Aegon was greatly satisfied with Lord Rogar's response and turned his gaze toward the noble lords who had joined the uprising.
He began rewarding his loyal supporters, announcing before all: "Rogar Baratheon, for your outstanding contributions during the uprising, I name you Hand of the King."
With Aegon's generous treatment of Lord Rogar as precedent, every noble present truly felt that this new King Aegon II possessed a magnanimous heart.
Those who had harbored doubts about his ascension now abandoned their hesitation, offering no further objections to his rule.
The main purpose of the council had been to reward merit. Once the principal ministers of the new realm were appointed, the first royal council concluded without incident.
...
By evening, the Red Keep was alight with lanterns, alive with festivity.
To celebrate the victory of the uprising, Aegon held a grand banquet.
Tables overflowed with fine wine and rich dishes, laughter and merriment filling every corner of the hall. All knew one truth: after the war, power within the Targaryen dynasty had been reshuffled.
The White and Red factions were gone, removed from the hierarchy of power. The future now belonged to this generation.
Aegon stood on the steps of the throne, raising high a goblet of sweet red wine from the Reach.
The crystal-clear wine shimmered under the lights, giving off an alluring fragrance.
All the great lords fixed their gaze on the new king, lifting their cups, waiting for his words.
Aegon swept his eyes across the hall, his voice steady and resolute: "When the royal army arrived, hundreds were captured and thrown into prison.
These people came from all walks of life—knights and squires, clerks, septons, and servants.
They aided the awakened fiends in usurping the rule of the realm. They must answer for the countless crimes, the massacres, and the tyranny that followed."
His voice rang firm and powerful, echoing through the banquet hall.
He paused, his eyes sharpening as he looked over the gathered lords in the Visenya Hall with imperious disdain, then continued: "If we were to execute all of these captives, Maegor's remnants still at large would never bend the knee.
We would be forced to march our armies across the realm, conquering them all with iron and fire.
But that is not the future I wish to see."
"Your Grace, what do you mean?" Bennifer asked solemnly.
After a moment's pause, Aegon raised his voice and declared: "Three days from now, I shall hold a trial.
Let Maegor's followers publicly confess their treason. Those whose crimes are unforgivable will be executed. The rest will provide hostages to guarantee their loyalty, and surrender part of their lands and castles in exchange for leniency."
His words were firm and decisive, leaving no doubt of his resolve.
"Your Grace is wise—this is indeed the best course," Bennifer declared in approval. Raising his cup high, he cheered toward the throne. "The guilty receive justice, and those less culpable will submit sincerely. Truly, a perfect balance!"
Aegon allowed a faint smile, then raised the goblet and drained it in a single motion.
The hall erupted with cheers, the lords praising the new king's mercy and wisdom.
At that moment, Queen Regent Rhaena approached Aegon with graceful steps.
She lifted a jug, gently refilling his cup before handing it back. Taking her own goblet, she sipped the wine thoughtfully, turning to Aegon with a trace of doubt in her eyes.
"The trial?" she asked. "Do you truly mean to pardon those rebels? To me, this does not seem a wise decision."
Aegon nodded firmly, his tone resolute. "Mother, I must show the world that I am nothing like my father—or those monsters.
My reign must not begin with blood and slaughter."
His eyes shone with unwavering conviction, as though he already saw the peaceful future awaiting the Targaryen dynasty.
Queen Regent Rhaena set her porcelain cup down lightly, shook her head, and let out a soft sigh. "My heart is filled with the hunger for vengeance, yet I will not go against the will of the King. Only…" She trailed off, a flicker of worry passing through her eyes.
Aegon listened closely, knowing she had not yet spoken her full mind, and waited in silence for her to continue.
Queen Regent Rhaena stepped forward to stand before Aegon. She lifted her hand, gently cupping his cheek, her gaze both tender and stern as it locked with his. With solemn weight, she said, "To overturn the King's decision would make him seem weak and incapable. And as King, you must never show even the slightest weakness before your subjects.
You must remember—this concerns the dignity and the future of House Targaryen."
Hearing Rhaena's earnest words, Aegon felt a warmth stir within him, deeply moved.
His expression softened as he replied, "Mother, thank you… I will not unleash a massacre, but neither can these criminals be simply released. They shall don black cloaks and go to the Wall, to spend the rest of their lives guarding the North for all mankind."
A smile of satisfaction spread across Rhaena's face at his answer. She patted Aegon gently on the shoulder, then turned and departed gracefully, leaving him alone to ponder the path of rule that lay ahead.
...
Three days later, within the solemn Hall of Conquest, a trial long anticipated was underway. The accused were criminals from the Red and White factions of the former Awakened Council.
Aegon sat tall upon the cold, unyielding Iron Throne, his bearing upright and his gaze sharp as steel.
From above, he looked down on the gathered lords, presiding over the trial with an air of unquestionable authority.
In truth, the verdict had already been decided by the Small Council, and Aegon had long since signed his approval. What remained now was merely the formal public announcement.
The heart of the judgment lay in Aegon's Edict of Pardon. It decreed that so long as the guilty were neither Awakened nor demons, they would be spared execution. Instead, they would wear the black and join the Night's Watch upon the Wall.
This proclamation was certain to coax even some of the most stubborn Red and White loyalists into submission.
Leaning forward slightly, Aegon rested his hand upon the arm of the throne, a quiet thought stirring within him.
He had never expected Maegor to return this iron chair to the throne room.
Originally, Aegon had considered placing it in the square, to stand as a striking monument—an enduring reminder of House Targaryen's glorious past.
Yet now the Iron Throne sat once more at the heart of the hall, still the very emblem of the kings of the Seven Kingdoms, a vessel of supreme authority. Often it was invoked as a metaphor for power itself.
Aegon could not help but reflect. Power? Authority?
How many lives had been spilled, how much blood shed, in pursuit of those two words alone?
Looking down at the jagged throne, his heart grew heavy.
The Iron Throne was covered in sharp spikes and cruel barbs. To sit upon it was never comfortable—it seemed to whisper a constant warning to every ruler: behind power lies vigilance and the weight of responsibility, as sharp and relentless as thorns in the flesh.
When Bennifer finished reading the crimes of the Red and White traitors, the councilors, though exhausted, did not disperse. Instead, they forced themselves to continue deliberating the affairs of state.
They all understood that building a kingdom required far more than punishing a handful of criminals—countless challenges still lay ahead.
Grand Maester Bennifer bowed respectfully and said, "Your Grace, the conditional amnesty decree you issued today is most fitting. It shows both your mercy and your wisdom, while sowing discord among the rebels. A truly prudent decision."
Aegon gave a slight nod, his gaze steady. "I have merely stripped these remnants of their lands and power. Should they still be so foolish as to stir unrest, Ghidorah and Dreamfyre will not show mercy. They will gladly teach the disloyal what it means for fire to consume the earth."
A flicker of steel flashed in his eyes, his tone brooking no doubt.
Bennifer nodded in agreement. To him, the young king displayed a flawless character.
Aegon spoke with composure, carried himself with dignity, possessed the courage of a knight, and when facing obstacles, showed boldness, caution, and decisiveness. Such a king was not only the fortune of House Targaryen, but the hope of the realm itself.
"However, Your Grace, reconciling with the lords may ease tensions for now, but it is not enough to restore peace to Westeros overnight."
Hand of the King Rogar stroked his beard thoughtfully, his tone grave. "Maegor's brutal measures against the Poor Fellows and the Warrior's Sons earned him the hatred of countless devout followers. Now, they harbor deep resentment toward House Targaryen—and that anger is no small matter."
"Indeed," Bennifer continued, his expression heavy. "Though the Warrior's Sons and the Knights of the Holy Blade suffered grievous losses in the recent conflict, hundreds of them escaped.
They have since found refuge among tens of thousands of petty lords, landed knights, and common folk who provide for them, allowing their cause to endure.
These Faith Militants are the very foundation of that fat Septon Mattheus's repeated defiance of royal authority. They lurk in the shadows, ready to strike at any moment."
The newly appointed Master of Laws, Lord Prentys Tully of Riverrun, also bore the critical responsibility of overseeing intelligence.
At that moment, Lord Tully slowly unrolled a raven's letter, cleared his throat, and began to speak in a deliberate tone:
"Your Grace, reliable reports tell us that Sylas the Grim and Dennis the Lame are leading several bands of the Poor Fellows, roaming the land like ghosts. They are cunning beyond measure—at the slightest sign of pursuit, they vanish into the vast forests, leaving no trace."
His brow furrowed, worry flickering in his eyes.
"North of Golden Tooth, Ser Joffrey Doggett, the so-called 'Red Dog of the Hills,' has been extremely active, moving constantly between the Westerlands and the Riverlands.
This Ser Joffrey even dares to call himself the leader of the Warrior's Sons, openly declaring his intent to restore the order's former glory while recruiting knights wherever he goes. His actions have drawn many supporters, and his strength continues to grow."
Lord Tully's tone grew heavier.
"But the gravest threat comes from the south. The Moon Septon and his followers are encamped beneath Oldtown, under the protection of Lord Oakheart and Lord Rowan and their knights.
They gather strength there, a sword hanging over our heads."
Lifting his gaze toward Aegon, Tully's expression hardened. "Your Grace, the task before us is no easy one!"
Aegon's face darkened.
He had barely solved one set of troubles before new ones arose in their place, and the thought stirred a quiet frustration within him.
After a brief pause, he turned to the Hand of the King. "Grand Maester Bennifer, as head of the Office of Religious Affairs, what is your view? Is there any way to deal with this swiftly?"
With that, the burden was passed back to Bennifer.
The Grand Maester's face stiffened slightly at the King's question.
After a moment's thought, he replied, "Your Grace, these militant orders are deeply entrenched. To send forces against them rashly would not be wise. The precedent is clear—Maegor's reign was consumed by endless strife with the Faith, provoking divine wrath and plunging the people into misery.
We cannot repeat that mistake."
He shook his head slightly, worry clouding his eyes.
"Well… as for a solution…" Bennifer hesitated, then continued, "Given the long, bitter conflict between Maegor and the Faith, Your Grace might consider having the High Septon personally anoint and crown you with holy oil.
This could, at least in part, ease the tension between crown and clergy.
Later, we can find a way to either have the Faith dissolve its militias on its own, or else bring them under royal authority."
Aegon shook his head at once. "No. The Church's armed forces must be disbanded completely!"
He knew well that Rogar's suggestion, though seemingly practical, carried hidden dangers. His aim was to break the Faith's military power and diminish its influence—not to raise the authority of the Faith of the Seven even higher. Following such advice would only entangle them in deeper complications.
Duke Tully gave a small nod before speaking again. "This 'Moon Septon' spreads his poison daily, preaching everywhere he goes. He proclaims that one dragon is dead and another has risen to take its place—but what difference does that make?
In his words, only by slaughtering every last Targaryen, or driving us all back into the sea, will Westeros be truly cleansed."
His brows knit tightly, his eyes full of disgust at the Moon Septon's rhetoric.
"This man is a hardened fanatic, consumed by madness. Persuasion will never bend him," Tully declared with certainty, shaking his head at the sheer obstinacy of such extremism.
...
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