"Archmaester Mellos? What is it?" Viserys snapped, his voice sharp with the effort of burying his recent conversation with Daemon.
"It is Lord Lyman, Your Majesty. He is outside, quite frantic. He claims Prince Aegon is... overstepping. The Queen has barred his entry."
Viserys rubbed his temples, where a dull throb had taken root. "I am weary of this. Tell Lyman to go home. For now, we follow Aegon's lead in the Council—as long as he doesn't try to rename the Red Keep after himself."
He had already made his pact in the shadows with his brother. Daemon would burn the Strongs out of Harrenhal, retake the Stepstones, and in exchange, he would wed Rhaenyra. The blood of the Old King's sons would reunite to crush the Hightower upstarts. Until then, let Aegon play with his committees.
"Mellos," Viserys called out as the Maester turned to leave. "You sit in those meetings. What do you truly think of my son?"
Mellos hesitated. He knew Viserys was looking for a reason to feel better about Rhaenyra, but the truth was a bitter draught. "If Your Majesty does not intervene, the Black Party will be a memory in King's Landing within three years. Aegon doesn't just lead; he consumes. I have seen every King since Jaehaerys, and none possessed the boy's... political stomach."
Viserys waved him away, a cold knot of dread tightening in his chest. When he was alone, he reached for the wine again. "Lyonel, forgive me," he whispered into the dregs. "If your son hadn't touched her... if he had just controlled himself..."
The Throne Room: Hollow Iron
In the Great Hall, the sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting long, bloody shadows across the floor. Aegon stood at the base of the Iron Throne, staring at the jagged mountain of swords.
"Aegon the Conqueror forged it to be uncomfortable," a voice rasped. Larys Strong limped from behind a pillar, his cane tapping a rhythmic thump-drag on the stone. "A reminder that a King should never sit easily."
Aegon didn't look back. "It's a lie, Larys. It's a chair made of scrap metal and dragonfire that people have mistaken for Godhood. One day, I'll melt it down. I'll mix it with gold and forge a throne that looks like Sunfyre. I'll sit in the light, not in a cage of rusted blades."
Larys stood beside him, his gaze also fixed on the seat. "The chair holds the power, Highness. Whoever sits is King. If the chair cuts you, you bleed. If you don't, you rule."
Aegon turned, a thin smile playing on his lips. "Do you remember what I told you power is?"
"Power is strength," Larys recited dutifully.
"I was too narrow," Aegon admitted. "Power is strength, but it also comes from it. People's hearts, the grain in the silos, the steel in the hands of the City Watch... and the 'Principles' of the realm."
Larys tilted his head. "Principles, Highness?"
"My father thinks his edicts are the principles of this kingdom," Aegon said, his voice dropping. "But he forgets how this house began. I have the only principles that matter, Larys. And at this moment, there are four of them."
Larys felt a chill. He realized Aegon was referring to the dragons: Sunfyre, Vhagar, Dreamfyre, and Tessarion. One hundred and twenty years ago, Aegon I didn't win with a decree; he won with fire. Aegon was simply returning the monarchy to its roots.
"You didn't limp all the way here to talk about chairs," Aegon said, snapping back to the present.
"No," Larys whispered, his smile turning stiff and meaningful. "I found something... interesting. A secret that moves between the King's chambers and the Rogue Prince's shadows. We need a place without ears, Highness. This information is quite combustible."