"When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die."
―Cersei Lannister
…
The sun had barely crested the rooftops of King's Landing when Jasper Wylde arrived at the chamber of the Small Council, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone floor as he stepped inside. He had not expected to be the last to arrive, yet such was his luck. The meeting had already begun.
Prince Aemond sat, as he always did of late, at the head of the table—his brother's chair, one might argue, but none present had thought to question it. The prince leaned slightly toward the Lord Hand, his voice pitched low enough that Otto Hightower had to incline his ear to catch his words, while the Queen and Grand Maester listened on with solemn expressions of careful interest.
To the side, Lord Tyland Lannister and Lord Vaemond Velaryon spoke quietly between themselves, their hushed words indistinct, yet their shared glances laden with meaning. A little further down sat Larys Strong, the very picture of self-possession—or he would have been, were it not for the barely perceptible tightness in his jaw.
It did not take long to discern the cause.
Seated across from him, her fingers idly tracing the rim of a goblet filled with watered wine, was none other than Mysaria.
Aemond's creature.
His aide. His informant. And, if the whispers that curled through the court were to be believed, his whore as well.
An interesting development, to be sure.
Jasper took it all in as he crossed the floor, his footfalls swallowed by the thick carpets.
"Forgive me, my lords," he said, bowing his head. "It seems the years weigh heavier upon me than they once did."
Aemond turned his head, his mouth curling in a way that was not quite a smile. "Come now, Lord Wylde, let us not be too harsh upon old age. You seemed light enough on your feet when last I saw you at the lists."
A jest. A friendly one, perhaps, but only a fool mistook the prince's humor for warmth. Jasper chuckled, offered some polite reply, and took his seat beside Vaemond Velaryon.
Aemond did not prolong the pleasantries. With an easy motion, he leaned forward, his fingers steepled together in quiet contemplation.
"Now, to the matter at hand," he said, the air in the room shifting as the conversation turned to the business of war.
The prince spoke first of the Stormlands, where his recent campaign had yielded a decisive—if not wholly orthodox—victory. The last embers of defiance had been stamped out, the rebels put to the sword, and the region left in no state to rise again.
No boasts. No reveling in the victory. Aemond did not smile, did not exult. But he did not need to.
Jasper had seen the reports. A rebellion within a rebellion. It was not pretty.
A lesson, Aemond had called it.
Jasper had no doubt that the lords of the realm were listening.
Yet for all that, the war was far from over.
"Regrettably," Aemond went on, exhaling as though he had been personally slighted, "we are met with unfortunate delays, and our lord paramounts find themselves unable to muster a sufficient force to bring their recalcitrant bannermen to heel with any great haste."
Otto Hightower frowned. "Lord Ormund cannot raise an army from thin air—"
"True," Aemond echoed, his voice a blade's edge. "But he and Lord Tully still suffer from a measure indecision. The longer they linger in this indecision, the greater the risk. Prince Daemon has been sighted in Braavos. In Pentos. He solicits gold, raises swords. He moves in the dark, but not so darkly as he might wish."
Aemond made a gesture.
And, to Jasper's surprise, it was not Larys who answered.
"The Iron Bank," Mysaria said, "has given its blessing to the pretender's cause. They have granted her gold. Braavos itself sends its fleet. It sails now for Dragonstone."
The silence that followed was punctuated only by the slow tapping of Otto Hightower's fingers against the table, his thoughts no doubt already turning to the logistics of countering such a threat.
"More concerning," Mysaria continued, "are the sellswords."
She goes then to list the names of the mercenary companies involved—captains Jasper had heard of in passing, but never thought to see fighting on Westerosi soil. Their headcounts. Their estimated numbers. Their ships. And, most concerning of all, their destination.
"They make for Crackclaw Point," Mysaria finished.
A hush fell over the room.
Then a murmur of discontent from the council—a quiet protest against the notion of foreign sellswords trampling upon Westerosi lands. Jasper himself found the idea distasteful, but even as he felt the stirrings of anger, another thought settled heavily in his mind.
They have little choice.
The longer this war dragged on, the clearer it became that Rhaenyra's position grew ever more precarious. Aemond's grasp upon Westeros tightened with each passing moon. For all that Rhaenyra might name herself queen, her hope to rule was but a shadow beneath the weight of her brother's relentless machinations.
The Black Queen's supporters were dwindling, her coffers drained. If she did not invite the Essosi to fight for her, she would have no one left to fight at all.
Tyland was the first to speak. "Will you march, my prince?"
Aemond tilted his head. "Why?"
"To stop them before they land," Tyland pressed. "Drive them back into the sea."
Aemond arched his brow.
"Let them land," he said simply.
The silence stretched taut.
Otto was watching him now, wary, calculating.
Alicent was the one to voice the question hanging in the air. "Why, Aemond?"
"Because it is a mistake," the prince said. "And I do not make a habit of stopping my enemies from making mistakes."
Jasper exhaled slowly, realization dawning.
Let them land. Let the foreign mercenaries spill onto Westerosi soil like locusts, let them pillage and burn in Rhaenyra's name.
Let the people see her for what she was.
Otto, the one who possibly understood the weight of perception more than any other present, gave a slow, considering nod.
Aemond straightened, as if brushing aside the matter of war itself, and turned his attention back to the council.
"There is another matter to discuss," he said lightly.
Jasper frowned slightly.
Alicent mirrored the sentiment. "Another matter?"
"Yes," Aemond nodded.
"A new appointment."
✥✥✥
For all his reputation as a man of calculation, Jasper was almost taken aback by the brazenness of it.
The Small Council was no stranger to Prince Aemond's unexpected manoeuvres—indeed, they had become almost an expectation—but the matter he now introduced had caught more than a few of them unawares.
"A new appointment," Aemond announced, leaning back in the chair that was—technically—his brother's.
Jasper, along with Tyland and Vaemond, exchanged a glance. The Lord Confessor did not miss the flicker of something in Larys's gaze. The twitch of his fingers against the wood of the table. The subtle tightening of his throat.
Alicent, too, appeared surprised by this turn of events. "Aemond, what appointment?" she echoed, looking between Aemond and Otto.
The chamber stirred with unease, though none more so than Larys Strong. The man who had, up until now, remained a picture of cautious silence, had suddenly stiffened in his seat.
Aemond smiled then. "I believe it prudent that we acknowledge the efforts of those who have served the realm well," he said smoothly, his eye flicking—ever so briefly—in Mysaria's direction.
If there had been any doubt as to his meaning, it was swiftly erased by what came next.
"I would have Mysaria named Mistress of Whispers," Aemond declared.
For a moment, there was no response—only the lingering weight of words spoken too casually to be anything but deliberate.
Jasper saw it in real time—the dawning realization, the shift in posture, the silent calculations being adjusted and re-adjusted in the minds of those present.
Even Otto Hightower, who had no doubt been informed of this decision beforehand, did not attempt to mask his distaste. His lips pressed together thinly, his posture stiffening ever so slightly. Even still, he gave a slow, begrudging nod.
The Lord Hand's reluctance was evident. It was clear that he did not approve of Mysaria, but his feelings toward Larys Strong had soured in recent weeks. The Master of Whispers had grown too bold, too eager to sow division where it was not needed. Perhaps he had forgotten that even Otto himself could not move unchallenged in court.
Alicent's brows furrowed, though she remained composed. "Mysaria?"
"She has already proven herself invaluable," Aemond stated, with the same cool certainty he applied to all things. "Her network extends beyond Westeros, into places our dear Master of Whispers could not hope to reach. It is only fitting she be recognised for her services."
At the far end of the table, Larys Strong had gone utterly pale.
Jasper Wylde had seen men removed from power before. He had seen them dismissed, exiled, stripped of title and dignity alike. But this—this was something else.
This was a man being made an example of.
A slow, deliberate gutting, done in full view of those who had once treated him with wary deference.
"My prince," Larys said, his voice carefully measured, "I am already the Master of Whispers."
Aemond's smile did not waver. "You were."
Larys's fingers twitched once more before stilling. "If I have displeased you, I would know the reason."
Aemond hummed, tilting his head in feigned consideration. "Displeased me?" he mused. "No, Lord Strong, you misunderstand. You have served the King well. Your loyalty has been duly noted."
That was when Jasper knew for certain.
He is dead, and he knows it.
Not dead in the literal sense—Aemond was not so foolish as to openly murder a man like Larys Strong without cause—but dead in every way that mattered.
The silence stretched taut.
"...I do not recall a dismissal," Larys said at last, treading carefully now.
"Then allow me to rectify that," Aemond replied. "This council has a new need for you, Lord Strong. A most crucial responsibility. Indeed, you are to be appointed Master of the King's Minor Rites and Pious Observances."
For a long moment, the words hung in the air, as though waiting for the council to register the absurdity of them.
Then Jasper saw it.
Tyland's barely concealed smirk.
Vaemond's derisive snort.
Even Otto's mouth twitched, though whether in approval or amusement, Jasper could not be sure.
Larys, to his credit, did not let the mask slip. "I… see," he said carefully. His expression did not change, but Jasper could see the tension in the way he held himself—the briefest flicker of something in his eyes.
Still, he tried.
"My prince," he began, voice as measured as ever, "I fear there may be some misunderstanding—"
"There is no misunderstanding," Aemond interrupted smoothly. "The realm has need of faithful men in these times of strife. The gods demand that even the smallest of rites be observed with unwavering devotion. I can think of no one better to uphold these sacred traditions than you, Lord Strong."
Jasper observed the moment Larys realised the fight was already lost.
His lips pressed together, his hands folding neatly before him—a man accepting a sentence he could not protest.
And yet, he tried one final bid to reclaim what had been stripped from him.
"Does the King approve of these new appointments?" Larys asked, voice even.
Aemond smiled. "You may take it up with His Grace."
It was an invitation made in full knowledge that Aegon would see no one. Not even his queen.
Jasper wondered, for a fleeting moment, if the king even knew what was being done in his name.
Perhaps he did. Perhaps he did not.
In the end, it did not matter.
Aemond did not look at Larys again.
Instead, he turned to Mysaria, offering a nod. "Congratulations, Mysaria."
The newly appointed Mistress of Whispers inclined her head. She did not thank him. She did not need to.
Jasper, observing from his seat, could not help but reflect on the nature of power.
For years, Larys Strong had been indispensable.
For years, he had moved through the court with the assurance that no one but the king could unseat him.
And yet, in the end, he had been replaced not by a lord, nor by a knight, nor by any highborn adversary, but by a woman who had once been little more than a whore.
Jasper Wylde was no fool.
He had seen what had become of those who stood against Aemond Targaryen.
And he knew, now more than ever, that he had no intention of sharing Larys Strong's fate.