The guards stationed at the cavernous entrance hauled the heavy oak-and-bronze doors inward. I stepped over the threshold into the Great Hall.
Shafts of pale sunlight pierced the high windows, cutting through the dusty air to illuminate the sheer scale of the room. At the far end of the long carpets sat the Iron Throne. It was a jagged, asymmetrical beast of forged steel, an amalgamation of melted swords projecting outward like a dragon's fangs.
Sitting amidst those blackened blades was my grandfather.
"Viserys," King Jaehaerys called out, his voice echoing across the empty expanse. "Come forward. We will wait together."
I approached the dais, taking my place at the foot of the iron steps. Jaehaerys Targaryen looked incredibly frail. The weight of his long reign had finally broken his posture. His skin was papery, his silver hair thinned to wisps. His body was steadily losing its battle to time. Yet, when he turned his gaze upon me, the illusion of weakness shattered entirely. His mind remained a fortress. His purple eyes were piercing and radiant, burning with the exact calculating intellect that had forged fifty years of peace.
Despite seeing him regularly I would never say for certain that I shared a bond with my grandfather. He was the King, always occupied by the perils of the realm and I may be the Prince but grandfather never gave my pedigree too much attention. He only interacted with me as my grandfather on rare occasions. My nameday comes to mind, my betrothal and subsequent marriage as well.
Father once told me that the loss of so many of his children had made grandfather numb. It was not that he did not wish to form a connection with me but that his heart was now guarded by a wall of fire lest it suffer another tragedy. The death of Aunt Gael and Septon Barth were just further proof of how fragile everything around grandfather was. I did not blame him I too would become guarded against misery if I were faced with so many tragedies in my lifetime.
Standing rigidly beside the throne was Ser Ryam Redwyne, his hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. Opposite the Lord Commander, down at the base of the steps, stood Otto Hightower. The younger man wore the dark green doublet of his house, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. Otto had proven invaluable since his recent arrival in the capital. He possessed a shrewd, unyielding grasp of politics, advising the King with a steady pragmatism. I had come to rely heavily upon his counsel myself, finding a willing and capable ally in the Hightower.
We waited in silence. The crackle of the braziers filled the void.
Then, the great doors groaned open once more.
Father marched into the hall. He looked utterly exhausted, his riding leathers grey with ash and his silver hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Archmaester Vaegon shadowed him closely, clutching his robes to his chest as if the fabric could shield him from the world. The scholar looked thoroughly miserable.
My gaze swept past them, searching the empty space near the doorway. My chest tightened.
"Where is Daemon?" The question tore from my throat before I could temper it with courtly graces.
Father stopped at the base of the iron steps. He looked toward me, his jaw clenched tight, but he offered no immediate answer. Instead, he dropped to one knee before the jagged mountain of swords, bowing his head to the King. Vaegon hastily followed suit, dropping clumsily to the stone floor beside him.
Jaehaerys leaned forward against the arm of the throne. The steel groaned faintly under his shifting weight.
"Rise, Baelon, Vaegon" the King commanded, his voice cutting through the tension like a physical blade. "And answer Viserys's question. Where is your son?"
"I could not bring him." Father answered. His words fell like a sword upon the quiet of the hall. "The Emperor judged Daemon to have committed crimes against the Imperium. As punishment, he is to serve hard labour along with Caraxes in Qohor."
"Outrageous!" Otto Hightower voiced. His tone carried the iron of anger. "How dare a foreign kingdom treat a Prince of the Blood as a commoner! If Prince Daemon is to be judged by anyone, it should be the King."
Grandfather listened to the raging words but did not answer. He looked squarely toward Father, his piercing gaze beckoning him to continue.
"The Imperium subdued Daemon. By placing him under arrest, they have also rendered Caraxes ineffective. So long as they hold a sword to Daemon's neck, he will be forced to do as told," Father answered, neatly cutting down Otto's outrage.
"Though the circumstances are not completely out of our hands," Uncle Vaegon spoke for the first time. He clutched his maester's chain tightly. "Daemon is only to serve hard labour for three moons. After that period, he is free to return." There was a heavy, uncharacteristic hesitation in Vaegon's voice.
"There is more to it than just that," Grandfather spoke plainly. The steel of the Iron Throne groaned faintly as he leaned forward.
Father nodded. "The Iron Throne must make an official decree recognising Rome's conquest of Qohor, along with paying three hundred and fifty thousand Swarnas to the Imperium as reparations for Daemon's actions."