In the morning hours, a light rain fell at dawn. Within the Throne Room, nobles from across the Seven Kingdoms stood speaking and laughing together.
The Iron Throne loomed high above, a mountain of piled blades—
the throne forged by Aegon the Conqueror from the swords of his enemies.
Today, a thick red cushion had been laid upon it, for the sake of King Viserys, whose body was steadily rotting away.
The nobles of the Seven Kingdoms filled the hall.
Their noble ladies stood along the side corridors of the Throne Room.
From the stone steps to the farthest archway, every inch of space was crowded with people.
The nobles of the Reach, clad in green robes, gathered together.
The lords of the Stormlands, dressed in yellow, stood in one cluster.
The nobles of the Westerlands, wearing red, crowded around Hand of the King Tyland Lannister.
Meanwhile, the houses of the Crownlands had gathered together as well.
The remaining nobles of the three northern realms—the Riverlands, the Vale, and the North—also held tightly to one another.
The North differed from the southern realms, which were more scattered. The Riverlands, the Vale, and the North had long maintained a custom of widespread intermarriage across their borders.
As for marriages between the great wardens of each realm, none had ever taken place since House Targaryen unified the Seven Kingdoms.
When a lord of the Seven Kingdoms inherited his family's title, he was required to swear two oaths of fealty.
One was to come in person to King's Landing and swear fealty before the king. The other was to swear fealty to his liege lord within his own realm.
This was one of the concessions Aegon the Conqueror had made to swiftly subdue the Seven Kingdoms.
By law, fealty to His Grace stood above all. Yet when the moment of true choice came for each house, the matter would still depend upon circumstance.
At this moment, the murmurs of the nobles blended into a steady hum.
"Is His Grace truly going to do this?" a young noble whispered to the companion at his side.
"The word spread yesterday," the companion replied.
"Prince Daemon has returned to Dragonstone. Princess Rhaenyra has renounced her claim."
"Is this the royal house dividing… or reconciling?"
"Quiet!"
The crowd suddenly fell silent, all eyes turning toward the doors.
The doors opened, and Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, strode in.
Behind him, King Viserys emerged slowly, supported by Queen Alicent.
A hush fell over the hall.
Viserys walked toward the Iron Throne, his right hand gripping the queen's arm tightly.
When he finally sat, Alicent took her seat to the king's right.
Then Aegon Targaryen entered.
The eighteen-year-old eldest son of the king was dressed more formally than ever before. He wore black-and-red Targaryen heraldic robes, a cloak embroidered with golden thread draped over his shoulders, and his silver-gold hair had been carefully combed.
Aegon stepped to the foot of the Iron Throne's dais, his expression calm as he faced the gathered nobles.
At that moment—
Aemond entered the hall.
He wore a black shirt embroidered with the three-headed dragon. As he walked, his eye swept across the entire chamber.
Behind him followed more than twenty men—not attendants, not nobles, but officers.
Walking just behind him was Hall, now called by the people of King's Landing "the Executioner," the commander of Aemond's guard, his square face devoid of expression.
And there was the newly appointed commander of the royal army—a knight who had not long ago sworn fealty to Aemond, Willem Darklyn of Duskendale in the Crownlands.
After that came the officers of the household guard, and the officers of the army.
These men all wore practical leather or mail, and none had swords at their waists.
It made a stark contrast with the nobles filling the hall in silks and finery.
All of them stayed close behind Aemond.
The soft whispers in the hall suddenly swelled, then suddenly fell away.
The nobles' eyes moved back and forth between Aemond and his company of officers—after all, Prince Aemond now held every army in King's Landing in his grasp.
At this moment, along the ladies' gallery, Alyn Rogare gripped the railing tightly.
She kept the poise of a princess, yet her face had gone a little pale.
She saw Aemond; she saw those officers; and she saw some of the Crownlands nobles beginning to gather behind Aemond as well, forming a clear center of power.
"He brought the army in…" a noblewoman beside Alyn murmured in alarm.
"That is not an army—only officers," another noblewoman corrected.
Alyn did not join their talk.
Her gaze fixed on Aegon, taut with nerves. So long as they made it through today, everything would be fine…
Her Aegon would become the unquestioned heir.
What she feared now was Aemond—stirring up some trouble.
She could not help but worry.
Helaena stood beside Alyn, dressed in a pale blue gown, her silver hair braided into an elegant plait.
Alyn lightly touched Helaena's arm at her side.
"Aemond… why would he bring these men in?" Alyn asked softly.
Helaena forced a thin smile. "To show support, I suppose—support for Aegon."
Alyn bit her lip tight, praying to the Seven that nothing would go wrong today.
Below the steps, Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, looked toward the king, already seated.
Viserys gave a slight nod.
"Silence!" Criston's voice rang through the hall like a great bell.
"Silence!" the other white cloaks shouted after him.
All whispering stopped short.
Everyone shut their mouths and fixed their eyes upon the Iron Throne.
Upon the Iron Throne, Viserys spoke slowly.
"I have summoned you all today for one matter only."
Viserys paused.
"The realm must set its order of succession anew," Viserys went on.
"We require an heir who accords with the traditions of the Seven Kingdoms, accords with the will of the Seven, and accords with all expectation."
Among the gathered nobles, someone spoke first—no one knew who: "His Grace is wise!"
Then, like wildfire given flame, cries of praise burst from every corner: "Your Grace! It should have been so long ago!"
"The eldest son inherits! That is tradition!"
"A blessing upon the realm!"
Viserys did not answer their acclaim. He only sat in silence, waiting for the noise to die down of its own accord.
Alicent sat beside him, her hands tense beneath her sleeves. She cast a glance toward those nobles who spoke in support of the eldest son's right.
"Aegon," the king called.
The king's eldest son turned, facing his father.
Aegon's face was somewhat pale, and fine beads of sweat gathered upon his brow.
It was plain to see that Aegon was nervous.
Viserys beckoned to him.
Aegon climbed the steps, silently counting in his heart—one, two, three…
At last, he went down on one knee before the Iron Throne, bowing his head to his father.
He had practiced this motion for days. Under Alyn's supervision, he had made sure every angle and movement conformed to proper courtly form.
At the side, Alicent rose. From a velvet cushion borne by an attendant, she took up a crown.
It was not the king's crown, but the crown of the heir—simpler, yet still wrought of gold, set with rubies, and crowned with a small three-headed dragon.
Viserys was too weak; thus, Alicent would perform the act in his stead.
The queen stepped before her son. The hall was so still that only the sound of breathing could be heard.
Alicent looked at Aegon. He was tense.
She gave a look of quiet pride and lightly patted him, signaling her eldest son not to be afraid.
Then the queen spoke, her voice clear and firm: "In the name of His Grace, Viserys Targaryen the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
"In the name of the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms…"
She set the crown upon Aegon's head. The weight of the gold made his head dip slightly, but he soon straightened his back.
"Viserys the First proclaims you, Aegon Targaryen, the lawful heir to the Iron Throne, the future king of the Seven Kingdoms!"
When her words fell, by custom every noble in the hall ought to bow.
Most did.
The Reach, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, and the lords of the other realms…
All bent in salute.
The movement was orderly, like a field of wheat swept by wind.
Yet one section did not move.
Aemond stood there, his gaze level with the Iron Throne. He did not bow. He did not lower his head.
Behind him, his officers remained rigid.
As though turned to stone.
The eyes of every noble—those bent at the waist—slid toward that still patch.
Above, in the gallery, Alyn gripped the railing so hard that her nails bit into the wood, though she did not notice.
She was afraid—afraid that Aemond would make some great scene today.
She had heard of his past deeds and knew well his talent for stirring trouble…
Helaena held her breath as well.
In her heart, she was anxious for Aemond.
Three seconds. Five.
Then Aemond turned his head and looked at the officers behind him.
No words—only a glance.
Hall moved first.
The square-faced young captain slowly lowered his head. Then Willem, commander of the royal army, and then the rest.
More than twenty men bowed one after another.
At last, Aemond turned back and looked toward his brother before the Iron Throne.
Aegon was watching him.
Aemond smiled.
A faint smile, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.
Yet upon that ever-stern face, the smile was strikingly sharp.
Aegon turned his head aside, avoiding his brother's gaze.
Then Aemond lowered his head in a proper salute.
Viserys sat upon the Iron Throne, watching it all, yet saying nothing.
So long as this second son did not stir trouble for him today, all would be well.
In the corridor of the Throne Room, Alyn closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.
When she opened them again, a fitting smile had already replaced her expression.
"Congratulations, Alyn," Helaena said with a sincere smile. "Aegon is now the heir."
Alyn turned her head and smiled back at Helaena.
"Thank you, Helaena."
After that, the formal rites came to an end.
The nobles straightened, and murmurs rose once more in the hall—more subdued than before, more guarded.
Viserys spoke again.
"As for my daughter, Rhaenyra…"
"Dragonstone shall remain her seat. House Velaryon of Driftmark shall continue in fealty to her."
This announcement stirred little reaction.
The nobles exchanged glances, but none voiced objection.
It was a matter within House Targaryen.
The question of the Iron Throne's succession—contested for more than a decade between the blacks and the greens—had now been settled by male primogeniture.
As for the rest, they had no quarrel.
Dragonstone and Driftmark? Let Princess Rhaenyra trouble herself with them.
"His Grace is wise!"
"A harmony within the royal house—good fortune for the realm!"
The acclaim rose again, more unified this time, more fervent.
Yet at that moment, Aemond stepped forward into the open space at the center of the Throne Room.
It was but a single step from the prince, and the sound in the hall fell at once.
All the nobles looked toward Prince Aemond with unease.
"Father."
Aemond's voice was not loud, yet in the sudden hush it carried clearly.
Viserys looked at him.
The king's gaze was complex—weariness in it, and warning.
"What of the unclaimed dragons upon Dragonstone?" Aemond asked evenly.
"And by custom, Dragonstone has ever been the seat of the heir."
"Now that Aegon is the heir, should Dragonstone not be transferred?"
The question struck like a stone cast into still water.
The nobles fixed their eyes upon father and son.
They had not considered it—or rather, they had, and chosen to ignore it.
Dragons belonged to Targaryen blood, not to them.
Viserys's face twitched, yet he spoke slowly.
"The dragons…"
"All belong to House Targaryen."
"Every dragon, wherever it may be, whoever may ride it, in the end belongs to House Targaryen."
"To which Targaryen?" Aemond pressed, his violet eyes fixed upon his father.
The king did not answer at once. He looked at his son in silence, and Aemond continued.
"Rhaenyra is Targaryen. Daemon is Targaryen. I am Targaryen. Aegon is Targaryen. We all have a claim, do we not?"
"Yes," the king said at last.
"The dragons belong to House Targaryen."
"To all Targaryens who bear Valyrian blood."
"Very well." Aemond gave a slight nod and went on. "Then as for the custom that Dragonstone belongs to the heir—"
"I shall consider the matter," Viserys cut him off, his voice hardening.
"The question of Dragonstone's seat I shall weigh with care, but it need not be debated further at this time."
Aemond looked at his father. Then he bowed slightly.
"As you wish, Your Grace."
He stepped back into the crowd, returning to stand before his officers.
After that, Viserys declared the assembly concluded.
With Alicent's support, the king rose with difficulty, descended from the Iron Throne, and departed through the rear doors.
Aegon still stood beside the Iron Throne. Some nobles began to bow to him before taking their leave.
Aegon looked toward Aemond. Aemond gave him a slight nod, then turned and led his men out.
Aegon let out a breath. He feared Aemond.
It was his father, his mother, Alyn—everyone—who, according to the law of succession, had supported him as the eldest son.
Alyn came running down the corridor, her skirts flaring.
She ran to her husband's side and took his hand.
"You did well," she said in a low, urgent voice. "Keep smiling, Aegon. You are the heir now. All eyes are upon you."
Suddenly Aegon's eyes filled with tears. He lowered his head and wiped them away by instinct.
He did not know whether they were tears of joy or something else.
For so many years, the greens behind him had pushed him forward, contending with his sister Rhaenyra for the Iron Throne.
The struggle between the blacks and the greens had grown fiercer with each passing year. And now, it was he who had won.
"Do not cry," Alyn said, cupping his face tightly in both hands. "The crown will slip, Aegon…"
Meanwhile, in the corridors of the Red Keep, Aemond walked swiftly.
The officers followed close behind him, their footsteps echoing along the stone passage.
"Your Highness," Hall said in a low voice, "we…"
"I know," Aemond cut him off without slowing. "The blacks have yielded the Iron Throne…"
"Your Highness, then the preparations we made…"
"For now, they will not be needed."
He suddenly halted and shook his head.
What an absurd feeling.
He had prepared for this for so long.
All these years, he had held Dragon's Roost, raised a loyal army, purged Flea Bottom, seized the blacks' spies, reformed the forces, taken command of every army in King's Landing—at every moment preparing for this war.
And now, the blacks had conceded?
Or had something else moved them?
A powerful sense of emptiness rose within him.
It was like striking a blow into cotton, like a bow drawn full with no place to loose the arrow.
Yet he soon pressed the feeling down.
"Willem," Aemond said, turning, "the training of the royal army continues as usual."
Willem nodded in obedience.
"And the Royal Guard—recruitment among the sons of the nobility is not to cease."
"But His Grace issued an order yesterday," Hall said with hesitation. "The selection of the Royal Guard is to be decided by him…"
"His Grace's intent is his own," Aemond said, calm returning to his violet eye.
"But we are the ones who act."
"If there is blame, I shall bear it."
The officers nodded. They understood.
The crown sat upon Aegon's head.
But the sword lay in his hand.
That was enough.
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