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Barth's Whisper: HOTD SI Ch.6
🕑 Added 2025-07-06 15:23:54 +0000 UTCChapter 6 GALEN By now, the sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, and the bruises from the day's punishment had dulled from sharp a
Chapter 6 GALEN By now, the sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, and the bruises from the day's punishment had dulled from sharp a
Chapter 6
GALEN
By now, the sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, and the bruises from the day's punishment had dulled from sharp agony to a muted throb.
Galen found himself once again within the walls of the Red Keep, standing before the King and Queen, as he returned bearing the letter entrusted to his hands years and years ago by a dying Princess.
The Old King had grown into his title. His once-commanding presence had thinned beneath wrinkles and the silver of age. Yet something sharp lingered in his amethyst gaze—a shadow of former might and the ghosts of choices made.
The King’s gaze often lingered on Galen’s face, as those eyes flickered with a hint of guilt and reminiscence.
The Queen’s face struck him with an ache of recognition. “Though it had been years, he could still see hints of that familiar kindness and motherly love in her. She may be long dead, but if the Gods had been merciful, he had no doubt that Mother Maegella would have aged similarly.
Alas! She was taken from the world too quickly, and the Queen seemed to share his own sorrows as her quivering voice cut through the silence.
“This is Maegella’s writing,” the Queen whispered, a single tear slipping down her cheek, as those eyes turned towards him.
“You are Galen, the child she saved,” and he nodded once more in confirmation, though this time with proof that he was indeed that very child.
“Yes,” he said, though he could see in their eyes what they dared not speak aloud. They knew that he was more than just that. Yet they remained quiet on that, either for him or for themselves.
The Queen clutched the letter. “It says you joined the Citadel. Some of our acolytes trained there during your time there.”
He had no doubt they would have dissected his life before summoning him back. And so, he was not surprised that they already knew of his time at the Citadel in detail.
“They say you were gifted. A born Archmaester, if there ever could be one,” she added, touting his accomplishments like a proud grandmother, as he inclined his head.
He gave a respectful nod. “I was fortunate.”
And he was, in ways more than one. He had a sharp mind, but that had not won him many friends in the Citadel.
“And yet,” the Queen murmured, “you were expelled.”
“For several reasons,” he said calmly.
The Citadel was a place of learning. It was the lighthouse of knowledge, the greatest repository of knowledge, yet in the shadow of all that, it was also a place riddled with politics and intrigue, where old names, old families, and old blood held considerable sway.
And for those people, there was only one thing more threatening than a prodigy—a prodigy with commoner’s blood. His rise was an affront to their own lineage and pedigree, and so as they came after him, and without the protection of Maegelle Targaryen, he was too easy a target for those in power.
“I specialized in healing,” though he had forged other links as well, and was rather well-rounded as a Maester, though he had abandoned that title along with the chains it came with.
“It was my first link, and even in the massive web of healing, I focused mostly on Greyscale—on treating the afflicted, finding a cure.” And it was a sort of a personal mission for him to bring that accursed disease to heel, yet the task was easier said than done.
The Queen’s expression shuddered. “Greyscale?” she whispered, and the King’s lips thinned as well for the menace of it had not even spared the Royal Family.
“I treated hundreds,” he continued.
“But in the end, the maesters deemed my work too dangerous. They offered me a choice to either stop working on the disease or to leave the Citadel. So, I chose to leave, and have continued my work ever since,” and though he did not seek money from those he healed, but that did not mean that he was poor.
No. Wealthy merchants, lords, and ladies would lavish him with gold and gifts for his services. Yet, he would spend most of that gold on procuring resources like oils, seeds, saps, poisons, and other materials needed to make cures, while a substantial sum of it was also used to care for those afflicted with greyscale as he tried to continue his mother’s work.
“How many people have you treated so far?” Her voice was barely a whisper, like a ghost in the room.
“Seven hundred and thirty-four.”
A breathless pause. “And how many survived?”
“A hundred and three,” his voice cracked slightly at the weight of that failure.
Silence. A flicker of something—grief? Resolve?—moved behind the Queen’s eyes.
“That is…” she began, lost for words.
“Not enough,” he said, his emotions getting the better of him.
“No,” she whispered, “more than I would have dared hope.”
But he did not agree. Yet he said nothing as he turned towards the King and pleaded his innocence.
“Your grace, I’ve proven my identity and my innocence,” Galen said. “I saved the Princess not for reward, but because it was the right thing to do. I seek no prize, Your Grace. Am I free to return to my work, and my home?”
The King, ancient yet unwavering, tilted his head.
“You saved my daughter, a Princess,” he began quietly.
“The Crown owes you a debt for that. I owe you a debt for that,” and he shook his head slowly.
“No one owes me anything, your grace,” Galen replied. “I did what any decent man should.”
The King scoffed, voice like gravel. “There are few such men left.” And his intentions were clear to him, and so he tried to discourage him, as he insisted again.
“I have people waiting for me. The sick. The desperate. People who have nowhere else to go except to come to my door. If you are satisfied, I would take my leave, so that I may help these people,” and those amethyst eyes narrowed as the King saw through his ploys.
“You would walk away bearing only gratitude, while I remain burdened with debt?” the King asked. Threatened, Galen braced for a threat and spoke quickly to remedy that.
“I ask for nothing. There is no debt to repay at all, your grace,” he added, but the King’s mind was made.
“But you shall receive something all the same,” the King replied, steel sharpening his tone as he gave his verdict.
“For many years now, I have left it upon only the Queen to carry the burden of welfare of my city’s people. It is time I remedy that,” and it could not.
“So, I name you to my Council!”
Galen blinked, for he had expected gold, accompanied by a few threats. Maybe a manse or some perennial promise of Crown’s support, but this. This was beyond his expectations.
“I am unworthy of such honor, Your Grace.”
“You would dare deny a King?” Jaehaerys Targaryen’s voice thundered. For a moment, Galen saw not an aging man, but the rider of Vermithor, the dragonlord of old.
“I mean no disrespect. But I am no statesman. I have no silver tongue or strategic mind.”
The Queen’s voice softened the edge in the room. “Yet you speak as one.”
He finally looked up, gaze steady.
“I am a healer. I heal people. I save lives, and that is the only thing I wish to do.” But one could hardly deny a King, especially one as stubborn as the Old Conciliator.
To heal a body was to mend flesh. To heal a kingdom—he was not sure he was ready for that—he might never be.
“As a healer, you save one life,” the King said, “as my counsellor, you may save thousands.”
“I simply think myself unworthy.”
“I decide who is worthy in my court,” the King declared, and so he resigned himself to his fate and bowed slowly, humbly.
“Then I accept the honor... my King.”
And perhaps this was a reminder from the Gods to remember the promise made to a dying woman.
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PRINCE BALON TARGARYEN—The Spring Prince
Balon felt as if misery clung to his family like a plague of locusts devouring joy wherever it landed. That perhaps the Gods above were punishing them for their hubris, for as powerful as his family may be, death seemed to be circling them all.
It had all begun with the demise of a sister he could no longer remember. Daenerys Targaryen, born before both him and Aemon, the first child of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, taken by the shivers. A first, for until that time it was believed that the blood of Old Valyria protected them from such evils.
And then a cycle of death had started, wars, plagues, and stillbirths—each a fresh wound. It was as if the Stranger itself had taken hold of the Red Keep, as he punished the Royal family for their various sins.
Just within the last five years, they had Saera, Viserra, and even Maegella, and it was only because of Gael that his mother had not succumbed to the pain of losing so many children. She clung to her winter child. Her only daughter, and now the Gods had nearly robbed her of her final solace.
Gael—their winter child, pure and trusting—had become the next victim of the fates, as she found herself naively falling for the honeyed words of a commoner singer, and she gave him her trust, her heart, and more
A grave mistake which was only compounded further, as they realised that her secret trysts with a singer had put a child in her belly, and if it was not their mother’s pleadings the King would have exiled his last daughter just as he had done so for Saera.
But in the end, the Queen had pleaded for mercy, and Gael’s pregnancy was kept a secret from the entire realm, and for the entire court, the Winter Child had turned ill as she remained absent from the court for over half a year, yet only to deliver a stillborn child.
Naive and young as she was, he could not imagine her pain. Specially, as she found out that the singer to whom she had given her heart had fled the capital months ago, abandoning both her and their unborn child.
That his songs, and promises of love had been nothing but a ruse from a scum of a man, who had now ruined her life in ways more than one. For she had not just lost her purity, which in and of itself was a great sin for any woman, let alone a Princess of Royal birth, but she had also lost her ability to birth a child.
“Maegelle?” he asked, as he found himself once more in his father’s solar and heard him mention a rather unexpected name.
Balon had been tending to his father’s duties for a day now, and was aware that he had met with the supposed ‘healer’ who had saved Gael’s life a few times, but he had not expected the stranger to be connected to their family.
“Yes,” and he could see that the weariness from yesterday’s entire affair had begun to take a toll on his father, who still lay in his bed even as the Sun had long risen into the skies.
If it had been but a few years ago, none would ever have found the Old King in his bed at such a time. The Conciliator was a man of purpose and duty, and rose with the dawn.
Yet age and tragedy had taken much of his vigor from him, and now on many a day, it was left to Balon to preside over the court and perform his father’s duties.
“Maegelle. Even in death, it seems she still watches over us,”Maegelle had been the most devout and dutiful of his sisters. She had been given to the faith at a young age and had done her duty well until she had succumbed to the malady of Greyscale a few years ago.
But he had not expected that Gael’s savior would be related to his diseased sister.
His father reached for his hand, as he looked him in the eye.
The King’s voice cracked, “I did that boy a great injustice,” and the world saw the Conciliator as this infallible figure who could do no wrong. A King who was so sure of his decisions, and beliefs, and perhaps for a time, Jaehaerys Targaryen was all that.
Yet, time had a habit of whittling down even the strongest of men, and while he still remained powerful and steadfast, demons of the past had long begun to haunt his sleep, plaguing his mind with doubts and regrets.
“I never knew that my desire to protect Barth would ruin two lives, and while I do not regret my decision, perhaps this is an opportunity from the Gods for me to make amends.” As close as he was to his father, even he had no idea that the Septon Barth had broken his vows once, that their father had protected his friend and hand, though it came at a terrible cost.
“I understand, Father,” Balon answered as a dutiful son and Prince, as he squeezed his father’s hand.
“Good. Good,” his father whispered, and if the boy was indeed Septon Barth’s son, then their family owed him twice over. For the wrong they had done upon him, and the life he had saved.
“I have named him to the Council. Guide him well, Balon,” and he would.
“I will,” and his father smiled.
“I know you will. And if I am right you may find in him your own Barth, because do know this my son that while you may think me cruel because of what I did to the boy and his mother, I did it for the realm as much as myself,” and he frowned as his father’s eyes dimmed as they often did at the mention of his closest confidante apart from their mother.
“Ruling is not easy. It is a great duty, and I knew that I needed Barth to do this great duty,” and then he sighed as he closed his eyes.
“You will have need of your own Barth, a person you can trust. I pray that this boy can become for you what Barth became for me....”
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Comments
Jordan Belmont
Man I hate the Targaryen
FallenMetalGod
Thank you, and it looks like Galen's in the deep end. I wish he stood up a bit more against the King. I am curious if Galen will save Balon. Great job, as always, and I look forward to seeing what happens next.
