the city at a patient pace, the guards parting crowds with courteous barks and raised hands. King’s Landing spread out before them, a heaving, writhing thing of flesh and filth, of stone towers and timber hovels, of palace splendor and streetcorner misery.

To the left, goldsmiths and spice traders shouted praises of their wares. To the right, a one-eyed woman sold bread so dark and hard it might’ve doubled as roof tile. Every few steps, a child darted across the road, some with bare feet and tangled hair, others with baskets and others with nothing but outstretched hands. Beggars lined the walls like moss, many missing limbs, teeth and as important hope.

There were people everywhere. Shouting, buying, working, hawking, begging. Carts pulled by underfed donkeys or too-thin men clogged the narrower alleys, while children darted in and out of foot traffic like rats. A boy ran past with no shirt and no shoes, laughing as he juggled three apples, followed by another child barely older, limping and shouting for alms with a hand outstretched. Two women bickered loudly near a bread stall. A pair of city guards shoved a ragged man off the steps of a tavern, one of them striking him with the flat of his blade when he refused to move fast enough.

Merchants barked about eel pies and boiled leather, while others offered silks, perfumes, and stone rings of dubious quality. A hunched septon on the corner wailed about sin and fire. Somewhere nearby, a man cried out in pain, whether a beating, a disease, or a butcher’s accident, it was impossible for Janos to tell.

A guard slammed a cudgel into a toothless man who’d been begging too near a cloth seller’s stall. The old man crumpled like a sack of bones.

Janos glanced toward the carriage, catching sight of Alicent through the curtained window. She was looking out as well, her face clearly saddened by the view. “So many people. So little dignity. How do I fix this? How does one even begin when he isn’t even the mayor of such place…?” He thought, frustrated.

A group of City Watch passed by, dragging a half-starved boy by the collar while a merchant shouted after them, red-faced. “Caught him thieving!” he insisted. The boy kicked feebly, sobbing.

Janos’s knuckles whitened around his reins.

“They’re the most powerful family in the realm, they have all the money and political power they need, they even have dragons in case someone doesn't comply…” Janos muttered under his breath, in anger. “ Yet… the city it’s still like this…”

The Celtigar lord then watched as the same group of guards dragged a girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, by the wrist across the square. She kicked and screamed, accused of theft just like the boy. Or maybe just being poor in the wrong place.

“Yet they have money for a luxurious birthday party that will take days for half of the nobles in the realm...” Muttered again, the young man.

Janos caught Alicent’s gaze again. “Her face seems calm, but her hand rests over her belly. Holding it. Protecting it. Maybe from the shake of the carriage. Maybe from this world.” He thought somberly.

The Red Keep loomed above them now, carved into the hillside like a lion watching its prey. And as the gates opened, and the guards saluted, and the hooves echoed off the cobbles, Lord Janos Celtigar of Claw Isle rode on, back straight, sword at his hip, heart heavy. “Time to play the game as an “Orlesian” would say… gods, I would kill to play dragon age again…” Janos thought, gripping the reins. 

“É preciso dar um jeito, meu amigo…” Murmured the redhead.

…

The Celtigar entourage came into view just as the Red Keep’s massive outer gates groaned open, the sun glinting off their crimson-painted iron. Janos rode at the head, flanked by two of his household guards in red and white cloaks, their helmets polished, their spears upright. Behind him trundled the stout, oaken carriage carrying Alicent and Gael. Two more guards followed at the rear, their horses steady under the late morning sun.

The main courtyard beyond the gate was broad and open, a sprawling expanse of red stone ringed by training yards and stables. The sunlight pooled across the pavers, baking the dust and sweat into the walls. A herald stood at the base of the wide stair that led up to the castle proper, his voice ringing out across the yard as the party dismounted.

“Lord Janos Celtigar, Lord of Claw Isle and Crackclaw Point, Head of House Celtigar, and his noble entourage!”

At the top of the steps, beneath the shade of the arched entrance to the Red Keep, the welcoming party awaited. King Viserys stood at the center, beaming, silver hair glinting faintly in the light. Beside him, Queen Laena Velaryon stood tall and poised, the toddler Prince Aemon nestled in one arm. Princess Rhaenyra stood to the side, expression cool, eyes distant. Further down the line stood Lady Aerea Celtigar, radiant in red, and Bartimos Celtigar, the Master of Coin, smiling, though his fingers twitched nervously at his belt.

Viserys looked genuinely pleased. Aerea, too, waved with bright enthusiasm. Bartimos tried for the same, though he looked like he might faint if anyone addressed him directly. Laena wore her smile like a queen wears armor, perfectly placed, polished and unreadable. Aemon squinted with infant suspicion. And Rhaenyra… well, Rhaenyra looked like she would rather be anywhere else.

“No sign of Otto. Of course not. I should’ve known better than to hope”. Janos dismounted with a sigh and passed the reins of his horse to a stablehand. “Alicent had hoped to speak with him…maybe even patch things up. And if he’s still brooding over our marriage after three years… then to the Stranger with him.” Thought the lord Celtigar.

He turned and opened the carriage door, offering a steady hand to Gael, then to Alicent. “Are you ready ?”

Alicent stepped down with quiet grace, adjusting her green skirts. “I must be, Janos. We couldn’t hide forever in Claw Isle. Besides, I was raised in this place. Court intrigue doesn’t scare me.”

Her words began somber but ended firm. She met his gaze with a flicker of fire in her eye and slid her hand into his.

“You know,” Janos whispered as they began walking toward the stairs, “you’re devastating when you’re confident.”

A blush colored her cheeks. “If only I could say the same about you. When you're confident, you're unbearable.”

Gael let out a soft chuckle at that. Janos flushed, caught off guard by the quick retort, but seeing Alicent’s true smile, completely unburdened, if just for a moment, made it all worth it. “Gods, I like that smile too much.” He managed to regain his composure as they approached the King.

Before Janos could bow, Viserys strode forward with open arms and a grin too large for his face. “Janos, my boy ! Look at you, have you been eating your way through Claw Isle ? What are you now, six-and-ten ? You’re nearly a man grown!”

The King pulled Janos into a hearty embrace, slapping his back with royal familiarity. Then he turned, softer now, to Alicent. “And Alicent… my dear, you’ve blossomed. From the quiet girl in my court to a lady of poise and grace. Radiant, truly.”

Alicent bowed with composure. “You’re too kind, Your Grace.”

“And Gael,” Viserys said, his voice dipping to a more tender timbre as he turned to her, “still as beautiful as ever. How fares you, my aunt ?”

Gael tilted her head, touching a finger to her chin in a pose of idle thought. “Time has preserved me well, I think… though seeing you…” Her gaze lingered on him, eyes growing distant. “You have my sister’s smile. And Baelon’s eyes…”

Viserys’s smile faltered for a heartbeat, grief and warmth tangling behind his expression. “Thank you, Aunt. It… means much, to be remembered so.”

“Of course… She sees Alyssa, Baelon, maybe even Daella in him… I should plan more visits to King’s Landing and Driftmark. Or maybe convince Uncle Vaegon to travel from Oldtown. She shouldn’t spend all her years in quiet mourning.” Thought Janos in a mix of sadness and compassion. 

Before Janos could speak further, Viserys clapped his hands. “But enough of old ghosts ! Laena, my love, come, let’s show them our pride and joy.” Spoke Viserys while patting Janos on the back and laughing. “You couldn’t come when the little guy was born, because of a plague of shivers that infested Claw Isle right ? But now I finally get you out of your salty rock to celebrate his first year festivities.” 

The Queen stepped forward like a dancer, her gown a shimmering cascade of Velaryon blues and gold-trimmed silks. Aemon sat in her arms with a furrowed brow and the suspicious scowl of a one-year-old forced into formality.

“Lord Janos, Lady Alicent, Great-Aunt Gael,” Laena said warmly. “It brings me joy to welcome you. We’ve missed your presence dearly. It's so wonderful to have you here and I'm eager to rekindle our great friendship of the past. Allow me to present the royal prince and the King’s firstborn son, Aemon Targaryen, named for my beloved grandsire.”

Rhaenyra, a few steps behind, rolled her eyes.

“Friendly enough, sure, Janos thought, but we were never that close. Her real friend was Rhaenyra. Is she making a play reaching out to House Celtigar ? Trying to curry a favor ? Maybe she thinks I’ll back Aemon’s claim. Gods, as if Viserys would ever name anyone else heir…” Janos wondered in his mind with caution. 

Still, Janos returned her smile. “A pleasure, Your Grace. And the young prince: he looks as fierce as the Sea Snake himself.”

Alicent bent slightly, cooing softly at the child. “What a charming boy. It’s an honor to meet him.”

Aemon's stern face crumbled under her attention. He giggled.

Gael took a step forward, eyes shimmering with old memories. “He has Aemon’s expression… May I hold him?”

Before Laena could speak, Viserys eagerly passed Aemon to Gael, who cradled the boy as if he were spun glass, smiling and making silly faces. Aemon squealed with delight, until, as toddlers do, he grew tired and reached again for his mother.

Gael returned him gently, her smile bittersweet.

Then came Rhaenyra. She moved with calculated grace, her gown a flowing canvas of soft pinks and beige, her silvery braid falling like a ribbon down her shoulder. The “Realm’s Delight” lived up to her name, except for her eyes, which were hard as hammered steel.

“Lord and Lady Celtigar,” she said, her voice cool and dripping with irony. “How wonderful that you made the long, arduous journey from Claw Isle. And how kind of you to let us know ahead of time, instead of surprising us in the night.”

Alicent froze, her breath caught. “Rhaenyra… I didn’t”

“Princess…” Janos tried, but Viserys stepped in.

“Rhaenyra !” His tone cracked like a whip. “That is no way for a princess to behave.”

Laena folded her arms, lips curving into a slight smirk. “Nor for a King’s heir.”

“This isn’t relevant” Viserys began.

“Nor is it queenly,” Rhaenyra snapped back, “to challenge the King’s word in front of his court.”

“Seven hells. They’re already at each other’s throats…?” Janos thought as he fought the urge to roll his eyes. “What am I supposed to do when the Queen and the Princess start sparring in front of me? Smile and clap? Gods above…”

He glanced at Alicent, who looked stricken, shoulders drawn in tight. Without thinking, he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. She looked up at him, nodded faintly, and seemed to draw a breath again.

“Stop, the both of you !” Viserys barked, his voice cracking with frustration. “Seven hells, must you squabble every bloody day ? And now, in front of our esteemed guests, no less ? Let it be. You are both dismissed.”

His tone left no room for argument. Rhaenyra turned on her heel with a sharp exhale, storming off with heavy steps that echoed down the stone path. Laena, by contrast, offered a shallow courtesy, elegant and practiced, before departing with her chin held high and pride stitched into every step. In her arms, little Aemon squirmed and waved his tiny hand in a sloppy gesture of farewell. Gael, blinking back the last of her tears, returned it with a shaky smile, her own fingers fluttering in reply.

Janos watched them go, noting how the sun caught the silver-gold of Laena’s braids and Rhaenyra’s flame-red cloak as they vanished into opposite corridors of the Keep. That’s going to boil over soon. I give it a week. Two, if we’re lucky.

Viserys exhaled, more wearied than angry now. “I must beg your forgiveness, cousin,” he said, turning back to Janos and Alicent. “Laena’s with child again, second moon, we believe… and Rhaenyra… well, she’s of that age. The blood runs hot in both of them. Dragon’s tempers, dragon’s hearts.”

He gave a sheepish smile, followed by a chuckle that felt more like a sigh. “But never mind all that. I am truly glad you’ll be here for the festivities. Now, I must go away as duty ever calls, even for old bones like mine.” He inclined his head in a gracious farewell. “I leave you to your kin. Little Aerea and dear old Bartimos have been champing at the bit to see you again.”

As Viserys turned and walked off toward the deeper halls of the Red Keep, Janos and Alicent dipped their heads in a formal bow. They hadn’t even fully risen before a squeal rang out across the courtyard.

“Janos!” The Celtigar Lord's youngest older sister screamed with glee. 

Aerea Celtigar, eighteen and still built like a wild Craghammer girl rather than a highborn lady, charged toward them with the unrelenting force of a storm tide. Janos barely had time to brace before he found himself crushed against her in a bone-rattling embrace. Alicent, to her credit, let out only a soft grunt as Aerea’s long arms enfolded her too, though Janos instinctively curled one arm around his wife’s belly to shield her from the force.

“I missed you so much, baby brother! And how dare you get married without me? In secret ?! I ought to throttle you both !” Aerea chattered breathlessly, her smile wide and wet-eyed. “But gods, you’re glowing, Alicent. I’m so happy. I’m going to be an aunt again! First Alyssa and Lucious, and now you two !”

Janos laughed, genuinely, for once. The kind that bubbled out unplanned, unguarded, softening something in his chest that had been wound tight since they set foot on Crownland soil. Alicent laughed too, quieter, more surprised by her own joy than anything else. There were so few moments like this, sincere, unencumbered, free of calculation or grief. He knew it wouldn’t last, but for now, it was enough.

“Mother !” Aerea gasped suddenly, her head whipping around. Her eyes locked onto Gael, who stood slightly apart, smiling through the veil of emotion clinging to her face. Before anyone could speak, Aerea darted forward and threw herself into Gael’s arms.

“You’ve grown so wonderfully, my daughter,” Gael whispered as she held her stepdaughter close. “My baby… you’re so beautiful.”

Janos saw the tears streak down Gael’s cheeks, slow, silent, unhindered. He’d never seen her cry like that in public before. Not even at Father’s funeral. He glanced down and saw that Alicent had gently taken Gael’s hand in hers, squeezing it with quiet understanding.

“Three years. We’ve all changed. But some things stayed the same.” He thought.

“Speaking of babies,” Aerea piped up again, already dragging Alicent to a nearby bench as if the last three minutes hadn’t just happened, “how far along are you ? Do you think it’s a boy or a girl ? What names have you picked out ? Are you craving strange things ? Have you felt it kick yet ?”

Alicent looked a little overwhelmed, but smiled nonetheless. “Six moons. And no names yet, though Janos has some strange ones in mind. Something about… exotic plants ?”

Aerea giggled. “You’ll have to tell me everything. I’ll be the best auntie, I swear it !”

From the side, a low chuckle sounded. “She’s been pestering me all week about your return,” said Bartimos Celtigar, hands folded behind his back as he approached Janos with a crooked smile. “You’d think the King’s Tourney was being held in your honor, not Rhaenyra’s.”

“Uncle,” Janos said with a grin, clasping his hand and pulling him into a firm embrace. “It’s good to see you. You’ve taken to Master of Coin like a fish to water, I hear. Viserys never once wrote of disaster. Truly remarkable.”

Bartimos let out a hum of smug approval. “What can I say? I take my work seriously. The coffers have never been so full. I’ve cut unnecessary expenses, streamlined royal outlays, and uncovered no less than five hidden revenue streams. You’d be surprised how much gold King’s Landing forgets it has.”

“Maybe you could spend some of that gold on the city itself,” Janos said absently, already half-turning to check on Gael and Alicent.

Bartimos arched a brow. “And maybe you could spend a little less of our house’s wealth on your “projects”. I’ve had more ravens from nervous bannermen in the past year than I care to count.”

“I did what needed doing,” Janos said with a slow smile. “For our people. For our land. For something more than legacy and ledgers.”

Bartimos’s smile vanished like mist in morning light. “For your sensitivities, perhaps. For peasants who forget their place and merchants who whisper behind our backs.”

“At least I have sentiments for living people,” Janos replied, voice calm but flinty. “Not just for dead kings and shiny metal in dusty vaults.”

The air between them tightened like a bowstring. Then Janos drew in a breath and shifted his stance. “But if we’re to quarrel over coin, better we do it in your office. Later.”

Bartimos gave a dry snort. “Aye. You’re right, boy. Still… it’s good to see you again. You’ve your father’s eyes. And, gods help you, his patchy beard.”

Janos smirked despite himself. “Thanks. I think.”

As Bartimos turned to greet Gael and Alicent, Janos remained still for a moment, alone in the middle of it all. He looked around at the Red Keep, its towers glaring down like stone sentinels, the banners of House Targaryen rippling above in the wind.

“All this,” he thought, “and it’s still only morning”. He exhaled through his nose, his face unreadable. “No wonder so many people go mad in this city.”

And with that, Janos Celtigar turned toward the looming gates of the Red Keep. Beside him walked Alicent, Gael, Aerea, and Bartimos. Behind him, the weight of three years. Ahead, the dragon’s maw.

…

The morning’s courtly rituals in the Red Keep had felt unnaturally strained, a brittle dance of hollow pleasantries that left Janos Celtigar, Lord of Claw Isle, unsettled. Whispers seemed to cling to the edges of formal greetings, and the eyes of courtiers held a wariness he couldn’t yet decipher. It consumed the better part of the morning, leaving him drained and anticipating a day that promised only further deterioration. Finally, he found refuge in the secluded sanctum of his uncle’s domain: the office of the Master of Coin.

“Shutting the heavy oak door, Janos leaned against it for a moment, the comparative silence a relief. He surveyed the chamber. Stark, functional, devoid of ostentation: shelves groaned under ledgers and scrolls, a large map of the Seven Kingdoms dominated one wall, and the scent of parchment, ink, and faint mildew hung in the air. Behind a broad, scarred desk sat Ser Bartimos Celtigar, his expression as unyielding as the ledgers before him.

“It’s been too long since I last stood here, Uncle,” Janos remarked, a nostalgic half-smile touching his lips as he settled into the chair opposite. “You’ve molded this space to your own image. Austere. Practical. Very… frugal.”

Bartimos’s gaze remained fixed, unwavering. “Your father possessed a astute mind for coin, nephew, yet he scattered gold like chaff on frivolities. We clashed often on that score. It appears,” he continued, his voice low and deliberate, “you’ve inherited that particular profligacy, though your chosen extravagances baffle me.”

Janos met his uncle’s stern look, his own eyes shadowed with weariness, his lips pressed into a thin line. He offered no defense, only a palpable silence that stretched taut between them.

“Will you offer no explanation, boy ?” Bartimos’s voice began to sharpen, the veneer of calm cracking. “Though I serve the Crown here, reports from Claw Isle reach me. Tales of eccentric expenditures ! Squandering our ancient fortune on… on what ? Adventurous schemes ? Lavish gifts bestowed upon peasants ? You border on sedition, lad. Practically bribing the grasping smallfolk with Celtigar gold ! Founding impractical ‘learning houses’? Dispensing loans like alms? Funding ruinously expensive ‘reforms’?” His fist thumped the desk, punctuating each accusation. “What is your aim, Janos ? Bankrupting our House ? Tell me, how do you expect those same smallfolk to repay your largesse when you simultaneously reduce their labor, hire superfluous hands, and lower their taxes ?!”

Janos remained silent, though a muscle twitched near his jaw, a tremor betraying the fury simmering beneath his exhausted facade. His knuckles whitened where they gripped the arms of his chair.

"Boy !" Bartimos roared, slamming a fist down, the impact echoing in the sparse room. "Speak when your elder and kinsman addresses you ! You may bear the Crab’s sigil as Lord, but I…"

“But nothing !” Janos erupted, his own voice a thunderclap in the confined space as he too stood, his imposing frame radiating sudden, explosive anger. The weariness vanished, replaced by a cold, dangerous light in his eyes. “There is no ‘but,’ Uncle ! I am the Lord of House Celtigar ! Anointed by the Faith, confirmed by the King’s law ! You will respect that authority and position treating me with the respect I deserve !” His words echoed off the stone walls, leaving no room for challenge.

Bartimos recoiled, shock etching deep lines into his weathered face. He had never witnessed this molten core within his usually measured nephew. Uncertainty held him mute, momentarily adrift.

Janos drew a slow, deliberate breath, the fire in his eyes banked but not extinguished. He lowered himself back into the chair, his posture regaining its lordly composure, his expression smoothing into impassive neutrality. “Let us begin anew, Uncle. With calm. With respect.”

“Aye,” Bartimos rasped, adjusting his tunic, his own anger subsiding into wary confusion. He cleared his throat. “I... I apologize for my conduct, Nephew. You are our liege lord. That demands respect.” He leaned forward, his earlier ire replaced by a profound, paternal worry that softened his stern features. “While I labour here, squeezing coin from stone for the Crown and our House at your command, reports still find me. Reports of coffers draining at an unprecedented rate. Never, in all the annals of Celtigar, has such gold flowed outwards so freely. I am not there to counsel you. Your lady mother…” He trailed off, a tacit admission of her inadequacy in such matters. “I fear for our House, Janos. I fear for you.”

Janos met his uncle’s troubled gaze. “It is my prerogative, Uncle, to govern without justifying every decree. Yet, I concede my methods are… unorthodox. Your concern is understood. But you must place your trust in me. I invest in our lands and our people, sowing seeds for a future harvest of true fortune. Yes, the reforms demand gold, but they yield tangible returns: our farmers produce more each season; our mines delve deeper, extracting ore with unprecedented efficiency; our administration grows leaner, less susceptible to corruption; our ports expand, welcoming greater trade. Revenue is increasing, slowly now, but the rate accelerates. We already reap early benefits: our lands are safer, our people content. In every hamlet I visit, the smallfolk pledge their love to House Celtigar, their old loyalties forgotten.” A genuine, determined smile began to light Janos’s face as he spoke of his vision.

“Love?” Bartimos scoffed, disbelief warping his features. “They are smallfolk, Janos ! Their function is labor, not affection ! They require fear and respect for their betters. It's the natural order decreed by the Seven ! We could achieve greater gains through judicious levies and targeted improvements, not this… this profligate pandering !” He attempted a conciliatory smile, but it faltered.

Janos’s grip tightened on the chair arms again, his knuckles stark white. “Of course. The people’s happiness is irrelevant noise to him,” he thought, the old, familiar frustration of his past life as Jorge Ferreira confronting the indifferent “latifundiários” flaring hot. He forced his own calm smile, exhaling a weary sigh. “Uncle, we have held Claw Isle for less than twenty years. Recall how things were before my father gambit ?  Every tax collector we’ve sent vanished. Recall the revolt when I became lord ? Defiance festered everywhere. But now they embrace our sigil. They uphold our laws. Their loyalty is deeper than it ever was under my father. You see extravagance; I see an investment in generations of unwavering fealty. That is the bedrock of lasting power. Trust me on this.”

“Uncle, we have hold this lands for less than 20 years and we already had a revolt, these people always defied our authority and hated our houses, each time we’ve sent a tax collector it was a tax collector that never came back, but now they’re really loving us, embracing our sigil and following our laws, much more than under my father tenure. You may think I'm overexpending on them but in reality I'm guaranteeing their undying loyalty for generations, you need to trust in me uncle…” Argued back Janos, using an argument he knew that his uncle could not dismiss so easily.

Bartimos studied his nephew, the fire of argument dimming to reluctant embers. “Aye,” he conceded heavily, the word tasting of ash. “Our grip remains... tenuous. I maintain the same fealty could be bought cheaper. But... you are not wrong. Solidifying our hold is paramount. That much I grant you.” He offered a resigned, almost paternal smile, reaching for a flagon of Arbor gold and two pewter cups. “Since I cannot sway your mind on expenditures, I shall pray for their success and redouble my efforts here.” He poured the wine, the rich ruby liquid catching the midday light. “However,” he continued, his tone shifting, “since you dismiss my counsel on coin, I beseech you to hear me on two other matters, Nephew. Grant me this.” His eyes held a pleading intensity as he passed Janos a cup.

Intrigued despite himself, Janos leaned forward, taking a small sip. The wine was good, a sharp contrast to the tension. “You have my ear, Uncle. What troubles you now ?”

“It concerns the court, Janos,” Bartimos lowered his voice conspiratorially, a gesture that struck Janos as faintly absurd after the earlier shouting. “You noted the... chill in your reception today ?”

Janos's lips twitched in dry amusement. “I did. A distinct lack of warmth, and a haste to be rid of me. Frankly, I welcomed it. Courtly mummery was ever my bane.”

“That, boy, is precisely the problem !” Bartimos hissed, frustration bubbling anew. He seized a quarter-wheel of sharp white cheese and began slicing it with precise, agitated cuts. “While you excel in your books and knightly duties, you neglect the very sinews of noble life ! Your own court on Claw Isle for example, when last did you host a proper feast ? A tourney ? A ball ? In all your years as Lord, I wager you've held three feasts ! Three !” He punctuated the point with a sharp stab of the cheese knife.

Janos remained impassive, swirling his wine, finding the complaint trivial compared to matters of state and survival. He gestured for his uncle to continue. 

“You’ve become a recluse on Claw Isle in the eyes of the realm, venturing forth only for the most unavoidable royal occasions, like Prince Aegon’s birth.” He sliced a piece of sharp-smelling cheese with pointed emphasis.

 Janos remained impassive, though his eyes narrowed slightly.

“Worse,” Bartimos continued, the knife sawing through the cheese with increasing agitation, “was your handling of the vassal rebellion. The punishments… they were harsh, Janos. Brutal. Lines extinguished, families nearly erased, lands seized wholesale, it echoes Maegor the Cruel or Harren the Black ! And then, to pardon the rebellious smallfolk ? It was… a perverse inversion of justice ! Had the King not held you in such high esteem and been swayed by your arguments…” He shook his head, frustration and sweat mounting. “The court remembers. They whisper. They call you ‘the Red Crab’ for the blood you spilled.” The cheese crumbled under his knife.

A dark, ironic amusement flickered in Janos’s eyes. “The Red Crab? If only they grasped how profoundly, how intrinsically RED my soul remains…” A faint, involuntary snort escaped him.

“Do you find this amusing, Janos ?” Bartimos snapped, the knife clattering against the plate. “Is it any wonder whispers of madness follow you? You scorn propriety, wall yourself away, and while shunning your peers, you consort with peasants! Miners! Traders! Fishermen! By the Seven, you've been seen labouring alongside them! You are their lord, Janos! Not their equal, to soil your hands in their muck!” Exasperation coloured his every word.

The accusation struck a raw nerve. Janos stiffened, his knuckles whitening again, the ghost of his earlier fury flickering in his eyes. He opened his mouth to retort, but Bartimos ploughed on, relentless. “You fail to grasp the damage to our House ! To our standing! To your own wife, Janos !” He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Malicious tongues wag. They say you possess a smallfolk soul. That you wish you'd been born among them. That you love them more than your own blood !” His voice trembled with outrage. “The vilest claim you spend your days sweating beside them, and your nights... your nights warming peasant beds instead of your lady wife's !”

The words landed like physical blows. Janos paled, the casual cruelty of the rumours stealing his breath. “I... I did not…” He trailed off, a profound weariness replacing anger. “Shit…Not again…” The crushing guilt of his past failure as Jorge Ferreira, whose devotion to the “movement” had cost him his life and left his family bereft, slammed into him. “Always… I always hurt them…” The familiar pang of guilt, sharp as Valyrian steel, twisted within him.

Bartimos’s expression softened, becoming a mask of sorrowful concern. He reached across the desk, placing a weathered hand on Janos’s forearm. “Poor Alicent... imagine the slights she endures. These rumours have been vicious, Nephew. The fact she only quickened with child now, three years into your marriage…” He shook his head. “And the manner of your union... gods, boy, she is a fine woman, I know you cherish her, but that elopement... it made a dent on both your reputations from the start.” He squeezed Janos's arm gently. “Which brings me to the second matter demanding your attention while you linger in this viper's nest…”

A grim understanding settled over Janos. He managed a small, humourless smile. “I suspect I know its shape, Uncle.”

“You must mend the breach with your good-father,” Bartimos urged, his voice low and earnest. “This feud with Ser Otto Hightower festers like an ill-tended wound. It has wrought enough harm. The elopement was an affront. The Hand's anger is just. It whispered to the court of... irregularities. Of a daughter uncontrolled, a House disrespected.” His eyes held Janos's, filled with shared sadness. “And poor Alicent... Otto and the Hightowers shun her. Can you fathom her isolation ?”

The weight of his failures pressed down. “I... I botched it,” Janos admitted, the words thick with frustration, anger at himself, and deep sorrow. He dragged his hands down his face, stretching the tension in his neck, seeking refuge in the simple act of breathing. “Thoroughly.”

“Aye, you did, Nephew,” Bartimos confirmed, his tone somber yet not unkind. He drained his cup. “The responsibility to mend it rests with you. I shall speak with Otto in the coming days. Try to... thaw the frost. But you and Alicent must seek him out. Face this. And you must address your standing at court, or at least begin the long work of it.” He pushed the plate of cheese towards Janos, his expression lightening fractionally. “But for now, eat. Drink. As your father used to say, a man reasons better with a full belly.”

“I will fix this, Uncle,” Janos declared, meeting Bartimos’s gaze with renewed determination. The resolve cut through his fatigue. “You have my word.”

“I pray you do, Janos. I have faith in you.” Bartimos offered a tired, hopeful smile, then chuckled. "You are young yet. Sixteen summers grant you time I lack, plagued as I am by ancient bones and creaking joints !" He chuckled, popping a large piece of cheese into his mouth. His laughter turned into a sudden, wheezing cough as he choked momentarily with the cheese, requiring a desperate gulp of wine to recover, his face reddening comically.

The unexpected absurdity broke the oppressive tension. A genuine, relaxed smile finally touched Janos’s lips as he watched his uncle sputter. Warm midday sunlight streamed through the high window, bathing his face in its glow. “He’s right. Sixteen. I have time. I will fix this…” Determination solidified within him, tempered now by a flicker of cautious optimism. “At least… this time… I have a chance.” Thought the young lord.

…

Leaving Bartimos’s office felt like stepping out of a tomb into a crypt. Janos returned to his chambers only to find his household in mild chaos: he, Gael, and Alicent had been summoned to break their fast with the royal family. There was time for little more than stiff pleasantries before servants descended to fuss over doublets and gowns, herding them toward the royal dining room like well-dressed livestock.

“A lunch with the Queen, so soon after our arrival ? It feels a little deliberate...” Janos murmured, pulling on his stiff doublet. 

“Everything in this place is deliberate, Janos,” Alicent replied, her fingers nervously adjusting the pearl pins in her auburn hair. Her eyes, the clear green of summer shallows, held a flicker of apprehension. “For now let's just play along….”

Gael, humming a half-remembered lullaby from her own childhood, beamed. “Little Aemon will be there ! Such a sweet babe. Laena does dote on him.” Her innocence, a fragile relic in the viper’s nest, was touching, especially considering the sad mood that plagued her in these years. Janos exchanged a glance with Alicent, a silent pact to shield her.

The royal dining room was a mausoleum of opulence. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching the dust motes dancing above a table polished to a mirror sheen. Silver cutlery lay in unnervingly precise alignment; crystal goblets refracted rainbows onto the immaculate Myrish rug. Sunlight glinted off polished silver cutlery arranged with geometric precision. Not a crumb marred the Myrish carpet; not a smudge dulled the crystal goblets. The air smelled of spices, roasted meat, and the faint, cloying sweetness of roses arranged in obsidian vases. Silence, thick as the tapestry drapes, hung heavy until broken by the scrape of chairs.

Queen Laena presided, radiating a cool, contained power. Silver-gold hair was braided into an intricate crown, her violet eyes sharp and assessing. Beside her, Prince Aemon babbled happily in a high chair, a nursemaid patiently spooning mashed parsnip into his mouth. Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, sat to Laena’s left, his face a map of sun-worn lines and shrewd calculation. To his left, Princess Rhaenys observed the room like a hawk gauging wind currents, her presence radiating silent authority. Opposite this formidable bloc: Janos, flanked by Gael (who immediately cooed at Aemon) and Alicent. Servants materialized like specters, laying out platters: quail glazed with honey and ginger, summer greens dressed in vinegar, loaves of crusty bread still warm from the ovens, and flagons of Arbor gold that glinted like liquid amber.

Gael, oblivious to the undercurrents, tore a piece of bread. “I had thought my nephew, the King, might join us? He always enjoys seeing family.” Her voice, light and musical, seemed jarringly out of place.

Laena’s smile was regal in her deflection, bright yet devoid of warmth. “Viserys received… disquieting news from his brother this morning. He felt his mood might cast a shadow over our gathering. Best we enjoy this respite, yes?” Her gaze, unsettlingly direct, slid to Janos. A silent probe.

“The Stepstones, I assume?” Janos ventured, the question escaping before his internal censor could intervene. Alicent’s nails pressed a silent warning into his thigh. “This subject won’t bring any good for us… why did I ask…” Thought Janos regretfully. 

“Ever perceptive, little Crab,” Corlys rumbled, a fisherman pleased his line had tugged. He speared a slice of boar. “Aye. The war was meant to be a swift, clean affair. We had secured the islands, broken the Triarchy's grip. Parley was on the table… until Daemon decided subtlety was for merchants..." He set his knife down with a soft clink. “Took ships he hadn't the right to command, flew Caraxes to sack a Triarchy port city, Lys, I believe. Lost the ships, burned half the harbor district to cinders, then limped back to Bloodstone with Caraxes bleeding. A costly… demonstration.”

Alicent paled. “The Seven above…”

“My illustrious cousin,” Rhaenys added, swirling her wine, her voice dripping with dry contempt, “has ensured peace is ash. The Triarchy won’t rest until they’ve repaid fire with fire and blood with blood. Word is they’re forging ships in Myr and Tyrosh day and night. United as united as ever. Daemon’s folly achieved that much.”

Corlys’s knife scraped harshly across his plate. “Unified against us, thanks to his idiocy. The King now gets to explain to every lord south of the Neck why their taxes rise, their sons die, and their trade rots.”

“Simply delightful,” Laena purred, the venom beneath the honeyed tone unmistakable. She turned the full force of her attention on Janos, her violet eyes locking onto his. “Speaking of shared burdens… the Crown’s exemption for House Celtigar, granted due to your… unfortunate situation with those troublesome Crackclaw Point lords, expires next moon, does it not ? A pity the war didn’t conclude as hoped. Still,” her lips curved in a smile that dared him to contradict her, “the realm will draw strength knowing the fierce Crab of Claw Isle sails to join the fray. A loyal house reclaiming its martial heritage.”

“Damn Daemon’s arrogance ! Damn Laena’s opportunism !” The thought was a cold stone in Janos’s gut. “The exemption had been his shield. Now ? Refusal was unthinkable after the King’s past favors, it would seem like ingratitude, weakness and Laena knows it.” Her grin was the cat who’d found the cream jug unattended. The Celtigar lord kept his face impassive. “House Celtigar stands ready to serve the Crown, Your Grace. Duty demands no less.” His voice was flat, devoid of enthusiasm, as he took a deliberate sip of water, the coolness doing little to quench the heat of trapped frustration.

“The burden of lordship,” Rhaenys observed with a small, but proud grin on her face and approval in her sharp eyes. “Harsh choices for house and honor. You grasp it young, cousin.”

“Wisely spoken, my love.” Corlys affirmed, patting Rhaenys’s hand with a warmth that felt truly genuine. He turned back to Janos, radiating bullish confidence. “And set your mind at ease, Lord Celtigar ! Your men will fight under the best admirals Westeros has known, House Velaryon and the Crown finest ! Victory may not be near on the horizon, but it is an inevitability. Your contribution will help us be the tide that finally drowns the Triarchy’s ambitions !”

Alicent leaned forward slightly, her voice soft but carrying a thread of determined hope. “I… I could talk to my father and write to Oldtown, to Uncle Hobert. Ask for House Hightower’s support… their ships, their gold… they might be swayed, knowing House Celtigar stands firmly with the Crown, as we are bound by blood now…” She squeezed Janos’s hand beneath the tablecloth, a small anchor for her. 

A beat of heavy silence. Then Laena and Corlys exchanged a glance. A shared, low chuckle escaped them, brief, dismissive and laced with cruel amusement at the naiveté. Rhaenys’s lips thinned into a line of silent reproach. Alicent’s cheeks flushed scarlet; she seemed to shrink within her emerald velvet. The message was deafening: Everyone knows Otto Hightower and her House have been ignoring you.

“Your… initiative is admirable, Lady Alicent,” Laena said, her smile condescendingly gentle, like patting a child who’d drawn a nonsensical picture. “Every voice raised for the realm is valued.”

Janos felt the useless anger surge: a white-hot fury at their casual cruelty towards Alicent and a sad cold fury at himself for being the architect of her isolation. His knuckles whitening on his fork.

“Men and ships are the bedrock,” Corlys continued, oblivious or uncaring, tearing into a glistening chicken leg with gusto. Grease shone on his beard, before he wiped it away. “But let’s not overlook Celtigar’s crowning asset in this dance.” He grinned, teeth flashing. “Another dragonrider in the skies ! Imagine the terror as Janos’ beast rains fire down on Triarchy galleys ! Another dragon soaring alongside Seasmoke, Meleys and Caraxes… that could burn a path to peace faster than ten thousand swords, even after Daemon’s little… setback.”

The effect was instantaneous and visceral. One of Alicent’s hands hug protectively the swell of her belly, as if trying to shield her baby from such reality. While the other gripped Janos's hand with remarkable strength, her knuckles becoming bone-white. On the other side of Janos, Gael, who had been content dissecting a pear, froze mid-slice. The knife clattered onto her plate. Her head snapped up, eyes wide, pupils dilated with primal terror. The fragile peace shattered.

“Send my son to war ?!” Gael’s shriek was raw, a sound of pure maternal panic that ripped through the clinking cutlery and murmured conversation. She surged to her feet, palms slamming onto the table with a force that made goblets jump, spilling wine like blood onto the pristine linen. “You dare ? You cannot ! I forbid it ! He is sixteen ! A boy !” Her voice cracked, raw with decades of buried grief, the ghosts of siblings, parents, a husband lost too soon. “I am Gael of House Targaryen ! Daughter of Jaehaerys the Conciliator ! Blood of the Conqueror ! I will not let you feed my child to the bottom of the sea for your ambitions ! I will not lose him!” Little Aemon, startled by the sudden fury, screwed up his face and began to wail, a piercing counterpoint to Gael’s anguish.

“Great-Aunt, please” Rhaenys began, rising swiftly, her usual composure fractured by genuine alarm.

“Gael, there’s no call…” Corlys tried, his bluster momentarily replaced by consternation.

“Dearest Aunt…” Laena started, her queenly mask slipping to reveal a flicker of genuine shock at the volcanic eruption.

Janos moved fast, not as a lord commanding obedience, but as a son confronting a mother’s deepest fear. He enveloped Gael’s trembling form, pulling her close. Her body shook like a leaf in a gale. His hand smoothed her silver-streaked hair, his voice a low, steady murmur against the storm raging within her. “Shhh, mamãe, tá tudo bem…,” he whispered, the Portuguese endearment slipping out unconsciously, a relic of another life. “I’m here. Right here. Look.” He gently turned her head. “Alicent’s here. Our baby is safe. Aerea is safe having fun with Rhaenyra somewhere in the castle. Your nephews Rhaenys and Viserys are here too. Even little Aemon, see ? He’s just startled. Everyone is safe. Everyone is here. Please sit and Breathe…” He guided her, trembling, back into her chair, his calm a deliberate anchor against her terror. Alicent’s eyes met his’ across the table, a silent message of reassurance, and shared dread.

The silence that descended on the table was thick and suffocating, being broken only by Aemon’s diminishing whimpers and Gael’s ragged breaths. “I… have forgotten myself. Forgive the… spectacle, Your Grace.” Gael broke the silence, her voice now frighteningly flat, all fire extinguished, leaving only cold ash. She didn’t look at Laena, her gaze fixed on the wine stain spreading on the tablecloth. “I find I’ve lost my taste for… company. With your leave ?” She offered a stiff, minimal reverence, a hollow echo of courtly grace, already turning towards the door.

Laena recovered with remarkable speed, her mask of gracious concern sliding back into place. “Think nothing of it, beloved Great-Aunt,” she soothed, her voice warm honey. “A mother’s heart is sacred. Your distress is… understandable. We were honoured by your presence.” Continued the Queen, with grace. “Little Aemon adores you, do visit his nursery later, if you feel restored ?”

“You are… too kind, Your Grace.” Gael’s smile was a brittle ghost. She moved towards the door, her steps slow, deliberate, as if wading through deep water.

Janos made to follow, instinct screaming to shield her, but Alicent’s hand tugged at him, bringing her husband closer to her. Her eyes locked onto his. A silent message within them: play the game. For her. For us. For the babe. “I’ll go,” she whispered, her voice firm despite the tremor beneath. “Stay. Conclude matters with the Queen.” She squeezed his hand, the pressure conveying volumes. Then, louder, turning to Laena with a fragile dignity “Your Grace, forgive me also. The babe… it stirs restlessly today. A wave of nausea washes over me… I should retire.” She rose, one hand resting protectively on her belly, the picture of delicate, pregnant frailty.

“Of course, Alicent,” Laena replied, warmth saturating her tone, genuine this time. “Perhaps a flicker of empathy for another mother-to-be ?” Thought Janos, surprised.  “Your well-being is paramount. We shall have ample time for more pleasant talks during your stay. Rest deeply.” Laena continued, an emphatic smile on her face. 

“Be careful,” Janos murmured, helping her stand, feeling the crushing weight of his responsibilities pressing down anew. He watched her go, the emerald velvet disappearing through the doorway, a piece of his own resolve walking with her.

With the Celtigar women gone, the lunch resumed, a strained pantomime of small talk. The weather, the new tapestries, the health of dragons not currently maimed. The tension only eased superficially; the war hung unspoken over the picked-at food until the plates were nearly cleared.

Laena dabbed her lips delicately with a napkin, the gesture signaling a shift. "A great pity," she sighed, the sound carefully measured to convey regret without weakness. Her violet eyes found Janos’s, holding his gaze with unnerving directness. “This protracted war… forcing loyal lords like yourself to distant, bloody shores. I understand the dread that must grip Alicent and dear Gael. My own mother and brother risk their life daily over those wretched rocks…” She let the familial connection hang, a silken thread designed to bind. “The burden falls heavily.”

“House Celtigar understands burden, Your Grace,” Janos replied, his voice a model of dutiful neutrality. He kept his face impassive, a shield against her probing. Head down. Mouth shut. trying to not antagonize them in any form. Uncle Bartimos’s words echoed in Janos mind. 

“Yet, it grieves me deeply,” Laena pressed, her voice softening into velvet-wrapped steel. She leaned forward slightly, an intimate gesture in the vast room. Corlys suddenly found the pattern of the tablecloth fascinating; Rhaenys studied a grape with intense focus. “Gael… her spirit is gentle. Unsuited to such harsh winds. And Alicent…” She shook her head slightly, a portrait of queenly compassion. “To carry new life while fearing for her lord husband…” She let the image linger, potent and manipulative. “Perhaps… I could intercede with Viserys ? Argue for an extension of your exemption. Your presence is vital on Claw Isle. Your… innovations show such promise for stabilizing the Crownlands. Or,” she paused, letting the alternative dangle, “perhaps negotiate a contribution less… personally perilous ? Gold instead of men ? Ships held in reserve ?” Her gaze was steady, inviting, persuasive. The offer lay on the table, gleaming like the untouched silver.

The bait. Gilded, obvious, irresistible. Janos felt the familiar, unwelcome chessboard snap into focus. “Refusal meant leading my men, mostly smallfolk men who didn’t have anything to do with this war and whose families depend on them, into a war started by Seasnake greed and prolonged by Daemon’s vanity. It meant leaving Crackclaw Point vulnerable and my reforms without supervision… It meant terrifying Gael into collapse, burdening Alicent with unbearable fear and risking my unborn child growing without a father… Acceptance meant owing Laena Velaryon, a debt that would inevitably be called in the form of support for Prince Aemon’s claim over Rhaenyra’s… a compromise that would bind us for the future and involve us in another even bloodier war…” Janos thought deeply, while picturing Alicent’s pale, strained face as she left, Gael’s shattered composure, the fragile network of schools and granaries and shared plows back home. The cost of refusal felt like a physical weight. Incapable of choosing, he tried to choose nothing, masking his words with gratitude, reluctance and ambivalence.

“Your Grace is… generosity itself,” he began, allowing a flicker of conflicted appreciation to touch his eyes. He bowed his head slightly. “To be spared such a war now… it would be a boon beyond measure for my house, my people. But,” he straightened, meeting her gaze with dutiful resolve, “I am a Celtigar. Our steel is ever ready for the Crown’s call. We do not shy from duty.” He made it sound like a noble sacrifice, not a desperate avoidance.

Laena’s smile bloomed, the satisfied curve of a cat who’d finally cornered the mouse. “It is no great imposition, Janos. Guiding the King’s hand is my solemn charge. And stability serves the realm. The newfound peace in your once-lawless lands, the trade flowing into Duskendale and King’s Landing from your ports… these are arguments with true weight before the Iron Throne.” She leaned forward another fraction, her voice dropping, becoming confiding, yet laced with unyielding ambition. “But beyond policy… We share blood, however distant it is. Your mother is my beloved Great-Aunt. Aunt to my beloved mother Rhaenys. We are kin. Targaryen blood flows on our veins.” Her violet eyes held his, unwavering, ancient power mingling with sharp, modern calculation. “And I,” she stated with quiet, terrifying conviction, “cherish and protect my blood and family.”

“No pretense of marital bliss with Viserys. No lingering affection for Rhaenyra. The naked ambition in her gaze was chilling. She’d willingly prolong the Velaryons’ war, risk more Velaryon blood and gold, if it bought the Celtigar’s dragon and support for her son’s throne.” Thought Janos, a mix of surprise, empathy, fear and disgust. “Corlys and Rhaenys presence here meant that they agree… Ambition, fear, spite, entitlement or self-preservation, what guides them ? How many smallfolk will die building ships or burning in dragonfire so a babe can sit on a chair ? How much of history is just nobles spilling blood that does not belong to them to preserve or increase their already immense privileges ?”  Janos wondered in his mind, an old anger manifesting itself again, as he cracked his knuckles under the table, the small, sharp sound swallowed by the room’s vastness as servants silently removed the cheese platter. 

“Your words honor the blood we share, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice smooth, formal, a well-practiced courtier’s cadence. His own smile was a carefully constructed thing, respectful and grateful, but utterly opaque. “I, too, hold kin above all earthly concerns. I would never presume to ask a boon that might strain your influence or conscience. But,” he inclined his head again with deference, “I rest assured knowing your wisdom, your profound understanding of the realm’s deepest needs, will guide your counsel to the King. Celtigar’s faith in the Crown’s discernment is absolute.”

Laena blinked. For a microsecond, the perfectly composed Queen faltered, thrown off balance by the non-answer wrapped in gilded flattery. Then a genuine, surprised laugh escaped her, rich and unexpected. “I see you’re still the same clever boy who annoyed the maesters with his answers, that infuriating smile remains firmly in your face, lord Janos”

“And you remain as… persistent as ever, Your Grace,” Janos chuckled, this time more genuinely. “No wonder you and Rhaenyra hit off so well in the past”.

A shadow flickered across Laena’s face. “Yes,” she murmured, her voice suddenly flat, distant. “Once.” The word hung heavy in the air. She stood abruptly, smoothing her skirts, the moment of vulnerability vanishing as the Queen reassembled” herself. “Alas, the realm’s business is unrelenting. But consider this merely the opening chapter of our discourse, Lord Celtigar.” Her parting smile was pure, acquisitive strategy, the look of a player who has secured a valuable, if stubborn, piece that he must aquire. “We have much more to discuss in the days ahead.”

The final courtesies were exchanged, hollow phrases bouncing off the cavernous room like stones. Rhaenys offered a curt, appraising nod. Corlys gave a satisfied grunt, already mentally tallying the potential addition of Celtigar’s fleet (and dragon) to his war effort. Laena swept out, a queen planning her next moves after one more victory, followed by her formidable parents. Janos was the last to leave. He stepped from the stifling, perfumed warmth of the dining room, thick with the scent of roasted meat, spilled wine, and ambition, into the familiar, bone-deep chill of the Red Keep’s corridors. The transition was jarring. “At least here I’m alone with my thoughts…” The Celtigar lord thought tired. 

Sunlight slanted through high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air. His footsteps echoed loudly on the cold stone as he walked, not towards his apartments, but towards a deserted balcony overlooking the training yard far below. Leaning on the sun-warmed stone, the vast sprawl of King’s Landing stretched before him, a chaotic, stinking, vibrant tapestry of life. Below, men hammered swords on anvils; children shrieked in filthy alleys; merchants haggled over bolts of cloth. His people, in a way. Pawns on a board they hadn’t chosen.

“War or Laena’s leash. Both paths stank of compromise…. Sending men to die in a pointless war sparked by aristocratic ambitions was anathema to every fiber of my being. But owing to Laena Velaryon, becoming complicit in her power play, endorsing her son’s claim over Rhaenyra’s… it felt like signing a pact that will backfire on my face, or worse on my people and family faces in the future.” Reflected, the young lord, as he thought of Alicent’s hand protectively cradling their unborn child, of Gael’s special needs and careful state, of the wary hope in the eyes of the smallfolk back in Crackclaw Point when he walked and worked among them. 

The weight of the choice settled on his shoulders like a physical yoke, while the taste of the arbour gold lingered in his tongue. “We shall serve them lies and arbor gold… was that the right quote ? I don’t know…  I don’t even know if I was the one who got served or I will be the one who serves it…” Wondered Janos bitterly, as he cracked his knuckles again, the sound was sharp in the quiet air. 

“Uncle Bartimos thinks I'm leading our house to ruins. The Velaryons think they have me in the bag. Alicent, I don’t even know what she thinks of me… Meanwhile, the only thing I can think about is how lost I am in all of this…” Janos thought wistfully, feeling overwhelmed by emotions and doubts, as he watched a lone gull wheel over the city, crying a harsh, lonely sound, and wondered which compromise would ultimately break him.

…

The afternoon sun bled through the Red Keep’s high, narrow windows, painting long, dusty rectangles on the worn stone floor. It offered a feeble warmth, barely penetrating the castle’s inherent chill, but it was better than the damp shadows. Janos Celtigar walked slowly down a lesser-used corridor, the seaward side. Here, salt-laden breezes occasionally wrestled free from the city’s pervasive smells, a fleeting, briny respite.

“At least the sea air occasionally rinses the city’s stench from this stone cage,” the young lord mused, the red glints in his hair catching the light. His pace was aimless, a physical manifestation of the turmoil churning inside him.

“So I dodged Laena’s hook for now… Fine. But the Velaryons won’t stop fishing… huh, a fishing pun he he he… Shit… This Dance… feels carved in stone already. Rhaenyra won’t yield her birthright. Laena won’t yield her son’s ‘destiny’. Mas que merda… mas que absoluta merda !” He kicked a loose pebble, watching it skitter. “Picking a side won’t stop the music. I’ve got a dragon and House Celtigar got ships, men, mines. But we’re not decisive. They’ll fight with or without us. I’m just… convenient. Too dangerous to ignore, too small to tip the scales. Damned nuisance.” Janos thought with himself. 

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his doublet, the fine wool feeling like a costume. “I could try to go for neutrality, maybe ?  Hunker down on Claw Isle? Let them bleed each other white over that ugly chair? Then swoop in as the last dragonrider standing, grab the crown?” The image felt grotesque in Janos' mind, even making a visible scowl on his face. “King ? Of this ? I don’t want to reform feudalism, I want to shatter its foundations… I want to melt them down. I don't want to make Britain, I want a Jacobin France, to send the lords to the guillotine… I want Mao’s China, a revolution for the workers and peasants !... All fine dreams, but this isn’t France nor China. The “material conditions”…” He snorted silently, the Marxist term tasting bitter and nostalgic in his mind. “…are ten thousand years of “the way things are”. Peasants praying to the Seven for a kinder master. Lords who think owning land and people is a divine right. Dragons for fuck sake.” He sighed, a sharp exhale. “And that neutrality isn’t even guaranteed to work… That may just paint the biggest target on my back. Both sides see a dragon they don’t control. They’ll burn my fields, scatter my people… Gael… Alicent and the babe…” The old Brazilian saying surfaced, unbidden and apt: “Se eu correr o bicho pega, se eu ficar o bicho come…” Run, the beast catches you. Stay, the beast eats you.

Lost in the spiral, Janos’ feet carried him without conscious direction. He deliberately avoided the path back to his chambers. He couldn’t facing Alicent’s anxious questions about the Stepstones, or Gael’s fragile, frightened eyes after the lunch. Not yet, he told himself. He needed the illusion of solitude, even amidst the Keep’s teeming inhabitants.

Rounding a corner thick with ivy spilling from a niche, he stepped into the relative brightness of the Sea Dragon Garden. It was one of the Red Keep’s smaller, less formal gathering spots, a rectangle of struggling grass, a few weathered stone benches, some hardy coastal shrubs clinging to life despite the salt spray, and a central fountain shaped like a coiled sea dragon, currently dry. The illusion of solitude shattered instantly. Nobles clustered like brightly plumed, chattering birds, with ladies with embroidery hoops, knights holding court, older lords discussing.

“Right. Uncle Bartimos’s ‘courtly standing’,” Janos thought, the weariness settling deep in his bones like damp. “Might as well start now….” He forced his posture straighter, lifted his chin to the angle expected of a lord, and plastered on a neutral, civil expression, his bland mask of Lord Celtigar.

His entrance was noted. Eyes flickered towards him, dozens of them, sharp and assessing. Near a stunted rosemary bush, a cluster of women flinched almost imperceptibly. Their whispers sharpened into fearful hisses: “The Red Crab… The Seven protect us…” A lady-in-waiting stared wide-eyed, her mistress, a Lady of house Rosby, murmuring something about “Maegor’s shadow” and “noble blood spilled like butcher’s leavings”. 

By the dry fountain, a florid-faced Rollington lord and his sycophants radiated palpable disgust. “Insolence rewarded… steals ancestral lands like a common thief… spits on tradition…” 

A handsome Ashford knight, holding court near a twisted driftwood sculpture, offered Janos a look of amused contempt before turning back to his giggling audience of young ladies. “Youth explains the queer notions, surely ? Heard he dirties his hands in the fields with them…” The knight spoke “How scandalous…” whispered one of the giggling ladies. “I even heard that he prefers to share his bed with them too…” Mocked another lady, in hushed tones.

An elderly couple near the entrance arch offered a colder assessment: “Perhaps the Hightower girl’s babe will breed some sense into the Celtigar line…”

Janos waded in and started exchanging brittle pleasantries like compliments on a lady’s utterly forgettable embroidery (“Such… intricate leaves, Lady Mertyns”), observations about the unseasonably mild autumn (“Bodes well for the harvests, wouldn’t you say, Ser Brune?”), inquiries about health delivered with vacant courtesy (“Lord Massey, you look… robust”). 

“What a tedious soul-sapping pantomime.” Thought the young lord. Each vapid exchange grated like sandpaper. He nodded, smiled thinly, offered bland courtesies, all while internally cataloging the layers of fear, disdain, and opportunistic curiosity directed his way. “Bloody Crab… Maegor’s shadow… queer notions… breed sense… Charming. Utterly charming.” He thought dryly. 

The Celtigar lord was extricating himself from a particularly insipid debate about the merits of Dornish red versus Arbor gold when a solid figure blocked his path. Lord Howard Staunton of Rook’s Rest was built like a siege engine, barrel-chested, bald as a cannonball, with a meticulously waxed, grey-streaked mustache that seemed to bristle with its own indignation. He carried the faded aura of past martial prowess now softened by years of good living and court attendance. His doublet, though fine, strained slightly at the buttons.

“Lord Janos,” Staunton announced, his voice cutting through the garden’s murmur like a warhorn. More heads turned. “A rare sighting. Courtly gardens aren’t your usual haunt, from what I hear. Prefer the… simpler airs of Crackclaw Point, do you ?” The false joviality didn't reach his eyes.

Janos kept the civil mask firmly in place, though his own eyes cooled a degree. “Lord Staunton. Good health to you. Even homebodies emerge for the Prince’s name day. One makes the effort.” His tone was light, deliberately dismissive.

“Effort noted,” Staunton replied, not budging an inch. His gaze was fixed, intense. “Since you’re making the effort, there’s a matter requiring your attention. A serious one. A border… irregularity.” The false bonhomie evaporated.

“Here we go,” Janos thought, the familiar knot of irritation tightening in his gut. He tilted his head slightly, the picture of attentive politeness. “I’m listening, Lord Staunton.”

Staunton puffed out his chest, the movement emphasizing his girth. “It concerns the boundaries between Rook’s Rest and Crackclaw Point. Specifically, a lamentable confusion amongst the… base elements… regarding where my jurisdiction ends and yours begins.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, confiding growl that somehow carried further. “My smallfolk exhibit a troubling tendency to… wander. Stray onto your lands. I require your assurance that any such wayward individuals will be promptly identified and returned to their rightful place. Under my lawful authority.” It wasn’t a request. It was a demand wrapped in the thinnest silk of courtesy, delivered with the expectation of immediate, unquestioning compliance.

“Ah. So the peasants of Rook’s Rest, tired of being whipped, starved, and treated like livestock by a lord who spends more time kissing the King’s ass in King’s Landing than ruling, are “voting” with their feet. Heading where the taxes don’t crush them, the work day ends before midnight, and the lord might actually know their names. What a surprise…” Janos thought sarcastically, the situation clearly giving immense satisfaction, even having to fight to keep the sardonic grin off his face.

He feigned mild, polite surprise, raising one eyebrow with practiced innocence. “Is that so? How… unusual. I’ve encountered no such difficulties. Smallfolk in my domains enjoy freedom of movement, within reason, naturally. Yet, I’ve received no reports of… strays from Rook’s Rest causing disruption. Are you quite certain this isn’t just market-day exaggeration, Lord Staunton? Servants’ tales grow taller with each telling.” His tone remained smooth, reasonable, perfectly calibrated to needle the older lord’s pride.

Staunton’s face flushed, starting at his thick neck and rising swiftly to his polished scalp. The magnificent mustache quivered. “Don’t play the simpleton with me, boy!” he snapped, his voice shedding its forced control. He took a deliberate half-step closer, using his bulk in a transparent attempt to intimidate. The garden’s murmur had died; all attention was fixed on them. “I know they’re going to your lands, boy ! I know you harbour them! This is an affront ! They are bound to my soil by the laws of gods and men ! I demand their immediate return !” Spittle glistened at the corner of his mouth.

The mask cracked. The simmering irritation, the deep-seated disdain for this blustering relic of the system the redhaired had fought against, boiled over. Janos’s own posture shifted subtly, losing its courtly stiffness for something leaner, more alert. A cold, sharp glint entered his eyes, replacing the feigned politeness. A faint, sardonic curl touched his lips.

“Bound to your soil, you say?” Janos’s voice dropped, losing its pleasantry, gaining a razor’s edge of contempt. “And Crackclaw Point’s people are bound to mine. And the folk currently residing there? They’ve tilled that soil for generations. Now,” he took a small, deliberate step forward, forcing Staunton to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact, “if you, a lord seasoned by decades of… experience… find yourself incapable of governing your own lands and if your people are so profoundly discontent they wander off your domains at the first opportunity, that sounds distinctly like a failure of your lordship, wouldn’t you agree?” He let the question hang, his gaze sweeping pointedly over Staunton’s expensive, slightly strained doublet, lingering with malice on his mustache. “Perhaps,” Janos continued, his voice dripping with false, solicitous concern, “if you devoted less time to the intricate cultivation of your facial topiary here in the capital, and more time to the actual administration of Rook’s Rest, these alleged… boundary confusions… wouldn’t occur. My lands and my people are my concern. Your apparent inability to manage yours is not.” Said Janos with a sarcastic smile and dismissive eyes. 

The insult was public, surgically precise, and humiliating. Laughter, hastily stifled behind hands and fans but unmistakable, rippled through the garden. Staunton turned a mottled shade of purple-red, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a landed fish, his fists clenching at his sides. Janos, however, didn’t wait for a spluttered retort. He gave a curt, dismissive nod, as if closing an account.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lord Staunton,” he said, his voice glacial, “I have matters of actual consequence requiring my attention.” He deliberately turned his back, adjusting the cuff of his doublet with exaggerated nonchalance.

A guttural sound escaped Staunton. His shame curdled into blinding rage. Before Janos could take two steps, a meaty hand clamped down hard on his shoulder, fingers digging painfully into the muscle beneath the fine wool. The grip was strong, born of outrage.

“This isn’t over, you insolent whelp !” Staunton hissed, his breath hot and sour against Janos’s ear, the words thick with fury.

Janos made a sharp twist and the drop of his shoulder broke the grip cleanly. He didn’t look back. He didn’t pause. He simply walked away, his stride measured and unhurried, leaving Lord Howard Staunton trembling with impotent fury amidst the whispers, smirks, and the stifled laughter of the court. The afternoon sun glinted off his impeccably waxed mustache.

Janos strode deeper into the Red Keep’s labyrinthine corridors, the brief, savage flare of satisfaction at humiliating Staunton already guttering out like a dying candle. It was replaced by the cold, heavy certainty of a man who’d just tossed a lit torch into a barn full of dry hay. “Smooth, Janos, very smooth…” he thought sourly, his ingrained cynicism coloring his internal voice. “Truly masterful statecraft and diplomacy. Uncle Bartimos will be thrilled... Now Staunton’s probably drafting a formal complaint or sharpening his ancestral mace.” The salt air from a high, narrow window offered no comfort now; it just smelled like impending storm.

…

Janos wandered aimlessly, the polished stone walls feeling less like a fortress and more like a gilded cage. The confrontation replayed in his head, Staunton’s enraged face, the stifled laughter, the sheer, stupid relief of finally snapping at one of these preening, parasitic peacocks. But relief curdled into guilt. He’d avoided his rooms, avoided Alicent’s anxious questions and Gael’s fragile, wounded eyes after the scare at lunch. He couldn’t face them, not with the Stepstones war looming and his own temper proving as volatile as wildfire. “Cowardice… Jorge Ferreira would have sneered. Hiding from my responsibilities…” The redhead lord thought sorrowfully.

His stomach rumbled, a mundane counterpoint to his political dread. Not hunger for sustenance, but a visceral craving for comfort. “ I need something sweet… something familiar…” Janos thought. The sharp, cloying scent of caramelized sugar and spice, the ghost of “doce de abóbora”, his grandmother’s pumpkin jam, surfaced in his memory. It wasn't just sweetness; it was warmth, home, a world away from dragons and backstabbing lords. Uniting the useful to the agreeable, he decided grimly. “I need sugar and I need to do something with my hands that isn't scheming or strangling another lord of the realm”.

Following the faint, underlying aromas of roasting meat, baked bread, and woodsmoke, he navigated the service passages, descending towards the castle’s beating heart: the kitchens. The cool sea air was replaced by a thick, welcoming cacophony of heat, steam, and purposeful noise. The vast, vaulted chamber hummed like a living beast. the rhythmic “thump-thump-thump” of dough being kneaded, the sharp “clang” of iron pots, the “hiss” of steam escaping cauldrons, the shouted orders weaving through the din. Heat radiated from multiple hearths, carrying the rich, complex tapestry of roasting meats, simmering broths, yeasty bread, and the earthy tang of root vegetables. Scullions scrubbed mountains of dishes, their arms deep in soapy water. Kitchen boys, faces flushed, hauled sacks of flour and turnips. Women moved with efficient grace, chopping, stirring, and shaping. The air itself felt busy.

His fancy clothes marked him as alien here. As he appeared in the main doorway, the busy rhythm faltered. Dozens of eyes flicked towards him, some wide with surprise, others with apprehension, most of them quickly averting themselves when he tried to make eye contact. The sharp clatter of a dropped ladle echoed. A stout woman, her apron dusted white with flour like fresh snowfall, bustled forward, wiping her hands furiously on a rag. The head cook, janos suspected, bobbed an awkward curtsey, her voice strained.

“M’lord ! What an honor, m'lord ! Is... is there a concern ? Aren't the plates of this day of your liking ? We can rectify anything immediately !” Her eyes darted nervously, silently commanding her frozen staff back into motion.

Janos offered a small, tight smile, feeling the weight of their unease. “No fault lies with your kitchens, Mistress… ?”

“Tan… Tansy, m’lord.” Answered the head cook, both surprised and worried for the noble caring to know her name.

“Nice to meet you, Misstress Tansy, I'm Janos Celtigar and my visit is… more personal. A craving struck me. For a specific sweet called Pumpkin jam." Continued the young lord, with a timid smile on his face, feeling acutely out of place. 

A ripple of pure bewilderment passed through the nearby servants. Whispers fluttered like startled birds:

“Pumpkin... jam?” A kitchen boy repeated confused. 

“Sweet pumpkin? Like... like a preserve?” One of the cooking ladies asked another.

“Must be a Dornish thing... or Essosi ?” Another servant answered the cooking lady in question. 

“Or m'lord's having a jest…” An older servant commented. 

Tansy blinked, her professional mask slipping completely for a second. “Pumpkin... jam, m'lord ?” she repeated carefully. “Forgive my ignorance, truly. It's not known in these parts. But !” She rallied, snapping her fingers. “We've beautiful quince paste, just set. Or apricot preserves ? Honeyed figs from the Arbor ? All finer fare for a lord's palate, surely.”

Janos shook his head. “No, Mistress Tansy. Specifically pumpkin jam. It requires pumpkin, sugar, cinnamon sticks, cloves… perhaps a lemon if you have one. I can describe the process.” He saw the confusion hardening into dutiful resignation. “They’re thinking i’m ordering them to make some bizarre, foreign delicacy on command…” Janos thought feeling guilty. “But,” he added quickly, before she could start barking orders, “I would prefer to make it myself. If I might borrow a corner of your kitchen and the ingredients ?”

Silence descended, thicker than the steam rising from the nearest stewpot. Tansy stared as if he’d declared an intention to fly. “M-M'lord! That's... that's not fitting ! Not proper ! We are here to serve ! Tell us the method, we'll have your... pumpkin confection... prepared with all haste ! Jeyne, fetch a pumpkin ! Tim, sugar from the white sacks ! Cloves, cinnamon... and find a lemon, a good one !” Her voice rose, trying to regain control through command.

Janos held up a hand, his expression earnest, trying to shed some of his lordly persona. “Mistress Tansy, please. I assure you, it is fitting. For me. It's... a taste of home. And the doing,” he emphasized, flexing his hands slightly, “is part of the remedy. I'd be grateful for the space and the supplies. I promise not to burn down your domain.” He offered a small, genuine smile.

Tansy looked utterly flummoxed. She glanced at her deputy, a wiry, eel-skinning man named Heward, who just shrugged, his expression saying, Your problem, mistress. Refusing a lord was unthinkable. “Well... if m'lord insists…” she conceded weakly, gesturing towards a slightly quieter corner near a secondary hearth where a large cauldron of water simmered. “Clear that trestle ! Jeyne, the pumpkin ! Tim, the goods ! Sharp knife for m'lord ! And mind you don't get underfoot !”

As the requested items appeared on the scrubbed wooden trestle: a small, ripe pumpkin, a sack of fine white sugar, fragrant cinnamon sticks, whole cloves, and a slightly wrinkled lemon. Janos didn't hesitate, he rolled up the sleeves of his expensive doublet, ignoring the incredulous stares. He picked up the heavy kitchen knife, its weight solid and reassuring in his hand.

“Right,” he said, more to himself than anyone, the Brazilian Portuguese term slipping out, “Primeiro, descascar e cortar a abóbora em cubos. First, peel and cube the pumpkin.” He set to work, his movements initially careful, then finding a practical rhythm. The resistance of the rind, the clean slice through the dense orange flesh was immensely grounding. He caught the wide-eyed stare of the scullion boy, Ned, maybe twelve, holding a bowl.

“Never seen a lord wield a peeler, right, Ned ?” Janos asked, a wry grin touching his lips as he tossed a cleanly peeled chunk into the bowl. He deliberately used the boy's name, having heard Tansy bark it earlier.

Ned jumped, flushing. “N-no, m'lord… Never…”

“My grandm… I mean my nanny,” Janos continued, barely catching himself before he spoke something about his past life unfiltered, starting to cube the pumpkin with more confidence, the pieces falling steadily, “she'd have boxed my ears if I didn't help in her kitchen when I asked for sweets. Said idle hands make for a dull mind... and worse meals.” He mimed a light tap to his own ear. “She used a wooden spoon like a warhammer if you burned the beans.”

A tentative chuckle came from Ellyn, a broad-hipped woman kneading dough nearby. “Your nanny sounds like a wise woman, m'lord,” she ventured, pausing her rhythmic thumping.

“Terrifyingly wise,” Janos agreed, pushing the growing pile of pumpkin cubes towards Ned. “Here, Ned, give these a good wash. We need them very clean.” He didn't order; he instructed, including the boy. Ned scurried to the water barrel, eager to be useful.

Mistress Tansy hovered, clutching the cloves and cinnamon sticks. “Where would you have these, m'lord ?” she asked, still torn between horror and fascination.

“In the pot, Mistress Tansy, in the pot,” Janos said, pointing to a sturdy copper pot Ellyn had silently placed near the hearth. “We need to cook the pumpkin first, soften it. Ellyn, that pot looks perfect. Could you set it over a low flame ? Just cover the pumpkin with water.”

Ellyn, surprised at being addressed directly, nodded. “Aye, m'lord. Low flame it is.” She hefted the pot efficiently.

As the pumpkin chunks and water began to simmer, Janos leaned against the trestle, wiping his hands on a cloth offered by a wide-eyed scullion girl, Meg. “So, Ned,” he began conversationally, trying to sound natural,  “Did you were born here in kingslanding ? Or did the Keep lure you away from other places ?”

Ned, scrubbing cubes vigorously, looked startled that anyone cared. “F-Flea Bottom born and bred, m'lord. Mum does laundry. Da... da's gone. Mistress Tansy took me on last year.”

“Laundry is hard work,” Janos nodded. “My mother, Lady Gael, insists on doing some of her finer silks herself. Says the maids are too rough. Drives her handmaidens mad.” He chuckled, a genuine, unguarded sound. “I respect the good laundresses of our realm, they keep the lice away and our dignity intact.”

Meg giggled, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Janos winked at her. He turned to Tim, a gangly lad who’d fetched the sugar, now hovering nearby. “Tim, right ? Saw you scaling those pantry shelves like a monkey, don’t you fear taking a tumble or you never did so far ?”

Tim grinned, emboldened. “Once, m'lord ! Spilled a whole sack of barley. Mistress Tansy tanned my hide proper !”

“That, I did…” Tansy, huffed with a small smile on her face, while scrubbing a plate. 

“A valuable lesson in gravity and grain,” Janos quipped, but he forgot that no one but him here knew about gravity. “Better barley than the King's Arbor gold reserve, right ?” He tried again, this time drawing a few more chuckles from the growing circle of onlookers. Even Heward paused his skinning to listen.

The pumpkin softened. Janos fished out a piece with a fork. “Ready for mashing. Ned, pass that heavy pestle there.” He didn't take it; he gestured for Ned to hand it to him. Together, Janos guiding the boy's hands initially, they mashed the pumpkin in the pot. It was messy, warm work. “See ? Needs to be smooth. No lumps. Like... like very soft butter.”

“Never seen butter so orange, m'lord,” Meg piped up, earning a shush from Tansy, but Janos laughed.

“True ! But the colour is part of the charm. Now, Tim, the sugar. The whole sack ? Near enough. It’s a sweet thing.” He poured the sugar in, the white crystals cascading over the orange mash. “Now, the spices.” He took the cinnamon sticks and cloves from Tansy. “We tie these in a little muslin pouch. So we can fish them out later. Ellyn, you’ve got clever fingers with that dough, could you knot this for me, please ?”

Ellyn, flattered, took the scrap of muslin and deftly tied the spices inside. Janos dropped the pouch into the pot. “And the lemon.” He took the knife again, expertly zesting the yellow skin, the citrus scent bursting into the air. “Just the zest, the yellow part. Not the white that’s bitter.” He sprinkled the vibrant yellow strands into the mixture. “Right. Now, the slow part. Low flame. Stir. Constantly. Or it catches and burns, and we get charcoal jam. Ned, can I trust you to take the first watch ? Use the wooden spoon. Long strokes, scrape the bottom.” Janos spoke overly serious, mimicking a guard or a soldier, jesting with the young boy.

“Yes, m’lord !” Ned said laughing happily and eager to help. As he took the spoon reverently, Janos stood beside him, guiding his hand initially, showing the motion. “Like this. Slow, steady. Feel the thickness changing.” He didn't hover; he stepped back, trusting the boy, but remained watchful.

As Ned stirred, Janos turned to Tansy. “The cost of saffron still climbing, Mistress Tansy ? Heard it's worse than a dragon's breath this season.”

Tansy sighed, her guard lowering slightly. “Aye, m'lord. Robbery, it is ! And the Master of Coin expects miracles with the budget he sets. Try explaining the price of saffron to a man who counts coppers like they're his own teeth.”

“Tell him it's cheaper than hiring a mummer to make the King's pigeon pie look golden,” Janos suggested dryly. “Sometimes you need the real thing to avoid a diplomatic incident involving indigestion.” This drew genuine laughter, even from Tansy.

Janos moved around their corner, offering casual advice when asked. He showed Meg a trick for peeling garlic faster. He commiserated with Heward about the slipperiness of eels. He listened to a pot-boy’s tale of a burned hand, suggesting a poultice of honey and chamomile. He treated their skills and knowledge with respect, asking questions about techniques, admiring a perfectly risen loaf Ellyn presented. He was simply there, working alongside them, his questions genuine, his laughter easy. The rigid hierarchy of the Keep dissolved in the steam. He was just a man making jam, relying on their help.

The air soon filled with the intoxicating aroma: caramelizing sugar, earthy pumpkin, warm cinnamon, sharp cloves, and bright citrus. The jam deepened from orange to a rich, glossy amber, thickening steadily. Janos took over stirring as it neared completion, the spoon moving through the mixture with satisfying resistance. “Almost there. See how it coats the spoon ? Holds its shape ? That's the point. It shouldn't be dry; it should be thick but moist, like... like molten autumn.” The lord said, trying to sound more romantic and dramatic, what brought some laughter out of his new friends. 

Finally, he pulled the pot from the heat and fished out the spice pouch with tongs. “There. Now it needs to cool.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve, leaving a faint smear of orange. He looked around at the small group , Tansy, Ned, Ellyn, Tim, Meg, Heward, and others drawn by the scent and camaraderie. Their expressions held curiosity, a touch of pride in the creation, and none of the fear or contempt he’d faced in the gardens earlier.

“Right,” he said, grinning, the weariness replaced by warmth. “The proof is in the tasting. Crucial step.” He found clean wooden tasting spoons. Dipping one into the still-warm, glistening jam, he offered it first to Tansy. “Mistress Tansy, the honor. Tell me if it tastes like home.”

She tasted cautiously, then her eyes widened in genuine surprise. “Oh! By the Seven... it's... it's lovely, m'lord ! Sweet, rich... but not cloying ! The spices... and the pumpkin ! It holds its own ! Who would have thought pumpkin could taste like... like comfort ?”

Janos beamed, truly happy in doing something from his old life. “Exactly! Comfort.” He handed spoons around. “Everyone ! Try it ! Ned, careful, it's hot. Meg, tell me honestly. Heward, see if it beats the lemon tarts you made here.”

The verdict was unanimous delight. Rich, sweet, complex, and utterly unique. Ned grinned, licking his spoon clean. “It's like... like sweetened sunshine, m'lord !”

Janos laughed. “High praise, Ned! Mistress Tansy, might I trouble you for some small pots ? Clay ones, perhaps ?”

Tansy, now fully converted, bustled off, returning with a stack of small, clean earthenware jars. Janos carefully ladled the warm jam into them, filling eight pots. He sealed each with a waxed parchment square.

“Here,” he said, handing one to Tansy. “For the kitchen. A thank you for your patience, your corner, and your expertise.” He gave one to Ned, one to Ellyn, one to Tim, and one to Meg. “For your excellent assistance.” He pressed the last two into Heward's and the pot-boy's hands. “For putting up with the disruption.” Their protests were feeble and soon overcome by their stunned gratitude. 

“A lord paying them and giving them sweets he’d made with them ? It was unprecedented. The world went mad.” Janos, with a big grin on his face, satisfied both in sharing a little kindness in this very unfair world, and in confusing and surprising people, imagined those were the words in their minds. 

Janos then dug into his purse, pulling out silver stags. He pressed one into Ned's hand, one into Meg's, one into Tim's. He gave two to Ellyn. “For your trouble, Ellyn, and your perfect knot.” He gave three to Mistress Tansy. “For managing this chaos and letting me impose.” He even gave a stag to the wide-eyed pot-boy. “For fetching and carrying.”

“M'lord, this is too much !” Tansy stammered, clutching the coins and the pot. “We were just doing our duty !”

“You were doing me a kindness,” Janos corrected gently, tucking the remaining four pots into a cloth bundle. “And sharing your workplace. The company was the best part.” He looked around at their faces, the fear replaced by warmth and bewildered appreciation. “Thank you, all of you. Truly. You've restored my afternoon.” He picked up his bundle, gave them a final, warm nod, and walked out of the steamy, fragrant chaos.

The corridors of the Red Keep still stretched cold and imposing, but the weight on Janos’s shoulders was different. The scent of cinnamon, caramel, and pumpkin clung to him. A tangible reminder of warmth created, not seized. The political dread, the guilt, hadn't vanished, but they were held at bay by the simple satisfaction of shared work and unexpected connection. He wasn't dreading his rooms anymore. He had pumpkin jam, a clearer head, and a quiet reaffirmation of the world he wanted to build, one small, sticky pot at a time. 

…

The comforting scent of cinnamon and caramel clung to Janos as he navigated the dimming corridors, the four clay pots cradled like fragile secrets. The kitchen’s warmth still lingered in his bones, a buffer against the Keep’s usual chill. “Alright,” he thought, shifting the bundle. “Apologize for vanishing. Explain… the jam ? Got stressed, hid in the kitchens, made pumpkin goo ? Gods, she’ll think I’ve cracked. Maybe offer to rub her feet ? Do lords do that ? Probably not…” He was mentally rehearsing apologies, picturing Alicent’s worried frown and Gael’s wide, anxious eyes. The rhythmic tap-tap of his boots echoed in the quiet passageway.

Distracted, picturing Alicent’s possible reactions (Disappointment ? Quiet anger ?), he rounded a corner just as another figure emerged from a shadowed archway. The collision was sudden, undignified. Janos stumbled, instinctively clutching the pots. The other man wasn’t so lucky. There was a sharp clatter of wood on stone, a soft oof, and the man landed hard on his backside.

“Shit ! Seven hells !” Janos blurted, the peaceful bubble bursting. Guilt, sharp and hot, flooded him. “Idiot ! Pay attention !” Janos mentally scolded himself. “My deepest apologies ! This is entirely my fault !” He crouched quickly, setting the bundle down with exaggerated care. “Are you hurt ?” He reached out a hand, genuine concern overriding everything else. “Please don’t be injured. Please don’t be some important lord.” Thought the redhead. 

The man blinked, dazed. Thin face, sharp eyes that flickered over Janos with unnerving speed, dark hair neatly combed. Somewhat expensive somber robes. A cane lay beside him. He accepted Janos’s hand with a surprisingly strong grip and pulled himself up with a wince, favoring a leg that turned inwards unnaturally. He brushed dust from his robes with meticulous care.

“No lasting harm, my lord,” the man said, his voice soft and measured. “A stumble. Though my cane seems to have suffered indignity.” He gestured towards the fallen stick.

Janos snatched it up, handing it back. “Again, profoundly sorry. Lord Janos Celtigar,” he introduced himself, radiating sincere fluster. 

Janos's eyes met the man's directly, barely eyeing his clubfoot for more than a second. “Are you truly alright ? Can I help you somewhere ?” The Lord Celtigar asked, trying to be helpful. “Just say no. Just say no and let me go die of embarrassment.” Janos thought, clearly embarrassed. 

The man leaned on the cane, studying Janos. “He sees the leg… but doesn’t linger. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t offer false sympathy or veiled contempt. Just… genuine concern over knocking me down. How novel. How… suspicious.” Thought Larys analytically. 

"Larys Strong," he replied smoothly. “Second son to Lord Lyonel Strong. I serve His Grace in the… quieter capacities.” He watched for the usual reaction: the slight recoil, the wariness or disgust that accompanied his name and role, instead he saw only polite recognition and lingering worry about the fall. “Is the Lord Celtigar Intriguing or just remarkably dense ?” Thought Larys Strong. 

“Lord Strong,” Janos nodded, the name barely registering beyond “Master of Laws’ son”. His mind was still half on Alicent’s possible couch-banishment scenario. “My apologies again. Head was… elsewhere.” He glanced at the pots. “Focus, idiot.” Jaos scolded himself again. 

Larys offered a thin, almost imperceptible smile. “Your distraction seems potent indeed, Lord Celtigar. The burdens of lordship pressing heavy ? Or perhaps… navigating the currents within our Keep ?” His voice was low, layered with implication like silt in still water. He took a half-step closer, his gaze sharpening. “It is a place where a moment’s lapse can have… ripples. Where even the smallest creatures possess surprising… agency.” Larys spoke with a calculated provocation, wanting to better understand the Celtigar in question.

Janos, however, heard only a slightly odd man making conversation after being knocked down. The velvet menace, the probing intellect? Background noise to his own internal drama. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely sheepish. “Yeah, yeah,” he agreed readily, missing the subtext entirely. “Like nearly flattening the King’s… uh, quiet servant because I was thinking about how much jam I need to buy me out of the hole I dig myself into.” He gestured vaguely at the bundle. “Do you think one pot of apology jam is enough to stop my beautiful lady wife making me sleep on the couch tonight for vanishing after lunch ?” He offered a weak, self-deprecating smile. “Why did I say that ? To a stranger ?” Thought the redhead embarrassed. 

Larys Strong used all of his control to not let his carefully composed expression crack, but his sharp eyes widened a fraction. “Jam ? Sleeping on the couch ? And he wants my opinion ? This was not defiance, fear, or cunning deflection, this is just absurd. He’d anticipated probing ambition or hidden fear, not marital strife involving preserves ? If this is an act, it is a deeply peculiar one… Or is he truly this… preoccupied ?” Larys thought as he couldn't really understand what logic Janos was following. 

“Apology… jam ?” Larys echoed, his usually smooth voice betraying a hint of genuine confusion. The cryptic script he’d prepared felt suddenly absurd.

Janos, misinterpreting the confusion for curiosity about the jam itself (and seized by a wave of guilt-induced generosity), unwrapped the bundle. “Here,” he said, thrusting one of the small, warm pots towards Larys. “Please, take this as a proper apology, both for the scare and the floor. It's a sweet called pumpkin jam, I made it myself downstairs. Sounds mad, I know, a sweet made out of pumpkin, but it’s surprisingly good. Sweet, spicy… helps after a shock. Or before sleeping on a couch.” He managed another awkward smile. “Shut up about the couch, Janos.” The young lord thought, again angry with himself for the situation. 

Larys stared at the offered pot as if it contained scorpions. “Did he… make it ? In the kitchens ? And he’s giving it… to me… as an apology ?” The sheer, bizarre innocence of the gesture short-circuited his usual calculations. “A lord making jam? Giving it to the King’s lord confessor after knocking him down ? Citing marital couch arrangements ? It defies every rule of the game I know. well played ?” Thought Larys confused, as he accepted the pot numbly, its warmth was unfamiliar in his cool hands.

“You… made this” Larys repeated, his voice barely above a murmur. The question was less about the jam and more about the entire bewildering situation.

“Just now,” Janos confirmed, relief washing over him as he rewrapped the remaining three pots. “One apology delivered.” Thought him.

“With some help downstairs. Good folk. Clears the head, manual work. Anyway !” He straightened up, eager to escape the awkwardness. “I’ve taken enough of your time, Lord Strong. Again, deepest apologies. Hope the jam is to your liking. Enjoy it !” He gave a brisk, respectful nod, completely missing the stunned recalibration happening behind Larys’s eyes, and hurried off down the corridor, the scent of pumpkin and desperation fading with him.

Larys Strong stood frozen in the dim corridor. The small clay pot felt incongruously heavy. He watched the retreating figure until it vanished around a corner. Slowly, he looked down at the unassuming jar. He uncorked it cautiously. A wave of sweet, spicy, utterly unfamiliar aroma hit him. “Pumpkin jam, huh” Thought the lord confessor. 

A slow, utterly bewildered breath escaped him. “This wasn’t a move. It wasn’t even incompetence. It was… something else. Something mundane, slightly ridiculous, and completely unexpected. In the intricate, venomous dance of the Red Keep, Lord Janos Celtigar had just tripped over me, babbled about couch banishments, and handed me homemade preserves.” Thought the second son of Lyonel strong, while letting out a small laugh. 

“Extraordinary,” Larys murmured to the empty corridor, a flicker of something akin to dry amusement touching his lips, with profound perplexed curiosity. He corked the pot. The ache in his leg was forgotten, replaced by the peculiar weight of the jam and the lingering image of a flustered lord worried about his wife’s displeasure. “The Red Crab, it seemed, was a creature of decidedly unexpected depths. And possibly, terrible situational awareness.” Thought the Strong lord, as he tucked the pot inside his robe. “It was, at the very least, a unique conversation starter. I doubt my brother will ever believe me.”

…

The comforting scent of pumpkin jam felt like a feeble shield against the storm brewing behind the door to the Celtigar apartments. Janos paused, hand on the latch, the four clay pots suddenly heavy. He took a steadying breath, rehearsing apologies that already felt inadequate. “Alright. Deep breath. Apologize. Explain the jam later. Just… be honest.” He pushed the door open

Their common room, a comfortable space connecting their guest chambers, was bathed in the soft, melancholic light of dusk. Alicent sat by the tall window, bathed in the bruised purple and orange light of dusk. Her back was mostly to him, one hand resting on the pronounced curve of her belly, the other tracing idle patterns on the cool glass. The stillness was thick, charged. She didn’t turn.

“Mother?” Janos ventured, his voice too loud in the quiet. “Alicent ?”

“Gael is asleep,” Alicent stated flatly, still gazing out at the darkening sky. “Finally. After hours of soothing her tears and fears. The Queen’s implications about you flying to war… it undid her completely. She thought she was losing you like she lost her parents, her siblings, Adrian.” Her voice was low, tightly controlled, but it vibrated with an undercurrent of something raw. She finally turned her head. Her face was pale, etched with lines of exhaustion and something sharper, a mix of simmering anger and profound hurt. Her eyes were red-rimmed, though currently dry. The mix of sadness and banked fury hit him like a physical blow. “Where were you ?” Alicent asked him, looking directly into his eyes. 

Janos flinched. He set the bundle of jam pots down on a small table with a soft clunk. “I… I’m so sorry…. I should have come straight back. I just… after the lunch, with Laena’s maneuvering and Corlys pushing for me to ride to war… I didn’t have answers. Not ones I could give you or Mother without… without causing more pain. I needed… air. Time to think.” He took a step towards her, hand half-raised.

“Time to think ?” Alicent pushed herself up from the window seat with a grunt of effort, turning fully to face him. The movement was slow and radiating hurt. “Hours, Janos ? Hours while your mother wept herself to exhaustion, terrified for her son ? Hours while I sat here, waiting, wondering if you’d decided our fate with the Velaryons already ? Whether you’d pledged Celtigar swords and your dragon to Aemon’s cause ? Or if you’d defied them, ensuring we’d be enemies of the Queen ? Or perhaps you’d just decided nothing, leaving us dangling ?” Her voice rose slightly, trembling. “Did you even consider we might want to know ? That we might need to know ? Or are we just… ornaments ? Burdens to be shielded from the unpleasantness until it crashes down upon us ?”

“No, I never…” Janos protested, stung by how right were Alicent’s words. “I just… I didn’t want to worry you more than you already were ! I wanted to have a plan, something solid to tell you, before I came back and added to the stress !”

“You don’t get to decide that !” The words burst from her, sharp and wounded. “You always do this, Janos ! Always ! You vanish into your head, into your plans, pushing everyone else away ! You solve problems alone, like a one-man army, only deigning to inform us of the solution once it’s done ! You never ask. You never discuss. Not with Gael. Not with your sisters. And certainly not with me !” Tears welled again over ALicent visage, spilling over slowly through her cheeks. “I am your wife ! We are supposed to be partners for life ! But you treat me like… like a fragile doll… or worse… like I’m useless !”

“I just didn't want to burden you ! I don't want to add my stress to yours ! I want you to be happy, safe, unbothered by all these... these problems I'm always digging into !” Janos retorted, his own eyes stinging.

“Unbothered ?” Alicent's laugh was brittle, shattered. “ By the fate of my husband? The father of my child ? By the wars and politics that shape our world ? By the knowledge that you shut me out ? That I'm a burden to you Janos ! A useless ornament you feel obligated to protect and provide for…” Her voice cracked. “I know you only married me out of pity… Because of that horrible dream you had years ago… Because you felt sorry for the tragic future you saw for me with Viserys… A rescue mission for a pathetic and tragic girl. And I was so grateful, Janos ! So grateful to escape that fate. So grateful you cared for me that much. So I ran away in the dead of night to marry a boy of thirteen because he was my most precious friend… and I hoped... I truly hoped... that I could earn my place beside you. That I could be a real partner to you. That I could help you bear your burdens, share your thoughts, be… useful.. Worthy of the brilliant young lord, dragonrider and knight everyone admired.”

She wiped angrily at her tears, but more fell. “I tried to learn, to understand, to offer support. But you keep me at arm's length. You avoid me. You solve your problems in solitude while giving me silks and jewels and always trying to please me. You make me feel... like a weight you're too noble to set down, but too burdened to truly hold close. I realize now how utterly I've failed to be anything but a complication in your life.” The raw pain in her words was devastating.

Janos felt like the floor had vanished. Guilt, sharp and suffocating, crashed over him. Pity? Burden? Failed? Every word was a dagger twisting in his heart. The guilt was a crushing weight. “She’s not wrong about the distance. But how…?” His mind grappled with the tangled truth. “How do I explain that the boy who proposed to save her was also a man terrified of exploiting the girl he cared for ? That even as my body caught up, my mind screamed that getting closer, letting this feel real, would be wrong ? Predatory ? That I kept pulling away because I couldn’t reconcile wanting her with the fear of becoming something I despised ? He’d only tentatively begun bridging that gap earlier this year, fueled by genuine affection and the need for an heir, but the distance he’d cultivated was still a chasm.” Janos kept thinking, trying to find a solution. 

His voice was thick, choked with tears mirroring hers. “Alicent, no... Gods, no... That's not... You're not a burden. You never were. You're…” He took a step towards her, hand outstretched, desperate to bridge the chasm. “Is that still what you think ?” Janos whispered, his voice thick.

Alicent cried, her composure crumbling. “I hoped I could prove myself. Be useful. Be a partner…” She gestured helplessly at her swollen belly. “I gave you this. I try to manage Gael’s fears, the household… but you don’t let me in, Janos ! You give me everything material, you’re unfailingly kind… and yet you lock your mind and heart away...” She wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “I just wanted to be your wife. Your friend. Not… not a problem you solve alone.”

The sight of her, proud Alicent Hightower brought so low by his actions, his fears, his inability to bridge the gap between his mind and his life, shattered something in Janos. Tears blurred his vision, hot and shameful. “Alicent…” He said as he took another step, wanting to reach for her but fearing rejection. 

“You were never a burden. Never. You are the bravest person I know. You trusted me when you had every reason not to. You left everything for a life filled with my chaos. You are strong, clever and kind… and I’ve never been good at letting people in. I’ve always felt I had to carry it all alone, terrified of becoming a burden, terrified of causing pain to those I care for. I fear becoming a problem so vast that even they can’t bear it anymore… And Alicent… I care for you so deeply that I cannot even imagine the world without you in it… I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry I made you feel like that. You’re not a burden. You’re… you’re my light. My anchor. I just… I don’t know how to do this right.” 

This confession though, raw and incomplete, hinting at the impossible truth he could never fully share, never left Jano’s heart, being stuck in his mind, bubbling, wanting to be released, but before he could put it into words…

A sharp, authoritative rap on the door shattered the fragile moment. Both of them jerked, startled. Alicent hastily wiped her face with her sleeve, turning her back to the door, shoulders still trembling. Janos scrubbed his own eyes, taking a shaky breath.

“Enter,” She called, her voice steeled.

A young page in Hightower grey livery opened the door cautiously. “M'lord Celtigar. M'lady Alicent,” he bowed. “Apologies for the intrusion. A message from the Lord Hand. He requests Lady Alicent's presence in his tower at her earliest convenience.”

Alicent didn't turn around. Her voice, when it came, was surprisingly steady, though thick with unshed tears. “Thank you. Tell my father I will attend to him shortly.”

The page bowed again and withdrew, closing the door softly.

The silence that followed was deafening. Alicent didn't look at Janos. She smoothed her gown, her movements precise, controlled. "I must go."

"I'll come with you," Janos said instantly, stepping forward. "We can talk on the way, or after... face him together."

Alicent finally met his gaze. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by a weary resolve. "No, Janos," she said softly, firmly. "This... this I need to do alone. Right now." She walked past him, heading for the door connecting to her chamber, presumably to wash her face before facing her father. She paused at the threshold, her back still to him. She opened the door. "We'll… we'll talk later."

She slipped out, closing the door behind her with a soft, final click.

Janos stood alone in the dim common room. The scent of pumpkin jam from the bundle on the table suddenly seemed cloying, absurd. The silence pressed in, filled only by the echo of her accusations and his own choked apologies. He stared at the closed door, the weight of his failures settling back onto his shoulders, heavier than ever. He sank into the chair Alicent had vacated, the weight of his failures pressing down, the taste of salt from his own tears sharp on his lips.

…

The common room felt cavernous in the deepening twilight. Janos sat slumped in a chair by the cold hearth, the only light a single candle guttering on the table beside him. One of the small clay pots of “doce de abóbora” sat open, a spoon sticking out of the glossy, amber-orange jam. He’d taken a single bite. The familiar sweetness, the cinnamon warmth, the earthy pumpkin, the caramelized sugar, help to comfort him. But comfort felt like a cruel joke, right now. 

He stared at the spoon, not really seeing it. Alicent’s words echoed, sharp and clear, cutting deeper than any Valyrian steel.

He’d replayed the scene endlessly since she left. Her tears, her raw hurt, the accusation that resonated with a terrible, uncomfortable truth. “I had kept her at arm's length. Not out of malice, not out of seeing her as lesser, but… out of what ? A misplaced sense of protection ? Or deeper down, that lingering and impossible disconnect that always permeated me, the fact that I have an adult mind in a young body, that because of this i’m terrified of the intimacy I crave and because of this felt unworthy of, terrified of exploiting the trust she’d given me so completely ? Or even more deeper, my old ingrained habits of Jorge Ferreira, the young revolutionary that had grown distant from his own family and friends so they wouldn’t care or be hurt when something happened to him in his pursuit of revolution ?”

“I couldn’t tell her my feelings, how much I truly cared for her. It was true. Desperately true. But caring wasn't just feeling; it was doing. It was sharing the burden, not just shouldering it silently. It was vulnerability, not just stoic endurance. And I failed at that. Spectacularly. I had built walls to protect her, walls she clearly saw as rejection. Walls that had isolated her just as effectively as any tower.” Janos thought deeply and sadly, trying to reflect on what had led to this.

“You don’t let me in, Janos.” Her words kept ringing in his head. 

He pushed the jam pot away, the ceramic scraping harshly on the wood. The flickering candlelight painted long, wavering shadows on the walls. He knew, with a bone-deep certainty now, that he couldn't keep going like this. Not with Alicent. Not if he wanted a marriage, a partnership, and not just a cohabitation agreement sealed by a secret pact and a child. He needed to tear down those walls. He needed to learn how to be with her, truly with her. To share the chaos, the fear, the uncertainty, not just present her with the aftermath. It wouldn't be easy. Habits of solitude, forged over lifetimes, were hard to break. But the cost of not breaking them was etched in the memory of her tear-streaked face.

The soft click of the latch made him start. The door opened, and Alicent slipped back in. She moved silently, like a ghost. The candlelight caught the damp tracks on her cheeks, glistening trails of fresh tears she hadn't bothered to wipe away. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen, holding a depth of sadness that seemed to have deepened in the short time she’d been gone. She looked exhausted, hollowed out. She didn't look at him, heading straight for the corridor leading to their bedroom.

“Alicent ?” Janos's voice was rough, scraped raw by guilt and worry. He stood up, taking a hesitant step towards her. “Alicent, what happened ? Are you alright ? Did he… did your father…?” The sight of her quiet devastation reignited his own guilt tenfold. “This is my fault too. All of it.” Thought janos, somberly. 

She stopped, her back still to him, shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly. She didn't turn. Her voice, when it came, was low, flat, utterly drained. It lacked the earlier heat, replaced by a chilling resignation.

“It doesn't matter,” she said, the words barely audible. “My problems shouldn't bother you. Just as you always made sure yours didn't bother me.”

The words were a precise dagger, twisting the very weapon of his isolation against him and they landed with devastating accuracy. Janos flinched as if struck physically. “Alicent, please…” he choked out, the plea thick with shame. “That's not… I didn't mean…”

But she was already moving. “I'm tired, Janos. I just want to sleep.” She didn't wait for a response, didn't look back. She walked down the corridor, the soft rustle of her gown the only sound, and disappeared into the darkness of their bedroom. The door closed behind her with a soft, final sigh.

Janos stood frozen in the center of the common room. The silence rushed back in, heavier, colder than before. The flickering candle seemed to gutter lower. He felt utterly hollowed out. Ashamed. Drowned in a guilt so profound it was like an impossible heavy padlock was stuck in his heart, pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. The carefully reasoned reflection, the resolve to change, felt like ash scattering in the wind before the raw pain of her dismissal.

He turned slowly, mechanically, towards the window. Outside, King's Landing sprawled under a moonless, starless sky. The city lights were distant, cold pinpricks in the overwhelming blackness. He stared into that void, seeing nothing but the reflection of his own failure in the dark glass. The hopeful warmth of the pumpkin jam, the tentative connection in the kitchen, the brief clarity all consumed by the chilling emptiness radiating from the closed bedroom door and the vast, indifferent dark pressing against the window. He was alone. Truly alone. And the path back felt impossibly dark and uncertain. He sank back into the chair, the jam now a mocking symbol of comfort he no longer deserved, and kept his vigil with the encroaching night while softly singing. “É preciso dar um jeito, meu amigo...”