The Great Hall, Red Keep.
It was a morning of soft, early rain. Inside the Great Hall, the High Lords of the Seven Kingdoms spoke in hushed, animated tones.
High above them sat the Iron Throne, a jagged mountain of blades forged by Aegon the Conqueror from the swords of his enemies.
Today, it was layered with thick red cushions, a concession to King Viserys and his increasingly frail, decaying body.
The hall was packed to the brim. Noblewomen crowded the galleries and corridors on either side, their gazes sharp.
The Lords of the Reach, in their sea of green, clustered together; the Stormlanders in yellow stood firm; and the Westermen in crimson huddled around the Hand, Lord Tyland Lannister.
In contrast to the southern Lords, the nobility of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands remained in tight, cross-regional blocks, a testament to their long history of intermarriage.
The murmur of the crowd was a constant drone.
"Is the King truly going to do it?" a young noble whispered.
"The news broke yesterday," his companion replied.
"Prince Daemon has returned to Dragonstone; Princess Rhaenyra has relinquished her claim. Is this reconciliation... or a fracture?"
"Hush!"
The crowd fell silent as the great doors swung open.
Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, strode in.
Behind him, King Viserys I emerged, supported heavily by Queen Alicent.
Viserys moved toward the throne, his right hand gripping the Queen's arm like a vise.
When he finally sat, Alicent took her place in the chair to his right.
Then, Aegon Targaryen entered.
The eighteen-year-old Prince was dressed with unprecedented formality in a black-and-red Targaryen doublet and a gold-embroidered cloak.
He stood at the base of the throne's steps, his expression calm as he faced the Lords.
At that moment, Aemond Targaryen entered the hall.
He wore a black shirt embroidered with the three-headed dragon, his eyes scanning the room as he walked.
Behind him followed a group of twenty men, not pages or courtiers, but officers.
There was Hal, known to the city as "The Executioner," and William Darklyn, the new commander of the Royal Army.
They wore practical leather and mail, and notably, they were unarmed.
The sight of this military phalanx provided a stark, jarring contrast to the silks and velvet of the court.
The whispers in the hall surged, then died into a heavy stillness. Every eye flicked between Aemond's officer corps and the throne.
Everyone knew that Aemond now commanded every blade in the capital.
In the gallery, Aelyn Rogar gripped the railing.
She maintained her regal grace, but her face was pale. She saw the military center of gravity shifting toward Aemond.
"He brought an army inside..." a noblewoman whispered in alarm.
"Not an army," another corrected, "just the officers."
Aelyn didn't join the chatter. Her eyes were fixed on Aegon. As long as today passed smoothly, her husband would be the unquestioned Heir.
She was terrified that Aemond would "play a hand" now.
Beside her, Helaena stood in a pale blue gown. Aelyn touched her arm.
"Why did he bring those men in?"
Helaena managed a small, strained smile.
"To show support, I suppose. Support for Aegon."
Aelyn bit her lip, praying to the Seven that the day would end without incident.
At the foot of the throne, Ser Criston Cole looked to the King. Viserys gave a slight nod.
"SILENCE!" Cole's voice boomed like a bell.
"SILENCE!" the other Kingsguard echoed.
Viserys spoke, his voice raspy but carrying.
"I have called you here today for one reason: The Realm requires a clear succession. We require an heir who conforms to the traditions of the Seven Kingdoms, the will of the Seven, and the expectations of the people."
Someone in the crowd shouted, "Wisely spoken, Your Grace!"
Then, like wildfire, cheers erupted from every corner: "Long overdue!"
"The male line! This is tradition!"
"A blessing for the Realm!"
Viserys waited for the noise to subside.
"Aegon," he called.
The Prince turned to face his father. Aegon was pale, sweat beading on his brow. He was clearly terrified.
Viserys beckoned him forward. Aegon climbed the steps, one, two, three, and knelt before the Iron Throne.
Queen Alicent rose, taking a crown from a velvet cushion.
It was the circlet of the Prince of Dragonstone, gold, set with rubies, topped with a small three-headed dragon.
Since Viserys was too weak, Alicent performed the rite.
The hall grew so quiet that one could hear the heavy breathing of the Lords.
Alicent looked at her son and offered a reassuring smile, patting his shoulder to steady him. Then, her voice rang out clear and firm:
"In the name of Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men... In the name of the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms... I crown you, Aegon Targaryen, the lawful Heir to the Iron Throne! The future King of the Seven Kingdoms!"
As per protocol, the nobles were meant to bow.
Most did so instantly. A wave of green, red, and yellow swept the floor as the Lords of the Reach, the West, and the Stormlands doubled over.
But one section remained upright.
Aemond stood still, his eye fixed on the throne. He did not bend; he did not bow. The officers behind him remained as rigid as statues.
Three seconds passed. Five.
Aemond turned his head and looked at his officers. Without a word, a single look sufficed. Hal moved first, slowly lowering his head, followed by William, and then the rest.
Finally, Aemond turned back to his brother. Aegon was staring at him, wide-eyed.
Aemond smiled. It was a faint, upward curl of the lip, but on his habitually cold face, it looked predatory.
Aegon looked away, unable to hold the gaze.
Only then did Aemond offer a perfect, albeit shallow, bow of respect.
Viserys watched this play out from the throne and said nothing.
As long as his second son didn't cause a riot today, he would accept it.
In the gallery, Aelyn closed her eyes and exhaled. When she opened them, her professional smile was back.
"Congratulations, Aelyn," Helaena said sincerely.
"Aegon is the Heir now."
"Thank you, Helaena," Aelyn replied.
The ceremony concluded, and the murmurs returned, though more subdued and cautious.
Viserys spoke again, declaring that Rhaenyra would keep Dragonstone and the Velaryons would remain loyal to her.
The Lords didn't mind; the decade-long succession crisis had been settled in favor of the male line.
To them, Dragonstone was a small price to pay for peace.
"The King is wise!" the crowd cheered again.
But then, Aemond stepped into the center of the hall. The room went silent instantly.
"Father," Aemond's voice was low but reached every corner. Viserys looked at him with a mix of exhaustion and warning.
"What of the untamed dragons on Dragonstone?" Aemond asked calmly.
"And, by tradition, Dragonstone is the seat of the Heir. Since Aegon is now the Heir, should the seat not be transferred?"
The question hit the room like a stone in a pond. The Lords stared.
They hadn't thought about the "dragon logistics."
Viserys's face twitched. "Dragons... belong to House Targaryen. All dragons, regardless of rider or location, belong to the House."
"Which Targaryen?" Aemond pressed, his eye locked on his father.
"All Targaryens of the blood," the King snapped.
"As for Dragonstone, I shall consider it. It is not for discussion today."
Aemond bowed slightly.
"As you wish, Your Grace."
As the meeting adjourned and Viserys was led away, Aegon stood by the throne as the Lords began to offer their congratulations before departing.
Aelyn ran down from the gallery, her skirts fluttering. She took her husband's hand.
"You did well," she whispered.
"Keep smiling, Aegon. You are the Crown Prince now. The world is watching."
Aegon's eyes suddenly filled with tears, and he turned his head to wipe them away.
After years of being pushed by the Greens to fight his sister, he had finally won.
"Don't cry," Aelyn whispered, her hands cupping his face.
"The crown will fall if you do, Aegon."
------
The Corridors.
Meanwhile, in the corridors, Aemond strode away with his officers close behind. Their boots echoed like a drumbeat.
"Your Grace," Hal whispered.
"We..."
"I know," Aemond interrupted.
"The Blacks have given up the throne. Our preparations... for now, they are 'unnecessary'."
He stopped suddenly, shaking his head.
A sense of absurdity washed over him. He had spent years preparing for this war, controlling Summerhall, training a fanatical army, purging spies, and reforming the military.
And now, they had surrendered?
'All the future plot is now useless.'
A hollow feeling rose in his chest. It was like a powerful blow hitting cotton; a bow drawn to full tension with no target to release upon.
But he suppressed it.
"William," Aemond turned to Darklyn.
"The training of the Royal Army continues as planned."
William nodded. "And the Royal Guard? The noble scions?"
"The recruitment does not stop," Aemond said, a cold light returning to his eye.
"But the King issued an order yesterday," Hal hesitated.
"He said the selection of the Guard was for him to decide."
"The King's intent is his own," Aemond said firmly.
"But the work is ours. If there are problems, I will answer for them."
The officers nodded. They understood.
The crown was on Aegon's head. But the sword was in Aemond's hand.
And for now, that was enough.
-----
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