Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
Aenys Blackfyre… dead?
Well now, brother, that was quick work!
Clay couldn't help but give the fellow a silent thumbs-up in his heart.
After all, he wasn't Brynden Rivers, and he hadn't inherited that tangled web of knowledge about who owed favors to whom, or what grudges and loyalties knotted together the politics of the time.
From his point of view, a man like Aenys Blackfyre, who rushed headlong toward his own doom with such eagerness, was the sort who ought to be cut down without hesitation. Why keep him alive, as if he were some trophy to be paraded at a festival?
And really, Clay felt this wasn't a matter of ignorance being a burden. In truth, he had to thank the fact that he wasn't familiar with this particular stretch of history.
If it had been an era he knew too well, that would have been troublesome. He'd have found himself boxed in, unable to carve out his own path.
But now? Now things were perfect.
Since this was Brynden Rivers' dream, Clay could do as he pleased, handle things however his own judgment dictated.
What made the whole matter even simpler was that Aenys Blackfyre had arrived in King's Landing with all the subtlety of a war horn.
But after three failed Blackfyre Rebellions, no one in Westeros had the patience left to lend that House their support.
So when this "Blackfyre come late" appeared, the nobles, most of whom knew little of the man's background, responded with cold indifference. Their attitude was plain enough: come if you wish, stay away if you like, it made no difference at all.
After all, no one was ever going to crown you king. So why bother humiliating yourself in front of the whole realm, isn't that so?
And so, depending on how one looked at it, Clay's little deed could be framed as something either trivial or significant.
From the perspective of a hostile kingdom, what he had done was not only proper but even commendable. Here was a royal from an enemy line, a man who had already brought grievous harm to Westeros. Killing him or capturing him amounted to much the same in the end.
But the problem lay in the other view: when judged by the peculiar and often hypocritical sense of honor that the lords of Westeros liked to display, Clay's act strayed into murky, dishonorable ground.
The roots of the matter stretched back to King Maekar. He had fallen in battle while suppressing a rebellion, and with his death the question of succession had been left unresolved.
It was at this delicate moment that Aenys Blackfyre, who carried a competing claim to the throne, had written to King's Landing with bold words: he, too, intended to come forward and press his right.
Brynden Rivers, the Hand of the King at the time, had agreed to this request.
That agreement had, in effect, formed a binding pact.
The safety of Aenys Blackfyre was guaranteed by the realm's own Hand of the King.
But the trouble was, whether it had been Brynden Rivers back then or Clay now standing in his place, both had chosen to send Aenys straight on to meet the gods instead.
In the eyes of the nobility, this offense was only a shade less serious than violating the sacred guest right. And for that, the punishment was one thing only: death, swift and unyielding.
After all, those lords held up "honor" like a silken veil to cover all their ugliness.
Trample that honor openly, and who else would they come for if not you?
If they didn't make an example of you, then what weight would "the sacred, untouchable honor of the nobility" carry in future disputes?
This contradiction, of course, would only erupt later. For now, the spotlight remained fixed on the four figures who still held a legitimate claim to the throne.
There was Vaella Targaryen, the dim-witted daughter of Maekar's eldest son, Daeron the Drunkard.
There was Maegor, the young son of Maekar's second son, Aerion Brightflame.
There was Maekar's third son, Aemon, remembered by later generations as Maester Aemon, the long-lived relic of House Targaryen.
And lastly, there was Maekar's fourth son, Aegon.
By this time, Clay had fully pieced it together. He now understood exactly when, in the long and tangled history of Westeros, he had landed.
After all, he was no stranger to the roll call of Targaryen kings.
And he knew very well who would emerge the victor of this royal council.
It would be Aegon, the most unremarkable of them all, the one who seemed least destined for a crown, who would stand as the final winner.
He was the lowest in the line of succession, the last man anyone would expect to be considered. By law and custom, the throne should never have come to him.
Yet this Great Council was not a place bound by reason or rigid order. When push came to shove, law and principle weighed heavier than birthright and order of succession.
If the king chosen by the nobles of the realm could not be seated upon the Iron Throne, then what meaning would the council hold? If their choice were ignored, the Seven Kingdoms would truly erupt into chaos.
In truth, one could only say that Aegon V's luck had been nothing short of extraordinary. Those before him in the line each carried fatal flaws that barred them from rule.
One was still at the stage of drinking milk from a nurse's breast. Another had already earned the reputation of a madman. Yet another had taken the vows of a maester, which meant renouncing all claim to crowns and thrones.
And at the very top sat a simpleton, weak of mind and utterly unfit to rule.
So Aegon V all but picked up the throne where it had been dropped.
Do you see it? That was true fortune at work.
Inheritance law? Nothing but nonsense in the face of such luck.
Clay sat slouched upon the Iron Throne, gazing down at the sea of nobles below, who filled the hall with their endless shouting and squabbling.
The food of King's Landing might have been fine fare, but clearly these lords had not ridden a thousand miles across the realm simply for a meal.
And besides, in this dream state of his, Clay could not taste anything at all. Flavor and wine were wasted on him here.
He reminded himself once more that he was not truly Brynden Rivers. In a hall such as this, where a single word might set a precedent, the more he spoke, the greater the risk of stumbling.
Better, then, to practice silence. Better to sit unmoving, like a clay Buddha in a shrine, lips sealed.
In any case, it was he, the Hand of the King, the one who wielded unmatched power, who would have the final say.
Without him, without his summons, this great council would never even have been called.
And now that the one man who might have thrown chaos into the mix, Aenys Blackfyre, had already lost his head, the situation lay fully within Clay's grasp.
At last, the feast, which had been noisy on the surface yet hollow in spirit, crept toward its close.
All eyes turned toward the towering figure seated high upon the throne, the Hand of the King, who had remained silent throughout the entire gathering. The lords whispered and speculated, but none could pierce his stillness, and none could guess what such a domineering man might be thinking.
So the hall sat in uneasy tension, nobles glaring across the table at one another, then lifting their eyes upward again, waiting.
Finally, after that long and strained silence, the Lord of the Stormlands rose. He was a Baratheon, though Clay had no idea which one. All he knew was that the man stood up from among the knot of stormland lords and raised his voice boldly to him:
"Lord Hand, we thank you for your hospitality. We have eaten our fill, we have drunk our fill. But now, is it not time we turned to our true business?"
Clay knew there was no dodging it any longer. Fortunately, the frame of the question was already neatly set before him. He would not need to bluff blindly.
Rising to his part, he spoke out in a clear, commanding voice:
"I thank you all for coming. His Grace departed us too suddenly, and yet the throne of the realm cannot stand empty for long. Therefore, in accordance with the sacred precedent established in the time of King Jaehaerys the First, we gather here today to hold a council of the lords, and to choose our new king."
With the ritual words spoken, Clay gestured toward the center of the hall, where three figures sat waiting.
Why three? He did not know. That was simply how the scene had unfolded before his eyes, three candidates, no more and no less.
Still, the sight was familiar. This was one of those great moments of Westerosi history that even he could recall.
He remembered the claimants, at least in part.
And though he couldn't have matched names to faces with certainty, so long as he didn't go pointing wildly at the wrong man, there was no risk of giving himself away.
He guessed the one who hadn't appeared must have been Vaella Targaryen, the dim-witted daughter of Daeron the Drunkard.
After all, Brynden Rivers himself was a Targaryen by blood. It made sense that he would want to preserve at least a shred of dignity for the family.
In truth, even though Vaella technically could have been chosen, everyone knew it was impossible in practice. The Seven Kingdoms would never accept an imbecile seated upon the Iron Throne.
What the realm needed most was a king who was ordinary yet sound of mind. Stability, not brilliance, was what truly kept kingdoms intact.
The nobles took turns speaking, and a number of them voiced support for the descendant of King Maekar's second son. The trouble was, the child in question was still swaddled in blankets, scarcely more than a newborn.
Even so, by strict law his claim ranked second only to that of Vaella, the feebleminded one.
But this argument did not hold for long.
There was one problem. His father, Aerion Targaryen, also known as Aerion Brightflame, had been an utter madman.
Rumors abounded that he suffered from severe madness, a sickness of the mind that had run deep.
And whispers spread further still: that he had been an avid devotee of dark sorcery, consorting with arts that no sane man should ever touch.
His death was unlike any other in the long, bloody chronicle of House Targaryen. He had poured himself a goblet of wildfire and drained it in one mad swallow, convinced beyond reason that he was, in truth, a dragon in human skin.
The lords wanted no part of that bloodline continuing unbroken, no chance of another such madness one day ascending the throne.
And so they said: what if the boy grew to manhood only to reveal the same sickness? What then?
No, best to cast him aside now.
And so Maegor Targaryen, still nothing more than a babe in swaddling clothes, was cast out of contention.
The discussion shifted, and soon the nobles turned their attention to another: Aemon Targaryen, now in his thirties.
Clay studied him carefully. Even through the years blurred by history and memory, he could faintly trace in Aemon's features the same lines he had once seen at the Wall, in the Black Castle, when he had met Maester Aemon in his twilight years.
But the man before him now was very different. This Aemon Targaryen sat stiff and uneasy, his fingers nervously clutching at the folds of his robe, lips pressed into a tight line.
Clay already knew how Aemon would choose in the end.
He did not interfere. He simply wanted to watch quietly, to let the play unfold before him without disturbance.
By now, Clay understood that this dream was less a trial than it was the deepest, most indelible memory of Brynden Rivers, a Targaryen himself carrying the burden of his family's history.
The performance hadn't yet reached its highest pitch, and so, of course, the breaking point had not yet come.
As expected, events unfolded exactly as Clay had foreseen. The lords of the realm, one after another, placed their favor upon Aemon Targaryen, the man already sworn to the Citadel as a maester.
To them, he seemed a safe choice. Gentle, bookish Aemon was written all over with the air of a man easily swayed.
And a pliant king meant comfort for the great houses. If instead they chose a ruler fierce and cruel, the nobility knew well enough their days of ease would quickly end.
So Aemon's support soared, higher and higher, until it seemed beyond question. If the matter ended here, the Iron Throne would without doubt fall to Aemon Targaryen.
Everyone in that hall believed it so. Everyone… except Clay.
Because there was one thing the lords had overlooked, one quiet truth they had failed to account for: Aemon's own will.
The Citadel, that dreary place of chains and cloistered place, had already done its work on him. It had drilled its creed into his bones until it had washed over him like a tide, leaving nothing of ambition behind.
And so when certain nobles, speaking as representatives of the Great Council, came to him and delivered the news of their decision, what they received in return was not gratitude nor hesitation, but Aemon's firm refusal.
For the order of the maesters was clear: once a man swore himself to the Citadel and forged his chain, his family name was stripped away. He belonged to knowledge and to service, no longer to blood or crown, and he pledged his fealty to a new lord.
But in all of Westeros, who among them truly had the courage or the authority to strip the name Targaryen from one born of dragon's blood?
Still, Aemon himself clung to those vows as if they were gospel. He believed, in the strictest sense, that he was no longer a Targaryen at all. And if he was not, then naturally he could not inherit the throne. More than that, he had no desire to be king in the first place.
So Aemon came in person before the assembled Great Council, before all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms who had gathered in that hall. There he declared his unwillingness to take the crown, and spoke his wish plainly: the throne should pass to his younger brother, Aegon.
The hall erupted in shock. The lords stared wide-eyed, struck dumb, as though the man had gone mad.
But what choice was left? The man himself would not accept, and no lord, no matter his station, had the power to force him onto the throne against his will.
So when Aemon embraced his brother Aegon, and turned away from the Iron Throne with a calm, almost careless grace, and walked out of the hall without looking back, the matter was settled. The choice of king was no longer in question.
When at last Aegon Targaryen, soon to be known as King Aegon the Fifth, gave his consent and accepted the crown, Clay knew it was time. His place upon the Iron Throne was finished.
The Hand of the King could wield the king's authority for a time, but he could never truly be the king.
And so, as Clay stepped down from the last stair of the Iron Throne, the world around him twisted again, shifting into strange, unreal shapes. Colors and shadows melted together.
He understood then: this scene had come to its end.
When his sight cleared once more, he found himself standing in the center of the throne room. Above him, high upon the Iron Throne, sat the newly chosen king, Aegon the Fifth, his gaze fixed sharply upon Clay.
The hall was empty save for them. The great space stretched wide and cold, and in the distance stood guards in bright armor, their eyes scanning the room as though to cut off every path of escape.
At the king's side were several of the Kingsguard, white cloaks falling heavy from their shoulders as they stood at attention like carved statues.
And then Clay heard it… the voice of the king, solemn and heavy as iron:
"Brynden Rivers, you broke the oath you swore with Aenys Blackfyre. In King's Landing, you used dishonorable means to murder him."
"By the laws of the realm, and in the name of the justice of the Iron Throne, I, King of all Westeros, Shield of all its people, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, sentence you, Brynden Rivers, to death."
Clay froze, stunned.
What was this?
How had it come to this so suddenly, condemned to death without warning?
A wave of emotion surged through him, fierce and overwhelming, but he realized at once that it was not his own.
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst
Extra Content Already Available