Aegon did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
"The war is not finished," he said, his fingers resting flat upon the painted table, pale against the dark wood. "What I require is kneeling. Not bargaining."
The chamber had gone still. Even the banners seemed to hold their breath.
Across from him, Cregan Stark straightened, grey eyes hard as winter ice. He had ridden south to end a war, not to soothe wounded pride, and the North had little patience for half-measures.
"Just so," Cregan said, his tone sharp as a drawn blade. "Who here claims the war is done? The Sea Snake still draws breath, and so does the Clubfoot. They speak of peace because they are tired, not because they are repentant."
He paced a step forward, boots ringing softly on the stone.
"Has Oldtown yielded?" he demanded. "Has Casterly Rock paid its due in blood and gold? Has the little princess of Storm's End been delivered to King's Landing?"
A murmur rippled through the lesser lords.
"She is the Greens' last living heir," Cregan continued, voice rising. "A child is easily hidden, easily crowned. Let her slip away, and some desperate fool will rally banners around her name and drag the realm back into fire."
His words landed heavily, one after another, as if he were striking an anvil. Several of the younger men shifted beneath his gaze.
Duke Kermit Tully clenched his jaw. "Storm's End has already been broken," he said, spreading his hands. "Its levies scattered, its strength spent. To strike there now would serve no purpose but cruelty."
Cregan turned on him at once.
"One must look at the whole board," he said. "The queen believed herself victorious when King's Landing fell. We all know how that ended. The usurper Aegon returned when he should have been ashes, and we cast him down only after more blood was spilled."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"Evil left to fester always rises again. The root must be torn out, or it will choke us in another generation."
Silence followed. Duke Kermit held Cregan's stare for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose.
"At dawn, my banners will march," he said at last. "The Trident will stand with the North."
Aegon inclined his head slightly, the smallest acknowledgment.
"The ravens have already flown," he said. "I want a full accounting of every traitor, great and small. My patience is not endless."
He moved a carved dragon across the table, setting it aside with deliberate care.
"Stripping of titles. Confiscation of lands. Heavy fines. Hostages taken into wardship," Aegon continued. "For lesser lords, the fostering of heirs. Each punishment measured, each step heavier than the last. Treason will be answered according to ancient law."
Cregan nodded once. "Then we begin with the three great offenders. House Hightower of Oldtown. House Baratheon of Storm's End. House Lannister of Casterly Rock."
"There is a fourth," Aegon said.
The council stirred. Chairs creaked. Several heads turned toward one another in confusion.
"The Red Kraken," Aegon said, his mouth tightening. "He has burned and reaved for his own glory. He sent not a single sword when the realm bled. The Sea Snake wrote to him, calling on him to acknowledge his king, to lay aside his raids and present himself here. The Red Kraken did not even deign to answer."
In truth, the Ironborn lord had played at loyalty only long enough to serve himself. While his ships harried the western coast, he crowned himself king in all but name, hauling plunder and captive women back to the Iron Islands.
Understanding spread across the chamber.
"The regency does not end with the Reach, the Stormlands, or the West," one lord murmured. "The Ironborn are to be judged as well."
"They must be," Aegon said. "But not yet."
He tapped the lion carved at Casterly Rock.
"House Lannister will bend the knee first," he went on. "Their letters already reek of fear. Once they submit, the western fleets will be rebuilt, and then we turn our gaze to the Sunset Sea."
The Red Kraken had become a cancer. Summoned once to fight for the Blacks, he vanished as soon as it suited him, returning to the Old Way with renewed savagery.
For two long years the Ironborn ruled the Sunset Sea. They could not crack the Rock itself, but Lannisport burned. The Lannister fleet was put to the torch. Gold, grain, and flesh were carried off in droves. Duke Jason's favored mistress was taken, along with his bastard daughters, dragged screaming onto black-sailed ships.
Kayce fell. Fair Isle followed.
Aegon looked around the table, meeting each gaze in turn.
"This realm will have peace," he said quietly. "But only after justice."
"Storm's End was never the true blow," Aegon said, his voice steady as stone. "It was a feint. Our real target is the Westerlands."
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Several councillors stiffened, exchanging startled glances. Even Cregan paused, one gloved hand resting on the edge of the table. This was not the design they had weighed and argued over. It was sharper. Bolder.
Aegon let the silence stretch before continuing.
"This strategy does not leave this chamber," he said. His pale eyes swept across the assembled lords, lingering just long enough on each face to make the warning unmistakable. "Not to wives, not to brothers, not to trusted captains. Absolute silence."
One by one, heads bowed.
"Understood."
"As you command."
Aegon turned slightly, the lamplight catching the hard line of his jaw.
"The Red Kraken has grown drunk on his own success," he went on. "Fair Isle has become his playground. He no longer troubles himself to return to the Iron Islands. He believes himself untouchable."
A faint curl of contempt touched his mouth.
"Pride always walks ahead of ruin."
He shifted a carved lion on the table.
"Ser Tyland Lannister will soon arrive in King's Landing," Aegon said. "He brings a personal letter of submission. That parchment is worth more than gold. With it, the wealth of the Westerlands flows back into the realm. And this time, it will flow where we direct it."
House Lannister would bend quickly. Their losses were too great, their ports too ravaged, their pride already cracked. They would pay dearly for peace. Only geography spared them from outright dismemberment, as their lands lay distant from the Crownlands' grasp.
Once the lions knelt, the board would change.
The Reach and the Stormlands would stand alone.
Cregan nodded slowly, his expression grim but approving. "Once the Westerlands submit, the North marches south. Oldtown will find no shield to hide behind, and the Stormlands are already broken. We take them piece by piece, until nothing remains but obedience."
Kermit shifted in his chair, unease plain on his face. "And the Ironborn?" he asked. "The Red Kraken comes first, then?"
During the Dance, the Ironborn had claimed to fight for the Blacks. Now it was clear that claim had been a lie told for convenience.
Cregan exhaled through his nose. "It was not my first intent," he said, "but crushing the sea beast now serves the same end. Perhaps a better one."
The Ironborn inspired no sympathy in the green lands. They were despised in every corner of the realm. They preyed upon the weak, fled from strength, and returned to their old savagery the moment order faltered.
Cold and pitiless as the sea itself, that cruelty lived in their eyes.
The Reach remembered. The Riverlands remembered. The Westerlands still burned from it. Even the North had bled beneath Ironborn axes in generations past. In this, at least, the realm was united.
"They are the common enemy," Cregan said quietly.
"The Red Kraken must die," Aegon said.
From a military view, the path was clear. Once the Westerlands bent the knee, allied armies would form an unbroken line across the realm. Gold from Casterly Rock would refill emptied coffers. What remained of the Lannister fleet could strike Oldtown from the west, while land armies pressed from the north and east.
Against a sea monster, mercy was wasteful.
House Greyjoy lived for reaving. Given peace, they would only sharpen their knives for the next chaos. Baratheon and Hightower required careful judgment, faith, appearances. The Ironborn needed none of that.
Strength answered them best.
If the Red Kraken was to die, better that his corpse pave the road forward, a warning written in blood and salt.
Once, the realm had mocked the fury of the true dragon during the Dance.
This was the moment to answer that mockery.
"Then I will send the summons," Cregan said. He straightened, the great sword on his back shifting with the motion, heavy and brutal, as cold as winter steel. "In the name of the Prince Regent and the Queen. The Red Kraken is to cease his reaving and present himself at King's Landing, under pretext of attending the betrothal of the regency."
"He will answer," Aegon said calmly. "One way or another."
He rested a hand on Blackfyre's pommel, his thumb tracing the familiar ridges. "We will receive two letters. One bearing the lions' loyalty. One dripping with defiance."
A thin smile touched his lips.
"All we need do is wait for the Westerlands' envoys to arrive. After that, the killing begins."
"I agree with the Prince Regent," Cregan said, "but there is one matter yet unresolved. The poisonings. The murder of the usurper. Those who hide behind smiles and soft words remain a danger within King's Landing."
Aegon met his gaze. "See to it, Lord Cregan."
Cregan inclined his head. "As you command."
Then suddenly, the doors flew open.
"Are you trying to bar my way?" a woman's furious voice rang through the chamber. "Only my regent brother may do that. Not you foul-smelling bears."
Every head turned.
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