The side chamber adjoining the Throne Room of the Red Keep—the Small Council chamber.
Morning sunlight filtered through tall glass windows, illuminating the long council table.
The men and women seated there wore very different expressions.
At the head sat Queen Regent Alicent Hightower, occupying the chair that had once belonged to the king. She did not sit easily in it.
Not long ago, when the guards of the Red Keep had raised the freshly prepared heads of Jacaerys Velaryon and Joffrey Velaryon upon the outer walls, Alicent had stood by the window and stared for a quarter of an hour, until her stomach turned and a handmaid was forced to help her back into her chambers.
Now, she was required to preside over this meeting.
Her second son, Aemond Targaryen, had pushed the realm to the very edge of civil war in a single night.
To her right sat Tyland Lannister, Master of Coin, younger brother to the Lord of Casterly Rock. He wore crimson trimmed with a golden lion, his ash-blond hair carefully combed.
On Alicent's left, in the second seat, sat Grand Maester Orwyle. The bald man of near fifty held his heavy neck stiffly and glanced toward the empty chair opposite him.
That seat belonged to the absent Lord Lyman Beesbury, Lord Treasurer, who had yet to arrive.
Beside Orwyle sat Larys Strong, Master of Whisperers.
The clubfoot wore his usual faint, unsettling smile, fingers laced upon the table, posture relaxed.
The newly appointed Master of Ships, Ser Elwyn Redwyne, sat further down. The nobleman from the Arbor, a little past forty, bore the unmistakable auburn-brown hair of House Redwyne.
Lord Jasper Wylde, Master of Laws, was a corpulent man from the Crownlands, long aligned with the Greens.
Behind Queen Alicent, three paces back, stood Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—clad in white armor and white cloak, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. A careful observer might have noticed the faint trace of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.
Prince Aegon Targaryen sat to his mother's left, fully aware of what had transpired the night before, a quiet unease gnawing at him.
At the far end of the table sat Ser Willem Dutt, commander of the royal army—a knight of forty from a Crownlands town in the Vale's direction, recently promoted by Aemond. His expression was calm.
The meeting had been underway for a quarter hour.
No one spoke. The chamber lay in silence.
Then—the doors flew open.
All eyes turned.
Aemond Targaryen entered.
He had changed into clean black garments, yet his silver hair was still damp, as if freshly washed—though not even water had been enough to cleanse it fully of the night's blood.
Two men followed him.
On his left, Hal, commander of his personal forces.
On his right, Gwayne Hightower, Captain of the Red Keep's guards.
Aemond did not take the empty seat.
He strode straight to the table, braced both hands upon it, leaned forward, and slowly swept his single violet eye across the room.
No one moved.
"Everyone is here," Aemond said.
"Oh—except Lord Lyman. Old men are slow. Understandable."
Queen Alicent finally raised her head.
She looked at her son—the son who had slain three of his nephews in one night, the son who had driven the realm toward war.
Her lips trembled. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
At last, she managed only, "Aemond…"
"Mother," Aemond interrupted gently, politely—and coldly.
"I know what you wish to say. But please, allow me to finish what must be done first."
He straightened and turned to the Master of Laws.
"Lord Wylde."
The fat lord rose at once, bowing deeply. "Your Highness."
"Send a royal envoy to Dragonstone," Aemond said.
"With a decree bearing the king's seal, and the royal writ of Queen Regent Alicent."
"Command Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lord Corlys Velaryon to come immediately to the Red Keep in King's Landing, to explain themselves before the regent."
"To explain why their vassals and heirs of House Velaryon—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—infiltrated the Dragonpit, attempted to steal Targaryen dragons, and set the pit ablaze."
The chamber remained silent.
Tyland Lannister lifted a brow, surprise flashing across his eyes—quickly replaced by admiration.
First fix the charges, then place arson and murder squarely upon the enemy's head.
Lord Wylde bowed again. "Yes, Your Highness. I will see that a messenger departs by ship before sunset."
"Good."
"At the same time," Aemond continued,
"send ravens to every lord of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Declare that the three Velaryon heirs—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—attempted to steal Targaryen dragons, commit arson, and murder royal guards; that the evidence is conclusive; and that they were slain last night."
Wylde nodded.
Aemond turned to the Master of Ships.
"Ser Elwyn."
Redwyne rose quickly. "Your Highness."
"How many warships does the royal fleet currently possess?"
Elwyn hesitated only a moment.
"Reporting to Your Highness: thirty-one warships directly under the Crown—three great three-decked galleys and twenty-eight two-deckers."
"In addition, some forty auxiliary vessels—patrol and transport ships."
"Most are anchored in Blackwater Bay at King's Landing, with a smaller number patrolling Crab Bay."
"And their fighting capability?"
Elwyn chose his words carefully.
"Sufficient to secure the Crown's coastal waters and suppress smuggling. But for large-scale naval warfare…"
He swallowed.
"Your Highness, the royal fleet has not been the realm's focus for many years. House Velaryon has long controlled the Narrow Sea."
"I know," Aemond cut in. "That is precisely why I asked you."
His gaze rested on Elwyn's tense face.
"Transmit my command. From this moment, the royal fleet is to enter the highest state of readiness."
"Supplies, maintenance, and personnel reorganization are to be completed within three days."
"Prepare to strike Driftmark and Dragonstone."
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the chamber.
Elwyn Redwyne's eyes widened.
"Attack Driftmark and Dragonstone? Your Highness—this…"
"Though the main Velaryon fleet is engaged near the Stepstones, what remains still outnumbers us, and their sailors are veterans—"
"I will personally lead Vhagar," Aemond said calmly.
That single sentence.
Every objection died in Elwyn's throat.
Vhagar.
Before Vhagar, numbers meant nothing. One dive, one breath of flame—and an entire fleet would become a burning tomb.
"…Understood," Elwyn said at last, drawing a deep breath and bowing heavily.
"With Vhagar, the advantage is ours."