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THE TOWER OF THE HAND -
Sunlight poured through the high, narrow windows, cutting pale gold across the dark walls. Aeron walked beside Daenerys, his expression calm, his black cloak trailing like spilled ink behind him. The guards at the doors of the council chamber straightened instantly, opening the great oak panels at their approach.
Inside, voices hushed.
The small council chamber once a den of plots, gold, and deceit had changed. The walls were draped with new banners, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen hanging above the hearth. At the long table sat Tyrion Lannister, leaning lazily in the lead chair, goblet in hand as he spoke. To his left sat Oberyn Martell, sprawled with his usual ease and half-smirk. Olenna Tyrell, sharp-eyed and unmoving, sat opposite him, her hands folded on the table. Varys stood by the window, silent, watching everything.
When Aeron and Daenerys entered, all of them stood.
The light behind the king made his armor glint a dark, regal black trimmed with faint violet etchings. Daenerys, in pale silver and crimson, stood beside him, her queenly grace softened by the faintest smile.
"Your Graces," Tyrion said, bowing slightly, "you honor us with your presence this early in the day. I was just enlightening our dear council on the art of running a kingdom."
Varys smiled thinly. Oberyn smirked. Olenna merely rolled her eyes.
Tyrion gestured toward his chair. "Please, my king. Take the seat. You'll find the view of chaos rather inspiring."
Aeron shook his head, his tone calm but resolute. "No need. You've been leading this council well enough. I'll sit beside Daenerys."
A ripple of surprise passed among the lords. Few kings ever refused the lead chair. Aeron simply drew a chair next to Daenerys, and when he sat, it was with the quiet confidence of a man who didn't need a throne to command presence.
He looked across the table, his violet eyes sweeping over them. "I thought all seven members were present."
Daenerys answered before Tyrion could. "Not yet. Certain posts remain vacant, Master of Laws, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and Grand Maester. I've been considering suitable names."
She turned to Olenna. "As for the Master of Coin, that seat belongs to Lady Olenna's son. After Littlefinger's betrayal, it was only fitting."
Aeron's gaze darkened slightly at the mention of Petyr Baelish. "Right... Littlefinger. I didn't expect him to be that foolish. His greed for power blinded him even at the end."
He looked toward Daenerys. "What of him?"
"Rotting in the dungeons," she said flatly. "Awaiting his public execution."
Aeron leaned back in his chair, his tone quiet but decisive. "No. There'll be no public execution for him. He'll die in the dark, unseen. No one will speak his name or know when he breathed his last. Men like him deserve to fade into nothing, not become martyrs to gossip and rumor. The common folk have seen enough death. We'll not greet them with more blood so soon after victory."
Tyrion raised his brows, swirling his wine. "A bit grim, perhaps, but I find myself in agreement. Still, some justice must be seen. Executing him privately before the lords of Westeros should suffice. It sends the right message without... theatrics."
Aeron gave a short nod. "That will do."
Oberyn leaned forward then, resting his elbows on the table, a grin tugging at his lips. "Enough talk of executions and treachery. Your Grace, I must ask...when is the fun day happening?"
Aeron arched a brow. "Fun day?"
"The coronation," Oberyn said, gesturing dramatically. "The tourney, the feasts, the contests, surely even the Shadow King enjoys a bit of revelry."
Aeron gave a soft chuckle. "Ah. That. I did invite those who fought in the battle against the Night King for that kind of celebration." He glanced at Daenerys. "When shall we host it?"
Varys spoke smoothly from his corner. "That is easily arranged, Your Graces. A week's time should be sufficient. The realm still stirs from war, it would do good to give them joy."
Tyrion smirked. "A joyous event indeed. And perhaps we keep Littlefinger around long enough to witness none of it. Let him rot in his cell till the trumpets sound."
"Very well," Aeron said simply.
Olenna Tyrell, who had been silent until now, set down her cup and leaned forward. "I'm here in my son's stead, yes...but not solely for that reason."
Her sharp gaze found Aeron. "I'm here because of your promise to me, King."
The room stilled.
Daenerys turned toward Aeron, a slight frown curving her lips. "What promise?"
The others exchanged glances. Tyrion's eyes flicked from Olenna to Aeron with a mixture of curiosity and unease. Even Varys looked intrigued.
Aeron's expression didn't change, though there was a flicker of something behind his eyes.. memory, perhaps. The shadows along his armor pulsed faintly.
Olenna tilted her head. "You remember, don't you? You told me, long before this throne was taken, that when the realm was secured and the dead were gone, you would fulfill your word."
Daenerys looked between them, confusion giving way to curiosity. "What promise did you give her?"
Tyrion's smirk faded, and the entire table waited in silence each wondering what kind of vow a man like Aeron Grim, the Shadow King, could have made to the Queen of Thorns.
The air thickened with expectation, the crackle of fire in the hearth the only sound. Aeron finally lifted his gaze to Olenna, his tone steady, unreadable.
"I remember."
"She offered her granddaughter," he said plainly. "Lady Margaery...for marriage, to me."
The words struck like a blade through the silence.
Daenerys's eyes widened. "What?" The disbelief in her voice was sharp, almost hurt, though she masked it behind regal restraint.
Oberyn grinned wide, enjoying every heartbeat of tension. Tyrion nearly choked on his wine, while Varys pretended to inspect the rim of his cup.
Aeron remained perfectly calm. "It was not a promise, my Queen," he said, his tone even. "Merely an offer. I never gave my word, nor sought her hand. I said I would think on it..and I have."
Olenna's tone turned pointed. "Are you going back on your word, Your Grace?"
Aeron's eyes met hers, violet and glacial, the faintest ember of danger beneath the calm. "Careful, Lady Tyrell. I never needed your aid. Nor your house's power. I accepted your offer to keep peace between our forces and to save your house from my shadows, not to bind myself to your family."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower. "Your granddaughter is fair, I do not deny it. But I do not marry for convenience. I command shadows, not alliances built on vanity."
The old woman's jaw tightened.
Aeron straightened, his voice returning to that cold, effortless authority that made the air in the chamber feel suffocating. "Now here's my question, Lady Olenna. Does House Tyrell still stand with the Crown?"
The table was still. Tyrion's eyes darted between them. Varys folded his hands, ever the observer. Oberyn, leaning back, smirked as if he were watching a duel.
Olenna exhaled slowly, tapping her cane once. "Of course," she said at last, though her tone was clipped, wounded pride barely concealed. "The Reach stands with the Crown."
Aeron gave a faint, knowing nod. "Good. Then we are done here."
He rose, the violet in his eyes dimming to their usual depthless calm. Daenerys, still processing the exchange, stood with him, her face touched by something halfway between relief and embarrassment. A faint color lingered on her cheeks, betraying her composure.
As they turned to leave, Oberyn called after them with a sly grin. "I see the Shadow King prefers fire to flowers. The realm will sleep safer, if less entertained."
Tyrion smirked behind his goblet. Olenna said nothing, her cane tapping once more.
Daenerys cast one last look over her shoulder, her lips curved in the faintest smirk of triumph. though her eyes still glimmered with something unspoken as she followed Aeron out.
And for a long moment after the doors closed, not a soul in that chamber dared speak.
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If you Like this story! Check out my other stories! Shadow Monarch in DC
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