At dawn, King's Landing lay shrouded in a gray-white mist, the towers of the Red Keep looming faintly through the haze.
Inside the throne room, torches had been lit early, their flames struggling to drive back the damp chill seeping in through the high windows.
Aemond stood beside the Iron Throne.
Seated upon it was Queen Regent Alicent.
The chair was indeed uncomfortable—formed from a thousand surrendered swords fused by dragonfire, its back, armrests, and even the edges of the seat bristled with jagged blades.
Alicent sat upright, her deep blue velvet gown spread neatly around her. Beneath a silver hair net, her brown hair was arranged with meticulous precision.
Below the dais, members of the small council stood on either side.
At the front of the left stood Ser Gwayne Hightower, commander of the Red Keep's guards and Alicent's brother, his white cloak over black armor spotless.
Beside him stood Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
At the head of the right stood the Hand, Tyland Lannister, followed by the Master of Whisperers, Larys Strong, the clubfooted lord leaning on his cane, appearing absent-minded.
At the end stood Grand Maester Orwyle, the gray-robed elder with his head lowered, as though everything in the hall had nothing to do with him.
At the center of the hall, the representatives of the four regions stood in a line.
They had arrived in King's Landing two days prior, spent a night in the city hall, and were only granted entry into the Red Keep this morning, escorted into the throne room.
At the front stood the representative of the North, Medrick Manderly, heir to Lord Desmond Manderly of White Harbor. Around twenty years old, tall, with the round face and light brown hair characteristic of his house.
He wore a silver-gray fur cloak over mail, his eyes now surveying the throne room—from the high windows to the Iron Throne.
Next was the Vale's representative, William Royce, younger brother to the Lord of Runestone.
A renowned knight of the Vale, he had been granted his house's ancestral sword, the Valyrian steel blade Lamentation.
In his twenties, clad in his ancestral bronze armor, its breastplate etched with ancient runes said to ward against sorcery and evil.
Black-haired, with a neatly trimmed beard.
House Royce had long been close to Rhaenyra—the Vale being the homeland of her late mother, Aemma Arryn.
Yet William's expression was calm as still water, revealing no inclination.
The Royces may favor Rhaenyra, but that did not mean they held any affection for Prince Daemon.
After all, by rumor, the first wife Daemon had killed—Rhea Royce—had been his aunt, and once the Lady of Runestone.
After Rhea's death, Daemon had even attempted to claim Runestone.
In response, Lady Jeyne of the Vale declared him unwelcome, and under King Viserys I's ruling, Runestone passed instead to Rhea's nephew—her brother's son.
The third was the Riverlands' representative, Benjicot Blackwood, the youngest son of the Lord of Raventree Hall. But as the only son to survive to adulthood, he was effectively the heir.
Just eighteen, black-haired and black-eyed, with a lean face, dressed in a dark gray coat adorned with raven feathers.
More importantly, his house had feuded with the Brackens for centuries.
And now, House Bracken stood firmly with the Greens in the Riverlands.
That made his position today… delicate.
Lastly came the Stormlands' representative, Sebaston Estermont.
In his forties, overweight, with beads of sweat forming on his brow.
Sebaston's eyes shifted uneasily as he lowered his head.
Behind each of the four stood two or three attendant knights or squires—twelve men in total, forming a second line.
They too wore armor, but in accordance with court protocol, their weapons had been left outside the throne room on the racks.
Queen Alicent took a breath and spoke.
Her voice echoed through the hall—clear, though slightly tense.
"Representatives."
The four envoys and their attendants bowed in unison.
"We pay our respects to the Queen Regent," William Royce replied on behalf of them all. "May the Seven bless His Grace with a swift recovery."
Medrick hesitated briefly, then added, "And may the Old Gods watch over His Grace as well."
House Manderly did not follow the Old Gods—they were Andals—but on this journey, they represented their liege, House Stark.
Alicent nodded and continued.
"Welcome to King's Landing."
"However, His Grace is gravely ill, and the maesters have strictly ordered that he rest."
"Today, I shall hear your purpose in his stead, as Regent."
"Any letters or messages may be presented."
William Royce stepped forward, the sound of his bronze boots striking stone ringing clearly.
From within his cloak, he produced four wax-sealed scrolls—one from each representative—and raised them with both hands.
Four seals, four sigils: the direwolf of Stark, the falcon of Arryn, the trout of Tully, and the crowned stag of Baratheon.
"Your Grace," William said steadily, "we come under the command of our respective Lords Paramount. These letters must be delivered into the hands of His Grace the King, and our concerns must be presented before him in person."
"This has been the tradition for a hundred years, and the proper courtesy owed by vassals to their king."
From the Iron Throne, Alicent leaned slightly forward, looking at them.
"Ser Royce, I understand tradition."
"But His Grace's condition…"
"Grand Maester Orwyle?"
Summoned by name, Orwyle had no choice but to step forward.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"His Grace's illness has been fluctuating. His fever rises and falls. He requires absolute rest."
"Any disturbance may… worsen his condition."
"Then," Aemond spoke from beside the throne, "you may leave the letters. The Regent will deliver them."
"As for a personal audience, once His Grace recovers, there will be time enough."
Medrick let out a faint snort—quiet, but in the silent hall, unmistakable.
All eyes turned to him.
The young man stepped forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with William Royce.
"Prince Aemond, we did not come merely to deliver letters."
"We must see His Grace with our own eyes—confirm that he is well—and hear from him directly regarding recent events of great consequence."
Aemond glanced at him.
"Great consequence? What events do you mean?"
"Speak."
Medrick did not back down.
"First: a year ago, His Grace declared Prince Aegon his heir—yet no formal decree has ever followed."
"Second: Princess Rhaenyra's departure east to Tyrosh—His Grace has said nothing."
"Third: the fall of Driftmark. House Velaryon, once the backbone of the royal fleet, saw its seat taken by the Iron Throne—yet His Grace has made no public statement."
"Fourth: the bloodshed at Dragonstone. The ancestral seat of House Targaryen is at war—yet His Grace remains silent."
He finished in one breath.
The hall fell into complete silence.
"These matters," Medrick said at last, "shake the very foundations of the realm."
"The Lords Paramount must know—are these the will of His Grace…"
He hesitated, then spoke heavily: "…or the actions of others, taken without his command?"
Aemond smiled.
"Lord Manderly… are you twenty? Twenty-one?"
"So young, yet you speak of the foundations of the realm?"
"My father taught me that loyalty is not blind obedience," Medrick replied.
"True loyalty is holding to the right path, even when a king may be misled."
"A fine-sounding speech," Aemond said, stepping down from the dais.
"Then let me ask you—what is this 'right path' you speak of?"
"Is it forcing your way into the chamber of a gravely ill old man?"
"Without regard—or perhaps without care—for His Grace's condition?"
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