Song of The Blessed - 9 (Patreon)

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Song of The Blessed

Chapter 09 – Chaos is a Ladder

~ Jon Arryn ~

The Street of Steel rang with a cacophony that mirrored the pounding in Jon Arryn’s skull.

*Clang. Clang. Clang.*

It was the heartbeat of the city, iron striking iron, a ceaseless rhythm of creation and destruction. The Hand of the King walked with a heavy tread, his cloak pulled tight against the grime of Flea Bottom, though the heat of the day was oppressive. Sweat trickled down his back, soaking into his linen undertunic, but the chill in his marrow had nothing to do with the weather.

He was an old man, and he felt every year of it today. But he was also a Falcon of the Eyrie, and Falcons had sharp eyes.

"This is the place, my lord?" his guard asked, eyeing the soot-stained entrance of the large armoury.

"Wait here," Jon commanded, his voice raspy. "I go alone."

He stepped into the cavernous shop of Tobho Mott. The heat was immediate, a physical wall of dry, searing air that smelled of coal dust and molten metal. Master Mott, a man of Qohorik descent with an oiled beard and velvet doublet that seemed ill-suited for a forge, hurried over, bowing low enough to sweep the floor with his nose.

"Lord Hand," Mott stammered, clearly terrified. "An honour. A surprise. Had I known—"

"Show me the boy," Jon said, cutting through the pleasantries. He had no time for courtesies. He was chasing ghosts.

Mott hesitated, then nodded. He led the Hand past the rows of gleaming breastplates and longswords to the back, where the true work was done.

There, shirtless and glistening with sweat, a boy was working the bellows.

Jon stopped. The breath left his lungs in a rush.

The boy turned. He was tall for his age, muscled thick and corded from labour. He wiped soot from his forehead with the back of his hand, revealing eyes of startling, deep blue. And above them, a thick mop of hair, black as a raven's wing, black as coal, black as sin.

"What is your name, lad?" Jon asked, his voice trembling slightly.

"Gendry, my lord," the boy said. He didn't bow. He had the stubborn jaw of a man Jon had known since boyhood.

Jon stepped closer, ignoring the heat radiating from the forge. He studied the boy’s face—the nose, the brow, the shape of the eyes. It was Robert. Not the fat, drunken King who sat on the Iron Throne now, but the Robert who had smashed Rhaegar on the Trident. The Robert who had been Jon’s ward, his foster son.

"Look at me," Jon whispered.

Blue eyes met blue eyes. There was no Lannister green here. No golden curls.

"The seed is strong," Jon murmured to himself, the words tasting like ash.

He turned away, unable to look any longer. It was the final piece of a puzzle he had prayed was merely paranoia.

Twelve. This made twelve.

As he walked back out into the blinding sunlight of the street, his mind raced, connecting the dots he had been so desperate to ignore.

He thought of Mya Stone in the Vale, leading mules up the Giant’s Lance—black of hair, blue of eye, stubborn and strong. He thought of Edric Storm at Storm’s End, the spitting image of Renly and Robert. He thought of the babe in the brothel in the Riverlands.

Every single one of Robert’s bastards, born of lowborn whores or highborn ladies, carried the stamp of House Baratheon without fail. The black hair was dominant. It overwhelmed everything else.

And then he thought of the royal children. Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella.

Golden hair. Emerald eyes. Not a trace of the stag.

‘Draedon,’ Jon thought. ‘The Crown Prince. He has the black hair. He has the blue eyes. He is Robert's. But the others...’

The realization hit him with the force of a warhammer. Draedon was the anomaly among the Queen's children because Draedon was the only one who was actually the King's.

Queen Cersei. Her pride. Her coldness. Her distance from Robert. 

"Abomination," Jon breathed, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword to steady himself.

The King had not damaged his body; his seed was potent. The Queen had played them all for fools. She had cuckolded the King, the culprit not yet known, Jon swore he would find out soon enough. He had to.

Accusing the Queen of adultery with just pieces of a book and a few bastards would not be enough. Tywin would push back. Cersei would push back harder. And Draedon... Draedon too would protect his mother. 

He needed more. 

Jon signalled his guards to move. He needed to get back to the Red Keep. He needed to open the book, ‘The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms’, one last time to be certain.

As the Hand’s retinue moved down the muddy street, a shadow detached itself from the mouth of a darkened alley. A beggar, wrapped in rags, watched them go. Beneath the hood, eyes that were far too sharp for a simple pauper tracked the old man’s movements.

The beggar turned and vanished into the labyrinth of Flea Bottom. The Spider would know. Or perhaps the Mockingbird. In King’s Landing, secrets were the only currency that mattered, and Jon Arryn had just bought himself a fortune’s worth of danger.

~ Margaery Tyrell ~

The Gardens of the Red Keep were a riot of colour, a carefully cultivated paradise designed to make one forget the stench of the city beyond the walls. Roses of every hue climbed trellises, their perfume heavy and sweet in the warm afternoon air.

Margaery Tyrell sat on a marble bench, her posture perfect, a pleasant smile fixed on her face. But behind her hazel eyes, a calculator was whirring.

Near the fountain, Princess Myrcella Baratheon was under siege.

"But surely, Princess, your brother must have mentioned me?" asked a girl from House Swann, leaning in too close.

"Does Prince Draedon favour silks or velvet?" chirped a Frey girl, practically boxing the princess in. "I heard he broke a lance with one hand!"

"Is it true he glows?"

"Is it true he’s looking for a wife?"

Myrcella, sweet, gentle Myrcella, looked like a frightened fawn. She was pressing back against the fountain's rim, clutching her needlework to her chest, her eyes darting around for an escape. These weren't ladies-in-waiting; they were vultures in silk, desperate for a scrap of information about the most eligible, most powerful, most mystical bachelor in the world.

Margaery saw her opening.

She stood up, her movements fluid and graceful, smoothing the skirts of her light blue gown.

"Ladies, please," Margaery said, her voice soft but carrying a note of firm authority that stopped the chatter instantly. She glided between the gaggle of hens and the princess. "Can you not see the Princess is trying to enjoy the tranquillity of the gardens? The sun is hot, and this crowding is stifling."

The other girls blinked, cowed by the presence of the Rose of Highgarden. Margaery smiled at them, a smile that didn't reach her eyes but was polite enough to avoid offense. "Why don't you all go and find some lemon cakes in the kitchens? I hear the baker has just taken a fresh batch out of the ovens."

Distracted by food and dismissed by a superior social force, the gaggle dispersed, tittering and whispering as they wandered off.

Myrcella let out a long, shuddering breath. "Oh, thank you, Lady Margaery. They… they just don’t stop."

Margaery sat beside her, leaving a respectful distance. "It is the curse of having a famous brother, I suppose. Though I imagine it is quite exhausting."

"It is," Myrcella admitted, relaxing. "They only want to know about Draedon. They don't care about me."

"I care about you," Margaery said gently. She reached out and adjusted a loose thread on Myrcella’s embroidery hoop. "Your stitching is exquisite, Princess. Is that a Myrrish knot?"

Myrcella beamed, grateful for the change of subject. They spent the next half hour talking of fabrics, of the flowers in Highgarden, of music. Margaery was careful. She didn't mention Draedon once. She didn't ask about his habits, his likes, or his miracles. She made Myrcella feel seen, not as a connection to her brother legend, but as a person.

It was the smartest move she could have made.

"You are not like the others," Myrcella said eventually, looking at Margaery with genuine warmth. "You haven't asked about him at all."

"I am happy with the company I have," Margaery spoke smoothly, squeezing the girl's hand. "Why would I wish to talk of battles and politics when I can sit in the sun with a friend?"

Myrcella opened her mouth to reply, but her gaze shifted past Margaery’s shoulder, and her eyes lit up. "Draedon!"

Margaery turned.

And for the first time in her life, the Rose of Highgarden felt her composure crack.

Prince Draedon Baratheon was walking toward them down the crushed stone path. Margaery had heard the stories. She had heard the whispers of his feeling his divine presence. She had dismissed half of it as peasant superstition and the other half as exaggeration, even if she had seen the legend being born herself.

She was wrong.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with a predator's grace, but it was his presence that struck her. The air seemed to shimmer around him, brighter, sharper. The sunlight caught in his black hair, bringing out highlights of deep blue. His eyes, when they landed on her, were pools of calm, terrifying power. He didn't just look at her; he unravelled her with a single glance.

He wore a simple black doublet unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of tanned skin, yet he looked more regal than any King in a crown.

Margaery felt a flush rise from her chest to her cheeks. She stood hurriedly, dropping into a deep curtsy to hide her face. "Your Grace."

"Brother," Myrcella chirped, running to him.

Draedon caught his sister in a one-armed hug, lifting her slightly off the ground. He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated in Margaery’s chest. "Little sister. Hiding from the court?"

"Lady Margaery saved me from them," Myrcella said, pulling back and gesturing to Margaery. "The other girls were swarming, but she told them off. She’s been very kind to me."

Draedon turned his full attention to Margaery. She straightened, meeting his gaze. It took an act of will not to look away. He was… overwhelming.

"Lady Margaery," Draedon said, his voice like velvet over steel. "The realm speaks highly of you. It seems that now, my sister does too. That is a rare accord."

"I only did what any friend would do, Your Grace," Margaery said, her voice breathy.

'Compose yourself, girl. You are a Tyrell,' Margaery heard her grandmother's voice rebuke her sharply in her mind. 

Myrcella looked between the two of them—the beautiful, blushing rose and her god-like brother. A mischievous glint appeared in the young princess's green eyes. She saw an opportunity to repay Margaery’s kindness.

"Draedon," Myrcella said innocently. "I promised Septa and Mother I would return for my lessons. But Lady Margaery has not seen the lower gardens near the orchards. You should take her."

"Lady Myrcella, I—" Margaery started, feigning protest.

"That is a command, brother," Myrcella giggled, pushing Margaery physically toward the Crown Prince. Margaery stumbled slightly, and a strong, hot hand caught her waist to steady her.

The touch sent a jolt of electricity through her that nearly made her knees buckle.

"A command from the Princess?" Draedon grinned, his eyes dancing with amusement. He didn't let go of Margaery’s waist. "Well, I dare not disobey. Treason, and all that."

"Have fun!" Myrcella called out, picking up her skirts and fleeing back toward the castle, leaving Margaery alone with the wolf... or rather, the Stag.

"Well, Lady Margaery," Draedon said, offering his arm properly. "Shall we?"

Margaery took his arm. His bicep was hard as iron beneath the velvet. "I would be honoured, Your Grace."

~ Draedon Baratheon ~

‘She is ripe,’ the voice whispered in his ear. It was not a thought, but a sound, sweet as honey and sinful as lust. ‘Smell her, my champion. The scent of roses and ambition. But beneath that... heat. She wants you. Not just the crown. She wants the man. She wants the calamity that you bring to the ladies fortunate enough to be blessed by your virility.’

Draedon walked slowly along the path, feeling Aphrodite’s presence draped over his shoulders like a warm cloak. The Goddess of Love was enjoying this.

He looked down at Margaery. She was a master of the courtly game, he knew. Every smile, every glance was usually calculated. But right now, the calculations were failing. Her pulse was visible in her throat. Her scent was changing, the floral perfume giving way to the natural, heady musk of arousal.

"The gardens are beautiful this time of year," Margaery said, trying to fill the silence.

"They are," Draedon agreed. He stopped and turned to her, reaching out to pluck a white rose from a nearby bush. He stripped the thorns with a casual brush of his thumb— hardened skin that did not bleed—and tucked the flower behind her ear.

His fingers lingered on her jawline. He let the pad of his thumb trace her lower lip.

"But they pale in comparison to the company," he murmured.

It was a trite line, a cliché. But when Draedon said it, fuelled by the Blessing of Aphrodite, it hit Margaery like a spell.

‘Touch her waist,’ Aphrodite commanded. ‘Firmly. Claim her space.’

Draedon slid his hand from her arm to the small of her back. He didn't hover; he pressed. He pulled her a fraction of an inch closer, invading her personal sphere. The heat radiating from him was unnatural, a soothing, intoxicating warmth.

"Tell me, Margaery," he said, dropping the title. "What does the Rose of Highgarden desire?"

Margaery looked up at him, her hazel eyes wide, pupils dilated. "Desire, Your Grace?"

"Draedon," he corrected. "And yes. desire. Everyone in this city wants something. Gold. Power. Secrets." He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "What makes your heart beat faster?"

Margaery shivered. "I... I wish to serve the realm. To see my family prosper."

"Possible," Draedon whispered, his voice vibrating against her neck. "But beneath that, what do you truly desire for yourself?"

He moved his hand up her back, his fingers playing along her spine. He could feel her trembling.

"I think," Draedon murmured, pulling back to look into her eyes, "that you want to be consumed. You’ve spent your life being the perfect lady, the perfect piece on a cyvasse board. You want someone to knock the board over."

Margaery’s breath hitched. He was reading her soul. Or perhaps he was rewriting it.

"Is that what you do?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Knock the board over?"

"I burn the board," Draedon said.

He leaned in. Margaery didn't retreat. She leaned forward, drawn like a moth to a flame.

"Your Grace!"

The shout broke the spell. A castle guard came jogging down the path, his armour clanking.

Draedon didn't flinch, but the air around him grew colder for a second. He turned his head slowly. "Yes?"

The guard skidded to a halt, looking pale as he realized he had interrupted something momentous. "Apologies, my Prince! A thousand apologies! The Queen... Her Grace summons you for supper. She says it is urgent."

Draedon sighed. "Mother and her urgency." He looked back at Margaery. The disappointment in her eyes was palpable.

"I must go," Draedon said.

"Of course," Margaery said, dropping a curtsy, though she looked unsteady. "I... I shall see you at court, Your Grace."

She turned to leave.

‘No,’ Aphrodite purred. ‘Don't let her leave empty-handed. Give her a taste. Mark her.’

"Wait," Draedon said.

He reached out, grabbing Margaery’s hand. He didn't pull her gently; he yanked her, spinning her around. Before she could gasp, he backed her up against the thick trunk of an ancient oak tree, hidden from the guard’s view by the foliage.

"Y-Your Grace?" Margaery gasped, her eyes wide.

Draedon pressed his body against hers. Hard. There was no space for air between them. He pinned her wrists to the bark above her head with one hand.

"A goodbye," he said, his voice dropping to a growl. "Properly."

He didn't wait for permission. He claimed it.

He kissed her.

It wasn't a kiss; it was a branding. His lips crushed hers, demanding and dominant. Margaery whimpered, her body melting instantly against him.

Draedon’s free hand moved. It didn't go for her waist or between her face. He cupped her breast, directly over the bodice of her gown where her heart would be.

‘Release,’ he thought, channelling the divinity flowing through his veins.

The sensation rushed from his palm into her chest. It was pure, distilled pleasure—the essence of Aphrodite. It bypassed nerves and flesh and struck directly at her pleasure centres.

Margaery’s eyes rolled back in her head. She screamed into his mouth, a muffled cry of absolute, shattering ecstasy. Her body arched violently, her hips grinding against his thigh as a climax ripped through her, more intense than anything a mortal touch could provide. It was a wave of golden light exploding in the deepest crevices of her mind.

She shook, uncontrollably, for ten seconds, her fingernails digging into the hand that held them above her head.

Draedon held her up, absorbing her tremors, kissing her deeply as she unravelled completely in his arms.

When he pulled back, Margaery was limp, her chest heaving, her face flushed a deep crimson, her lips swollen. She looked at him with a mixture of terror and absolute worship.

"Supper calls," Draedon whispered, smirking. He squeezed her breast one last time, drawing another gasp, as he released her wrists and stepped back, smoothing his doublet.

He walked away without looking back, leaving the Rose of Highgarden leaning against the tree, legs trembling, wet, ruined, and utterly his.

~ Petyr Baelish ~

The solar of the Master of Coin was usually a place of quiet, calculated triumph. Tonight, it was a cage.

Petyr Baelish paced the floor, his knuckles white.

One million dragons.

The words echoed in his mind like a death knell.

Draedon Baratheon wasn't just auditing the books; he was rewriting the rules of the game he had spent decades trying to turn in his favour. His eye caught everything. Every chance for Petyr to ruin the Crown, every chance for him to reign chaos was being thwarted by the prince since his return to the Capital. 

Petyr’s power lay in debt. He owned people because they owed him. He owned the Crown because the Crown was bankrupt and needed his wizardry to conjure coin.

But if the Crown was back up on its feet... if the Crown could pay its debts... Littlefinger was nothing. He was just a minor lord from the Fingers with a penchant for bookkeeping.

"He knows," Petyr hissed to the empty room. "He knows about the laundering. He knows about the embezzling."

The rumours were already swirling. Draedon was looking for a new Master of Coin. A Tyrion Lannister, perhaps. 

Petyr poured himself a goblet of wine, his hand shaking. His ladder was collapsing. The chaos he had so carefully cultivated was being ordered by a charismatic brute who played the game not with whispers, but with miracles.

The door to his chambers creaked open.

Petyr spun around, a dagger slipping into his hand from his sleeve.

A cloaked figure stepped in, shaking rain from a heavy wool hood. The figure pulled the hood back.

It was a woman. Her face was puffy, her eyes manic and red-rimmed, her hair a damp mess.

"Petyr," she breathed, her voice cracking.

"Lysa," Petyr said, the name tasting like bile. He relaxed slightly, sliding the dagger away. "What are you doing here? If Jon sees you..."

Lysa Arryn rushed forward and threw herself at him, clutching his tunic with desperate, claw-like hands. "I couldn't stay away! I missed you! I hate him, Petyr! I hate him! He’s always looking at me with those old, judging eyes. And now... now he ignores me and Robin even more than usual!"

She buried her face in his chest, sobbing. "He wants to send sweet Robin away! To the Vale! To Yohn Royce! I won't let him take my boy!"

Petyr stood stiffly, patting her hair mechanically. His mind, however, stopped racing and snapped into cold, sharp focus.

Jon Arryn.

The old man was sniffing around. He had visited the armorer. For what purpose he did not know, but the man had been spacing out more than usual. His death... his death could be the very reason for the next war. A war that would fracture the kingdom enough for Baelish to profit. 

War was chaos.

But Draedon... Draedon was the wildcard. If war broke out now, Draedon would lead kingdom. He would win. He would become even more powerful.

'I need to destabilize the board. I need to remove the pieces that hold the peace together, but in a way that points the finger at the Lannisters. I need to isolate Draedon,' Petyr thought. 

And he needed to stop the investigation into the finances. If Jon Arryn died, the court would be thrown into turmoil. The audit would stall.

Petyr looked down at Lysa. She was pathetic. She was mad. And she was perfect.

He cupped her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. He put on his most tender, loving smile—the smile that had bought him the Vale.

"Shh, my love," he whispered. "I know. I know it's hard. Jon is... a cruel man to separate a mother from her child."

"He is!" Lysa wept. "Save me, Petyr! Save us!"

"I can save you," Petyr said softly. "We can be together. Finally. Just you and me. And sweet Robin."

Lysa’s eyes widened with hope. "Truly? You mean it?"

"I do," Petyr lied. "But... there is an obstacle. Jon. As long as he lives, he will stand between us. He will send your son away. He will keep us apart."

Lysa’s face hardened. A flash of Tully insanity lit up her eyes. "I wish he were dead."

Petyr walked her over to his desk. He opened a secret drawer, the mechanism silent and well-oiled. From inside, he pulled a small, crystal vial. It was filled with a clear liquid. Colourless. Odourless.

"Have you heard about the Tears of Lys, my dear?" Petyr asked, holding the vial up to the candlelight. "A fitting name, for this particular beauty. Rare to acquire, even for me."

He placed the vial in her trembling hand.

"It leaves no trace," Petyr whispered into her ear. "Like a natural illness. The belly cramps. The fever. And then... peace. Peace for us."

Lysa clutched the vial to her chest like a holy relic. "For us," she whispered.

"Do it tonight," Petyr commanded softly. "And then, return to the Eyrie. Wait for me."

Lysa nodded, kissed him frantically, and then fled into the night, the instrument of Jon Arryn’s death clutched in her hand.

Petyr watched the door close. He took a sip of his wine.

Let Draedon play god. Let him feed off the worship of the commoners. When the Hand of the King dies, the game changes. And in the chaos of a murder investigation, books and ledgers are easily lost.

Littlefinger smiled.

The ladder was still there. He just had to grease the rungs with a little blood.

Author’s Notes

Getting closer to canon, one step at a time. The Dornish will make their move next chapter.

See you soon.