Facing Lyman's trembling finger and sharp accusation, Aegon didn't flare up. Tyland Lannister, however, nearly vaulted over the council table.
"You damned old—"
Aegon raised a single hand, catching Tyland's eye. The golden lion of the West subsided, grumbling into his wine. Aegon knew that the Small Council was not a tavern for brawling; it was a theater for "reasoning."
"Don't throw accusations so recklessly, Lord Beesbury," Aegon said, his voice smooth as polished dragonglass. "I am merely a humble advisor to this Council with no real power. How could I possibly 'abuse' what I do not possess?"
He leaned forward, the torchlight catching the Targaryen violet of his eyes. "As for Ser Lyonel Ryk, I see no tragedy. Is it not an honor to guard the King's justice in the dungeons? Not every man who avoids mistakes is entitled to a promotion. Both he and my uncle Gwayne are simply serving the King's peace in different capacities."
Tyland's eyes widened. He looked at Aegon with newfound awe. Can... can it really be spun like that? It was pure, shameless sophistry, and it was magnificent.
Lyman Beesbury's face turned a shade of red that rivaled a ripened pomegranate. "You influence this Council's every breath! If you were Hand of the King, would you simply staff the entire Red Keep with Hightower hounds?"
"That's going too far, Lord Beesbury," Aegon chuckled, the sound light and airy. "History shows that Prince Aemon and Prince Baelon both served as Hand to the Old King. If my father requires it, I would gladly take up that burden to share his toil. It is not about power—it is about filial piety. To serve one's King and father is the highest calling, is it not?"
The room fell into a spectacular silence. Lyman was flushed with fury; Tyland was beaming with admiration; Jasper Wylde lowered his head to hide a smirk. Aegon had wrapped his ambition in the white cloak of duty. If Lyman refuted him now, he wasn't just arguing politics—he was attacking a son's love for his father.
Recognizing he was outmatched in this den of vipers, Lyman stood abruptly and hobbled out. He needed to get to Viserys before the Green rot consumed every floorboard in the city.
"That old geezer," Tyland spat once the door closed. "A traitor to the natural order."
"Everyone has desires, Tyland," Aegon said, idly rolling a jade sphere across the table. It wasn't his sphere of office, but as long as he sat in this chair, the room belonged to him. "He wants to break Honeyholt free from the Hightowers. It's a common dream."
"Your Highness, we should remind him that your honor isn't a plaything," Tyland suggested darkly.
The Hightower shadow loomed large over the Reach, with houses like Costayne, Bulwer, and Beesbury long serving as their sworn shields. Viserys had likely married Alicent to use that southern strength to check the Velaryons, but he had failed to account for the fact that power, once tasted, is never enough.
"The Reach is currently plagued by bandits," Aegon said with a helpless, thin smile. "My great-grandfather is far too busy to worry about Honeyholt, and we wouldn't want the realm to see a family quarrel, would we?"
Tyland felt a sudden chill. Aegon was smiling, but the air in the room felt like the coming of winter.
"The meeting is adjourned," Aegon announced, rising. "I have other matters to attend to."
As Aegon and Tyland left, Jasper Wylde remained in his seat, staring at the empty chair where the Prince had sat. "Can the game of thrones truly be played like this?" he whispered to himself. He had expected sarcasm, but Aegon had used a blunt instrument of 'virtue' to crush his opponent. "Perhaps I should be a bit more shameless. It seems... effective."
The King's Chambers
While the Council debated titles, a darker shadow moved in the royal apartments.
"Once Harwin returns to Harrenhal, act," Viserys said, his voice a low rasp. "Make sure no traces remain. None."
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
Viserys slumped back. He had always been a man of peace, but the sight of those three brown-haired boys—living proof of Rhaenyra's indiscretion—had curdled his blood. In his mind, Harwin Strong was the poisoner who had seduced his daughter and endangered her claim. To save the Princess, the "Breaker of Bones" had to be broken.
As the shadow departed, Archmaester Mellos knocked and entered. He nearly collided with Daemon Targaryen in the doorway.
"Prince Daemon, it has been a long time," Mellos said, his tone neutral, though his eyes betrayed his confusion. What was the Rogue Prince doing in the King's private chambers after such a long estrangement?
Daemon gave a curt nod, his face unreadable, and vanished into the dim corridor. The King looked up, his eyes glassy and cold. The "fire" of Harrenhal was being stoked, but not by the hands anyone expected.