The Throne Room
In the early morning, beneath a light drizzle, the great nobles of the Seven Kingdoms gathered in the Throne Room, speaking in low voices and sharing cautious laughter.
High above them loomed the Iron Throne, a jagged mass of interwoven blades piled like a mountain of steel—
a throne forged by Aegon the Conqueror from the swords of his defeated enemies.
Today, thick crimson cushions had been laid upon its seat for King Viserys, whose body festered more with each passing day.
The lords of the Seven Kingdoms filled the hall.
Their noblewomen stood along the side corridors on either flank of the chamber. From the cold stone floor to the farthest arch, every inch of space was crowded with people.
The nobles of the Riverlands clustered together in green.
The lords of the Stormlands wore yellow.
The nobles of the Westerlands, clad in crimson, stood near Lord Tyland Lannister, their leading voice at court.
The great royal houses gathered in their own circles.
The nobles of the remaining three realms—the Reach, the Vale, and the North—stood closely united. Unlike the southern kingdoms, which were scattered and divided, these three lands had long practiced extensive intermarriage across borders.
Such alliances between the great ruling houses had been rare ever since House Targaryen united the Seven Kingdoms.
By ancient custom, when a lord inherited his family's title, he swore two oaths of fealty:
one to the king in King's Landing,
and one to his liege lord in his own lands.
This was a compromise Aegon the Conqueror had accepted to secure his swift victory.
In law, loyalty to His Grace stood above all else—but in practice, every house chose according to circumstance.
A low murmur spread through the hall.
"Does His Majesty truly intend to do this?" a young lord whispered.
"The news spread last night," his companion replied.
"Prince Daemon has returned to Dragonstone, and Princess Rhaenyra has withdrawn her claim."
"A division of the realm… or reconciliation?"
"Quiet!"
The hall fell suddenly silent as all eyes turned to the great doors.
They opened.
Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, entered first.
Behind him came King Viserys I, supported by Queen Alicent, moving slowly.
The Throne Room grew hushed.
Viserys reached the Iron Throne, gripping Alicent's hand tightly. When he finally sat, the queen took her place in a chair to his right.
Then Aegon Targaryen entered.
At eighteen, the prince was dressed more formally than ever before: black-and-red Targaryen heraldry, a cloak embroidered with gold thread, and his silver-gold hair neatly combed.
Aegon stood at the foot of the steps and gazed calmly over the assembled nobles.
Then—
Aemond Targaryen entered the hall.
He wore a black tunic embroidered with the three-headed dragon. His gaze swept across the crowd as he walked.
More than twenty men followed him—not servants, not nobles, but officers.
At their head walked Ser Hal, now known in King's Landing as the King's Hand of Justice, captain of Aemond's guard, his expression unreadable.
Beside him was Ser Willem Darklyn, newly appointed commander of the royal army.
Behind them came officers of the Praetorian Guard, then officers of the regular forces—men in leather and mail, unarmed, starkly different from the silk and brocade of the aristocracy.
Every one of them followed Aemond.
The whispers died away completely.
The nobles' eyes darted between the prince and his officers.
They all knew it now:
Prince Aemond commanded every army in King's Landing.
In the women's gallery, Irene Rogare clutched the railing. She maintained the elegance of a princess, but her face had gone pale.
She watched as Aemond and his officers formed a clear center of power.
"He brought soldiers…" one woman whispered.
"They're officers, not troops," another corrected.
Irene said nothing.
Her eyes stayed fixed on Aegon.
If today passes smoothly… everything will be fine.
Helaena stood beside her, dressed in pale blue, silver hair braided neatly.
Irene touched her hand gently.
"Why did Aemond bring them?" she whispered.
Helaena smiled faintly.
"To show his support—for Aegon."
Irene bit her lip and prayed silently to the Seven.
Below, Ser Criston Cole looked to the throne.
Viserys nodded.
"Silence!" Cole's voice rang out.
"Silence!" echoed the Kingsguard.
All sound ceased.
Viserys spoke slowly.
"You have been summoned today for one purpose."
He paused.
"The succession of the realm must be redefined."
"There must be an heir who follows the traditions of the Seven Kingdoms, the will of the Seven, and the expectations of the realm."
A voice called out, "His Grace is wise!"
Praise erupted like wildfire.
"Male primogeniture!"
"It is tradition!"
"May the realm be blessed!"
Viserys waited until the noise faded.
"Aegon," he called.
The prince turned, pale, sweat beading on his brow.
Viserys beckoned.
Aegon ascended the steps, counting them silently, then knelt before the Iron Throne.
Queen Alicent rose and took the crown from the velvet cushion.
Not a king's crown, but the crown of the Prince of Dragonstone—gold, set with rubies, topped by a three-headed dragon.
She placed it upon Aegon's head.
"In the name of Viserys I Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men…
I proclaim you, Aegon Targaryen, lawful heir to the Iron Throne."
The nobles bowed—almost all of them.
Almost.
Aemond remained standing.
His officers stood with him.
Tension gripped the hall.
Then Aemond turned his head.
Ser Hal bowed first. Then Darklyn. Then all the others.
At last, Aemond bowed as well—perfectly, precisely.
Relief swept the chamber.
Later, Aemond stepped forward once more.
"Father," he said calmly.
"What of the wild dragons on Dragonstone? And by tradition, Dragonstone belongs to the heir."
The hall held its breath.
Viserys answered slowly, "All dragons belong to House Targaryen."
"Which Targaryen?" Aemond asked quietly.
Viserys hesitated.
"I will consider the matter," he said at last. "But not today."
Aemond bowed.
"As you command, Your Grace."
The assembly was dismissed.
As Aemond walked away, his officers followed.
The crown rested on Aegon's head.
But the sword—
The sword was elsewhere.
Enough, Aemond thought.