Fire and Blood

Chapter 2: The Spymaster

YEAR 112 AC

―King's Landing―

Red Keep ― Maegor's Holdfast...

It has been more than eleven years since the Great Council at Harrenhal, nine after Viserys succeeded his grandfather and ascended the Iron Throne. And since then, the golden age has been supported and not yet disrupted. House Targaryen remained unchallenged - aside from the still-independent Principality of Dorne to the south, though relations with them have also been calm and stable for decades.

Yet, for some, there can be neither peace nor stability.

"I know it was one of his agents," one of the guardsmen searched around the room.

"He was insistent, ser," a spy conveyed the message.

"Insistent as in 'I'll murder him in his sleep' or 'be a good lad and tell me'?"

"The latter...?"

The guardsman sweated nervously. "Oh, uh... that's... that is even worse. Tell Prince Aeonar I'll have the reports ready before the day is done." One more slip-up, and I will lose my head. Or worse... fed to his dragon. I should go! I do not want to disappoint him again.

High atop Maegor's Holdfast, in his chambers, stood a now seventeen-year-old Prince Aeonar. He was now in his third year as Master of Whisperers, gathering intelligence reports and shuffling agents throughout every corner of the kingdom and abroad. Around him was a coterie of his high-ranking agents. As the realm's spymaster and chief intelligence agent, it was Aeonar's duty to identify threats and, if possible, deal with them in ways that could not be solved through delicate means. No, his methods were often bloody. The crown had traitors lurking in the darkest corners - some closer to home. Everything he did, Aeonar did to protect his father, his mother, his sister... for House Targaryen. Though Viserys was amiable, never considered strong-willed, and was eager to please, some looked to take advantage of him by seeking his favor for their benefit.

Aeonar would never allow that to happen. Not while he watched closely, had ears placed at every door. So long as he was Master of Whisperers, no secrets remained hidden for long.

"Brother Rupert's findings on the Lord Oscar Butterwell, my prince. Our contact, Ser Mychal Mooton, seems to be having trouble with him," another agent reported.

"And?" Aeonar pressed.

"All he heard was... a 'chocolate bath.'"

"Tsk! If the Butterwells want to play, we will play. Dispatch this missive to Ser Mychal and inform him to follow its instructions thoroughly." Aeonar sent away one of his agents and took a scroll from another who just walked in. He broke the wax seal; examining the words closely, he frowned. "Illiterate fool. I thought Borros Baratheon's obsession was over. He has been drinking again?"

"Our contacts report he again sent one of the king's messengers into a state of hysteria."

"Stubborn mule! Inform the Lord of Storm's End that unless his son is brought in line, the crown will not tolerate such unwanted behavior."

Day after day, Aeonar read his agents' reports - as shown by the occasional dark circles under his eyes. If it were believed minor, he would entrust them to carry out his instructions. However, if the issue were too big of a problem to ignore, he would bring this straight to his father's attention. Such things needed to be dealt with accordingly without delay. Little did he know this would turn out to be one of those days. Aeonar took yet another scroll from another one of his informants and read over its contents thoroughly. He traced the contents slowly, reading them bit by bit, then his brow furrowed into a serious expression.