# The Red Keep - The King's Solar, Three Days After Septon Barth's Funeral
The solar felt emptier somehow, as though Barth's absence had created a vacuum that couldn't be filled by simply gathering more people in the space. King Jaehaerys sat in his usual chair, looking older than Aemon remembered—grief and the weight of impending decisions had carved new lines into his face, made his silver hair seem more white than platinum.
Queen Alysanne occupied the chair beside him, her expression carrying that particular mixture of sorrow and steel-hard determination that came from being a queen who'd buried too many loved ones and still had a kingdom to help govern.
The gathering was unusually comprehensive for what was ostensibly a family discussion—Prince Viserys and Princess Aemma, Prince Daemon and Princess Gael (who'd become nearly inseparable since her dragon bonding), and the twins, who'd been included because apparently someone had decided that three-year-olds with supernatural capabilities counted as legitimate political actors now.
*This is either a sign of progressive governance or catastrophically poor judgment,* Pyrion said from his perch on Aemon's shoulder, voice dripping with the kind of smug curiosity only a telepathic dragon could manage.
*Probably both,* Aemon thought back dryly, scanning the gathered family like a man watching a bomb he'd just realized was already ticking. Everyone looked wrecked—grief, stress, political tension—it was like someone had blended all seven stages of mourning with a small civil war and poured it over breakfast.
If there was a vibe in the room, it was "funeral meets family therapy session," and no one was qualified to lead either.
"We gather," said Jaehaerys, and though his tone was measured, it carried the weight of command that had once silenced courts and quelled tempers alike. His voice, deep and deliberate, filled the chamber like the toll of a great bronze bell. "To speak not merely as kin, but as stewards of a realm that trembles on the edge of uncertainty. The Great Council draws near. In three weeks' time, the high lords of Westeros shall descend upon Harrenhal—to judge, to bargain, and to decide the question that will shape the bloodline of kings."
He let the silence breathe, his gaze drifting over the gathered faces—silver-haired, solemn, marked by time and care. Some met his eyes; others looked away, as if unwilling to bear the reflection of what they had lost or feared to lose.
"But before we face that reckoning," Jaehaerys went on, the faintest weariness threading through his words, "there is one more matter that cannot be left untended. The Hand of the King's seat stands empty. Septon Barth's wisdom has left us, and with it, the calm that once tempered my own storms. Whoever follows him must possess not only learning and loyalty, but the rarest quality of all—the trust of both crown and council."
*Here we go,* Pyrion noted. *The moment where everyone pretends they haven't been thinking about this exact question since Barth's body was discovered.*
"The choices before us are few," said Alysanne, her voice calm but edged with the authority of one long accustomed to cutting through pretense. "We require a man—or woman—of sound judgment and proven skill. One whom the great lords will heed, yet who will not be swayed by their ambitions. Someone who can balance crown and council both, and weather the tempests that shall follow once the matter of succession is settled."
Her husband inclined his head, the light from the high windows glinting off the thin circlet of gold that rested upon his white hair. "Aye," said Jaehaerys, his tone grave. "The next Hand must serve not me, but the realm that will outlive us all. He must counsel wisely, act boldly, and stand loyal—whichever heir the Council may name. For the realm will not endure another Hand ruled by faction or fear."
The words lingered like incense in the still air. No one spoke. Eyes drifted from face to face, weighing possibilities, measuring loyalties. The silence that followed was not empty but full—of calculation, of memory, of quiet dread.
At last, it was Aemon who broke it. His voice was mild, almost guileless, yet there was a spark in his violet eyes that belied the innocence of his tone. "Then tell us, Great-grandfather," he said, "who shall wear the Hand's chain next?"
*Subtle,* Pyrion said dryly. *Really flying under the radar there with your strategic information gathering.*
*Someone needed to ask,* Aemon defended. *Otherwise we'd spend an hour having a conversation around the actual topic without ever addressing it directly.*
Jaehaerys's features softened, though only slightly, as he regarded his great-grandson. There was a glimmer in his pale eyes—half pride, half caution—the look of a man who saw too much of himself reflected in the younger generation and was uncertain whether that was blessing or curse.
"I have not chosen," he said at length, his voice deliberate, each word weighed like coin upon a scale. "The Hand of the King is no mere minister to be plucked from convenience or kinship. The choice must endure beyond sentiment, beyond even my own reign. The man I name must steady the realm through whatever storms the Council's judgment may loose. His wisdom must serve not only the crown, but the peace of generations yet unborn."
Silence followed, until Viserys—restless, eager, ever certain—leaned forward, his expression bright with conviction.
"Otto Hightower," he said, and the name fell into the solar like a stone into still water, creating ripples that spread to every corner of the room.
Daemon's reaction was immediate and visceral—a sharp intake of breath followed by what could only be described as a full-body eye roll. He didn't speak yet, but the sheer force of his disapproval was palpable enough to lower the temperature by several degrees.
Viserys, either oblivious or deliberately ignoring his brother's reaction, continued with growing enthusiasm. "He is learned and capable, with a keen grasp of the realm's governance. The lords respect him, the smallfolk trust his fairness. He served as Master of Laws with honor, and his counsel has ever been sound. He is not one to chase glory or favor—only good order."
"Oh, for fuck's sake—" Daemon started.
"Language," Gael murmured, her hand finding his arm with practiced ease.
Daemon shot her a look that somehow managed to convey both exasperation and affection. "You want me to use *nice* words while discussing Otto bloody Hightower? That's asking rather a lot, love."
"I want you to make your point without getting thrown out of the solar before you make it," Gael replied sweetly.
Viserys's cheeks had colored, whether from his brother's interruption or the profanity was unclear. "As I was saying," he continued, voice tight with forced patience, "Otto has ever been a friend to our house, Grandfather. A steady hand, loyal and thoughtful. Such men are few. He understands the complexities of governance, has connections throughout the realm, and—"
"Has been circling that damned chair like a vulture over a dying horse since before Barth even took ill," Daemon cut in, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Every conversation, every 'helpful suggestion,' every perfectly-timed appearance at council meetings—the man's been positioning himself for this moment since the day he realized Barth was mortal."
*Interesting,* Pyrion noted. *Your father isn't just proposing Otto politically—he's defending him personally. That's either genuine friendship or Otto's been very effective at cultivating that perception.*
*Probably both,* Aemon thought. *Otto's too smart to rely purely on manipulation. He'd want actual relationships to anchor his political maneuvering.*
"That's called *foresight*," Viserys shot back, his usual mild nature giving way to genuine heat. "Otto prepares because he understands that governance requires planning, not just reacting to crises as they arise. The realm needs men who think ahead, not—"
"Not what?" Daemon interrupted, leaning forward with that dangerous gleam in his eyes that suggested he was enjoying this argument far more than he should. "Not swordsmen? Not men who actually *do* things rather than just talk about doing them? Go on, brother, finish your thought. I'm *fascinated* to hear where this is going."
"Not men who mistake bluntness for honesty and aggression for competence," Viserys finished, his voice clipped. "Otto *positions himself* to serve the realm, not to usurp it. There's a difference between ambition and—"
Daemon's laugh was short and utterly humorless. "Ambition? *Ambition?*" He spread his hands in mock wonder. "Brother, the day Otto Hightower does something that doesn't directly benefit Otto Hightower, I'll take the black, join the Faith, and personally lead the next bloody crusade. The man doesn't want to *steady* the realm—he wants to *own* it. There's a difference, and it's rather important."
"That's unfair," Viserys protested, but there was a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice now. "Otto believes in order, in stability. He builds where others burn. He plans for—"
"He plans for *himself*," Daemon interrupted flatly. "Every brick he lays, every law he drafts, every 'helpful suggestion' he makes—it's all building something. And that something isn't the realm's glory, brother. It's Otto Hightower's personal empire, constructed from parchment and precedent and all wrapped up in such pretty language about 'duty' and 'service' that you don't even notice you're being built into the foundation."
*They're both right,* Aemon realized with the sort of clarity that came from having Tyrion Lannister's political cunning approaching full integration. *Otto is both genuinely competent administrator and calculating power-seeker. Those aren't mutually exclusive traits—they're often complementary.*
"You're being paranoid," Viserys said, but he sounded less certain now, less convinced by his own argument. "Otto has served the crown faithfully for—"
"Otto has served Otto faithfully," Daemon corrected, "and the crown happened to be a convenient vehicle for that service. Look, I'm not saying the man's incompetent. He's brilliant. Terrifyingly brilliant. That's the *problem*. He's the sort of dangerous cleverness that the realm mistakes for virtue because he never gets blood on his hands—just ink. And by the time anyone realizes what he's built, he's so deeply embedded in the machinery of rule that cutting him out would require dismantling the entire government."
Gael's grip on Daemon's arm tightened slightly—not restraining, exactly, but reminding him that volume and profanity had limits even in private family discussions.
He glanced at her, and his tone moderated slightly, though the edge remained. "I'm not saying we should throw him in a cell. I'm saying that giving him the Hand's chain is like handing the keys to the treasury to a man who's already picked the locks twice just to prove he could. Yes, he'll be *effective*—gods know he's good at what he does. But effective at *what*, exactly? Serving the realm? Or building his own little kingdom using the crown's authority as cover?"
"Perhaps," Aemma ventured, speaking for the first time and drawing all eyes to her, "we might acknowledge that both perspectives have merit? Otto is undeniably capable, but his... ambitions... are also a legitimate concern. The question isn't whether he's qualified, but whether his qualifications serve the realm or his own interests. And that's harder to determine."
*Well done,* Aemon thought with approval. *Acknowledge both sides without taking one, which keeps you from becoming part of the argument while still contributing substance.*
"Thank you, Aemma, for that remarkably diplomatic deflection," Daemon said with a grin that suggested he knew exactly what she'd done and appreciated the skill involved. "Very elegant. You'd make a fine Master of Whispers if the whole 'future queen' thing doesn't work out."
Aemma's lips twitched with suppressed amusement. "I'll keep that in mind should I need a career change."
"The point," Viserys said, determinedly steering the conversation back on track, "is that Otto has the experience, the connections, and the respect of the lords. Whatever his personal ambitions—and I still maintain you're exaggerating them, Daemon—he would serve effectively as Hand. The realm would be well governed, the transition smooth, and the Council would see that the crown takes governance seriously."
"The realm would be Otto-governed," Daemon muttered. "Which is different from well-governed in subtle but important ways."
"You haven't suggested an alternative," Viserys pointed out, a hint of triumph creeping into his voice. "If not Otto, then who? It's easy to criticize choices without offering better ones."
Daemon opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again with a slight frown. "That's... actually a fair point. Dammit. I hate when you make fair points."
"It happens more often than you'd like to admit," Viserys said smugly.
"Let's not get carried away," Daemon replied. "You've had, what, three good points in the last decade? Don't let it go to your head."
*Oh good,* Pyrion observed. *Family bickering about a crucial appointment. This should definitely end well and not create any lasting tensions.*
The argument had begun to spiral—Viserys defending Otto's administrative competence while Daemon attacked his character and motivations, neither willing to concede ground, both getting progressively more heated despite Gael and Aemma's attempts at moderation.
*They could do this for hours,* Aemon realized. *They'll cover the same ground repeatedly, get nowhere, and leave the actual question unresolved while creating more family tension. Someone needs to redirect this before it becomes an actual feud rather than just a disagreement.*
"What if," he said, clear and deliberate, each word precise as a chisel striking marble, "we are asking the wrong question?"
The words, softly spoken though they were, cut clean through the argument like a knife through butter. The quarrel stilled. Even Daemon turned his head, his expression caught somewhere between irritation at being interrupted and intrigue at what the interruption might produce.
*Everyone's looking at you now,* Pyrion noted helpfully. *Better make this good.*
"Go on," Jaehaerys said, and though his tone might have seemed indulgent to outsiders, there was genuine curiosity beneath it—the voice of a man who'd learned that his great-grandson's observations were worth considering even when they came from a three-year-old body.
Aemon drew a slow breath, organizing his thoughts with the precision that came from having multiple lifetimes of political experience to draw upon. "We're debating who should be Hand because we're treating it as a separate question from the succession. But what if they're actually the same question? Or rather, what if the solution to one problem also solves the other?"
Daemon's eyes narrowed with interest. "I'm listening. This had better be going somewhere interesting."
"The Great Council will meet to settle one question," Aemon continued, his young voice gaining weight with each phrase. "Who shall inherit the Iron Throne. Two names stand foremost—Prince Viserys, and Princess Rhaenys. Each bears a claim rooted in law, each strengthened by blood. One by the male line, one by the elder. Both wise. Both capable. Both, in their own ways, devoted to the good of the realm."
He paused, letting the silence grow, watching as understanding began to dawn on various faces around the table.
"We speak as though the realm's fate rests upon choosing between them," he said at last. "But perhaps the question we should be asking is: why choose at all?"
"Because," Viserys said slowly, "there can only be one heir to the Iron Throne? That's rather how succession works?"
"Yes," Aemon agreed. "But there's only one throne. There's no rule saying there can only be one Targaryen in a position of supreme authority. In fact, the Hand of the King often wields as much practical power as the king himself—sometimes more, when the king is indisposed or delegates heavily."
*They're starting to see it,* Pyrion noted with approval. *Look at their faces. The gears are turning.*
"You're suggesting..." Alysanne began, her sharp mind already racing ahead to the conclusion.
"I'm suggesting that the solution to our succession crisis might also solve our Hand of the King question," Aemon said simply. "Let the Great Council choose one heir—Father or Cousin Rhaenys, as they see fit. But let the other be named Hand of the King. One to wear the crown, one to govern beside them. Neither diminished, both essential, the realm gaining the benefit of both bloodlines and both minds."
The silence that followed was so profound that the crackling of the fire seemed loud as thunder.
"That's..." Viserys started, then stopped, his brows drawn together in thought. "That's actually... brilliant?"
He sounded almost surprised by his own conclusion, as though he'd expected to find flaws and instead found only elegant logic.
"It solves multiple problems simultaneously," Viserys continued, his tone growing more animated as he worked through the implications. "The Council makes its choice based on law and precedent, so no one can claim we've subverted their authority. But the losing claimant doesn't walk away embittered—they take a position of genuine power and responsibility. Both sides get something meaningful. Neither is defeated."
"And," Daemon added, a slow grin spreading across his face, "it neatly strangles the Otto Hightower question in its cradle before it even draws breath."
"Language," Gael murmured reflexively.
"I said 'strangles,' not—you know what, never mind." Daemon waved a hand dismissively. "The point is, if one of the actual claimants takes the Hand's chain, there's no seat left for ambitious second sons from Oldtown. No parchment-pedaling power-grabbers worming their way into authority while pretending it's all about duty and service to the realm. The game ends before Otto ever gets to play."
"That's not the *primary* benefit of this approach," Viserys said with exaggerated patience, though he couldn't quite hide his amusement at Daemon's transparent satisfaction. "Though I admit it's a convenient side effect."
"Side effects are often the best part," Daemon replied cheerfully. "Like how getting drunk has the side effect of making my brother's political philosophy almost tolerable."
"When have you ever listened to my political philosophy while drunk?"
"I haven't," Daemon admitted. "But I maintain theoretical optimism that sufficient alcohol might make it bearable. We should test this hypothesis. For science."
"Can we focus?" Gael interjected, though her tone suggested she was fighting a smile. "This is actually a brilliant idea, and you two are trying to turn it into another argument about Otto Hightower and alcohol tolerance."
*Your family has a unique approach to political problem-solving,* Pyrion observed. *Half serious discussion, half comedic banter, somehow producing functional solutions despite the chaos.*
"The proposal has substantial merit," Alysanne said, her tone carrying that particular quality that suggested she was already ten steps ahead, planning implementation and considering contingencies. "It transforms potential defeat into shared honor. Neither claimant is diminished, both hold positions of genuine authority, and the message to the realm is clear: strength lies not in rigid succession rules, but in wise governance by capable leaders."
Jaehaerys leaned forward, his eyes bright despite the years weighing upon him. "It sets a precedent both subtle and profound," he said slowly. "Not rebellion against tradition, but evolution of it. The realm learns that competence and wisdom matter as much as birthright. That two talented leaders working in concert serve better than one ruling alone while the other festers in resentment."
"Plus," Daemon added, "it keeps our house from tearing itself apart. If the Council picks Viserys and Rhaenys walks away with nothing but wounded pride, she takes half the realm with her—House Velaryon, all the lords who think women should inherit, everyone who sees male preference as theft rather than tradition. That faction will never rest. They'll gnaw at every decision, question every policy, hunt for cracks to exploit."
His expression turned serious, the levity draining away. "But if Rhaenys holds the Hand's chain? Then she's invested in the realm's stability. She can't undermine Viserys without unraveling her own power. Her supporters become part of governance rather than opposition. Incentives align. Cooperation becomes self-interest rather than imposed duty."
*He's completely right,* Aemon realized. *And he's articulated the game theory better than I did. Never underestimate Daemon's political instincts just because he wraps them in profanity and wine.*
"The same applies in reverse," Viserys added thoughtfully. "If the Council chooses Rhaenys as heir, I would gladly serve as Hand. It would ease the transition, reassure lords who favor male succession, demonstrate house unity. And frankly..." He paused, a wry smile crossing his face. "I might prefer it. Being Hand means shaping policy and governance directly. Being heir means... waiting. Often for decades. The Hand's chair offers more immediate purpose."
"Gods, you actually mean that," Daemon said, staring at his brother with something approaching wonder. "You'd genuinely rather be Hand than heir. You're even stranger than I thought, and I thought you were quite strange to begin with."
"Some of us find administration fulfilling," Viserys replied with dignity. "Not everyone measures satisfaction in swords and scandals."
"That's because your measuring stick is broken," Daemon informed him. "But in this case, your bizarre preferences actually serve everyone's interests, so I'll refrain from further commentary on your character defects."
"How magnanimous of you."
"I thought so too."
*They're buying it,* Aemon thought with satisfaction mixed with slight concern about how easily he was manipulating family political decisions. *The logic is sound enough that they can convince themselves this is wise governance rather than recognizing it as strategic problem-solving from a three-year-old.*
"There is," Jaehaerys said slowly, his voice carrying the weight of caution earned through decades of rule, "the matter of precedent. If we establish that losing claimants automatically receive the Hand's chain, what happens at future successions? Does every disappointed heir demand the position regardless of capability or suitability?"
"No," Aemon said firmly, meeting his great-grandfather's gaze without flinching. "This isn't a general law. It's a remedy tailored to specific circumstances. We're not proclaiming that all succession disputes resolve this way. We're saying that in *this* case—where two equally qualified claimants stand balanced, where neither claim is clearly superior, where both possess the skills and judgment necessary for high office—both should serve. One reigns, one governs. The realm benefits."
"It's situational, not procedural," Viserys agreed, clearly warming to his role as legal theorist. "A solution crafted for this moment, these claimants, these circumstances. Future generations will face different challenges and must find their own solutions. We're not binding them to our choice—we're solving the problem before us using the resources available."
*They've completely taken ownership of the idea,* Aemon noted with satisfaction. *They're now arguing for why it's brilliant rather than questioning whether it should be done. Mission accomplished.*
"I like it," Daemon declared, leaning back with that easy confidence that suggested he'd already decided this was the best possible outcome. "It's clever without being too clever. Solves our problems without creating new ones. Keeps power in the family where it belongs. Prevents Otto Hightower from slithering into authority." He paused thoughtfully. "Actually, Otto might still try to position himself as Master of Laws or Master of Coin or some other position where he can accumulate influence. We should probably think about that."
"One problem at a time," Gael suggested gently. "First we need to ensure this plan actually works at the Great Council. Then we can worry about Otto's contingency schemes."
"Otto definitely has contingency schemes," Daemon muttered. "Probably has contingencies for his contingencies. The man plans like he expects to live forever and wants to control all of it."
"Focus," Viserys said, though he was smiling now, the earlier tension of their argument dissolved into something more like their usual dynamic—bickering that concealed genuine affection. "Grandfather, Grandmother, what do you think? Is this proposal workable?"
Jaehaerys was quiet for a long moment, his pale eyes distant as though seeing far beyond the solar's walls to some future shaped by the choices they made today.
"It could work," he said at last, his voice carrying that rare quality of cautious hope. "Both candidates are genuinely qualified. Both could serve effectively in either role. The proposal honors tradition while evolving it. It prevents factional bitterness while maintaining the Great Council's authority to choose. And most importantly..." He paused, his gaze finding Aemon's. "It demonstrates that the realm values wisdom over rigid custom. That's a lesson worth teaching, even if some resist learning it."
"But," Alysanne added, because there was always a but when queens spoke, "it will require careful execution. Both candidates must genuinely accept this arrangement. Corlys Velaryon will scrutinize every word to ensure his wife isn't being diminished or insulted. The lords must perceive this as wisdom rather than manipulation. And the proposal must appear to emerge from the Council itself, not be imposed by the crown."
*Teaching them how to manipulate the Council into reaching your preferred conclusion,* Pyrion observed with dark amusement. *Very subtle. Very effective. Slightly terrifying.*
"So we need to do groundwork before the Council formally convenes," Viserys said, already shifting into tactical mode. "Quiet conversations, careful suggestions, planting ideas that can grow naturally. When the proposal is finally presented, it should seem inevitable—as though collective wisdom reached this conclusion independently."
"Three weeks," Alysanne noted. "Three weeks to prepare the ground without making it obvious we're preparing anything at all. That's challenging but feasible."
"I can speak with key lords," Viserys offered. "Frame it as exploring options, testing reactions, nothing binding or committed. Just... opening minds to possibilities they might not have considered."
"And I'll ensure House Velaryon understands this isn't some consolation prize," Daemon added. "Corlys needs to grasp that the Hand's chair carries real power—practical, immediate, day-to-day authority over governance. In many ways, Rhaenys as Hand would wield more actual influence than Viserys as heir-in-waiting. The trick is perception."
"The trick is *reality*," Viserys corrected. "The Hand genuinely does hold immense authority. We're not deceiving anyone—we're helping them recognize the truth of how power actually functions versus how tradition assumes it functions."
"That's a very philosophical distinction," Daemon observed. "But sure, we'll call it 'helping them recognize truth' rather than 'manipulation.' Whatever lets you sleep at night, brother."
"I sleep quite well, thank you."
"That's because you have the political awareness of a particularly trusting golden retriever."
"I'm going to assume that's somehow a compliment despite the phrasing."
"It absolutely wasn't, but I admire your optimism."
*Your family's ability to argue while agreeing on substance is genuinely impressive,* Pyrion noted. *They've fully endorsed your plan and are now bickering about implementation details and each other's character traits.*
The conversation continued for another hour—logistics, potential obstacles, approaches to various lords, contingency planning if the Council rejected the proposal entirely. Through it all, Aemon sat quietly, occasionally offering clarifying observations but mostly just watching his family take ownership of a solution he'd carefully engineered to serve multiple objectives simultaneously.
Prevent Otto Hightower from consolidating power. Eliminate succession-based factionalism. Establish precedent for meritocracy. Ensure both claimants held genuine authority. Create circumstances where the Council's decision wouldn't breed lasting resentment.
Five objectives served by one elegant solution. This was optimization at its finest—changes that felt natural rather than imposed, wisdom that seemed obvious in retrospect, politics that served everyone's interests simultaneously.
*Until something goes wrong and it all falls apart,* Pyrion added with characteristic cynicism.
*Obviously,* Aemon agreed. *But that's tomorrow's problem. For now, we've successfully restructured succession politics without anyone realizing they were being manipulated by a three-year-old. I call that a win.*
Eventually, the meeting wound down, participants departing to begin their various preparations. Viserys left to draft letters to key lords, already mentally composing careful diplomatic language. Daemon departed for the Velaryon manse, presumably to have a frank conversation with Corlys about power dynamics and perception management. Gael went with him, because apparently someone needed to ensure that "frank conversation" didn't turn into "aggressive confrontation with wine."
Aemma paused on her way out, touching Aemon's shoulder briefly. "That was well done," she said quietly. "Genuinely brilliant. Your father doesn't realize yet that you're the most politically dangerous person in this family, but he'll figure it out eventually."
"I'm three," Aemon replied with perfect innocence. "How dangerous could I be?"
Aemma's smile was warm but knowing. "Extremely. And the scary part is you'll only get better at hiding it as you age." She squeezed his shoulder gently. "Use it well, son. The realm needs brilliant minds more than it needs powerful swords."
Then she was gone, leaving Aemon alone with his great-grandparents and the settling silence of accomplished conspiracy.
"That was your idea from the start, wasn't it?" Alysanne said at last, her voice warm, almost indulgent, though carrying clear recognition of what had just occurred. "You didn't merely propose a solution—you steered the entire conversation, shaped every objection, guided everyone toward a conclusion you'd already chosen."
*Busted,* Pyrion announced cheerfully.
"I prefer 'strategic problem-solving,'" Aemon replied with careful dignity.
"You manipulated your entire family into embracing a revolutionary succession plan while convincing them it was collective insight," Alysanne continued, though her tone held more amusement than accusation. "That's not merely precocious—that's alarming from a governance standpoint."
"Would you prefer I used my abilities for less constructive ends?" Aemon asked reasonably.
"No," Jaehaerys said, his voice carrying that mix of awe and dread that had become increasingly common when discussing his great-grandson's activities. "Though I would appreciate occasional displays of normal childhood behavior that don't make me wonder if I should be consulting you on matters of state."
"I played with blocks yesterday," Aemon offered.
"You were using them to model defensive fortifications," Alysanne corrected. "That doesn't count as ordinary play."
"The blocks didn't complain."
*Your great-grandparents have accepted that you're fundamentally abnormal,* Pyrion observed. *Now they're just negotiating the terms of that abnormality. This is progress, in its way.*
Jaehaerys sighed, the sound carrying decades of accumulated weariness and resignation. "Three years old," he murmured, "and already orchestrating political outcomes that seasoned councilors would struggle to engineer. You terrify me, boy. And impress me. Often simultaneously."
"I try my best," Aemon said simply.
"Your best apparently consists of manipulating royal succession while maintaining perfect deniability," Alysanne replied. "That's not reassuring."
"Better than manipulating succession with poor deniability?" Aemon suggested.
"That's not the point I was making."
"But it's a valid distinction."
Alysanne looked at her husband. "He's impossible."
"He gets it from you," Jaehaerys replied, utterly deadpan.
"I don't manipulate succession!"
"You absolutely manipulate succession. You just do it so skillfully that people thank you afterward and call it wisdom."
"That's completely different."
"Is it, though?"
*They're adorable,* Pyrion noted. *In a terrifying 'decades of political partnership manifesting as playful bickering' sort of way.*
The conversation eventually returned to logistics—who would present the proposal at Harrenhal, how to ensure serious consideration, contingency plans if the lords rejected it entirely. But beneath the practical planning, Aemon could feel something else growing in the room: cautious hope that maybe, just maybe, they'd found a way to prevent the succession crisis from becoming the foundation for civil war.
*The Dance of Dragons officially has one less potential spark,* he thought with renewed determination. *Now I just need to manage approximately seventeen other crisis points before they mature into actual disasters.*
*Your project list continues to expand in concerning directions,* Pyrion noted.
*Optimization is never finished,* Aemon replied with philosophical resignation. *You just keep working and hope the next crisis gives you enough warning to address it properly.*
*That's a depressing worldview for a three-year-old.*
*But a realistic one. And in this family, realism is significantly more useful than optimism.*
As the evening drew to a close and Aemon prepared to return to his chambers for another night of midnight experimentation and strategic planning, he reflected on what had been accomplished.
Succession crisis: significantly defused through elegant political engineering.
Otto Hightower: temporarily prevented from consolidating power.
Family unity: maintained through solutions serving multiple competing interests.
Personal reputation: further enhanced as someone whose observations merited consideration in political discussions.
*Not bad for a day's work,* he decided.
*Not bad at all,* Pyrion agreed. *Though I note you're now personally invested in making sure this Council goes well. If your solution fails spectacularly, that reflects poorly on your strategic capabilities.*
*Then I guess I'd better make sure it works,* Aemon replied with grim determination.
*That's what I'm afraid of,* Pyrion said, but there was affection beneath the concern.
And as they departed the solar, Aemon allowed himself a small smile. Three weeks until the Great Council. Three weeks to ensure the lords were properly prepared to recognize wisdom when presented. Three weeks to prevent a succession crisis that could have torn the realm apart.
*Just another impossible task,* he thought with dark humor, *in the life of someone trying to prevent history from repeating itself.*
But this time, he had a plan. A good plan. One that served everyone's interests while preventing future conflicts.
Now all he had to do was execute it perfectly while maintaining his cover as a precocious but essentially harmless child genius.
*Simple,* he thought with the sort of confidence that would have terrified anyone who actually knew the full scope of what he was attempting.
*Your relationship with the concept of 'simple' continues to concern me,* Pyrion observed.
But by then, they were already planning the next moves in what promised to be the most significant political event in recent Targaryen history.
The Dance of Dragons wouldn't prevent itself, after all.
Someone had to do the work.
And apparently, that someone was a three-year-old with supernatural capabilities, political genius, and absolutely no sense of appropriate scope for childhood activities.
*Perfect,* Aemon thought with satisfaction.
*Terrifying,* Pyrion corrected.
*Both,* they agreed simultaneously.
And with that philosophical consensus, they began preparing for Harrenhal and whatever challenges the Great Council would present.
---
**[MISSION PROGRESS: "Prevent Succession Crisis"]**
**[STATUS: Major Breakthrough Achieved]**
**[SOLUTION PROPOSED: Dual Authority Structure - Heir + Hand from competing candidates]**
**[IMPLEMENTATION PHASE: Begins at Great Council]**
**[CONFIDENCE RATING: High (Pending execution)]**
**[RISK ASSESSMENT: Moderate (Success depends on lord acceptance and candidate cooperation)]**
**[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: "The Kingmaker's Apprentice II"]**
**[Successfully engineer major political compromise that serves multiple competing interests]**
**[REWARD: 2,000 Points]**
**[CURRENT GACHA CURRENCY: 6,347 Points]**
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!