The throne room.
Aerys sat on the Iron Throne, eyes wide with terror. He had ignored every warning and rushed here anyway, as if the cold, jagged seat could somehow keep him safe.
He stared into nothing, muttering under his breath while the sounds of boots and steel echoed outside the thick doors.
Ungrateful sons… wildfire…
Varys had vanished the moment the trouble started, so no one heard the rest.
Once Davos and the others had secured the Red Keep, a squad of black-armored Dragon Guard marched straight to the throne room. They stopped before the massive double doors.
Three Kingsguard were already waiting—Ser Gerold Hightower, Prince Lewyn Martell, and Ser Oswell Whent.
Ser Gerold's face was stone. "Barristan Selmy," he said, voice heavy, "have you forgotten the honor you swore when you donned the white cloak?"
Barristan stepped forward alone, leaving the Dragon Guard and their morningstars and flails behind him. "I have no wish to fight any of you, brothers. I will not raise a hand against the king. But the future of the realm demands that I stand with Prince Daeron. We will rewrite the history of Westeros and lead it into a greater age."
Barristan's voice was calm, almost regretful. "You've learned to speak in pretty words," Prince Lewyn said dryly. "You've seized the Red Keep and mean to control the king. How can we trust you?"
No son had ever overthrown his father in the history of Westeros. The very idea was monstrous. If they let Barristan's men through those doors, who could guarantee the king's life?
"Enough talk," Ser Jon Darry snapped, shoving past Barristan. He drew Vigilance, the golden sword gleaming. "Prince Daeron is the true king of the Seven Kingdoms. His Grace is too mad to rule. The succession must change—today."
Barristan sighed. Words had failed. He drew Neptune's Greatsword.
Five Kingsguard faced one another in the wide corridor.
Ser Oswell tossed aside the half-lemon he had been polishing his blade with. "Let's begin."
The fight exploded.
Barristan met Ser Gerold head-on—two towers of strength colliding with raw power.
Oswell tried to circle around to help. Ser Jon cut him off. "Your opponent is me, Whent."
Lewyn and Oswell abandoned the idea of ganging up on Barristan and turned on Jon instead—two against one.
Clang!
Jon fought like a storm. Life force poured into Vigilance, making the blade glow faintly white. In his silver armor and white cloak he looked like a legend stepped out of the stories.
Lewyn and Oswell had not yet formed their Life Seeds. They were slower, weaker, forced to rely on decades of experience just to stay alive.
"Pin his right arm!" Lewyn shouted, dropping low for a sweeping cut at Jon's waist.
Oswell lunged in, sword raised to block the overhead strike, then kicked Jon hard in the chest.
On the other side of the hall, Barristan pressed Ser Gerold back with heavy, measured blows.
"Ser Gerold," he said quietly, "you have seen what Prince Daeron has done for this realm. The future belongs to him. Do not stand against the tide."
"Shut up!" Gerold roared, red-faced, swinging Vigilance in wide, furious arcs.
Barristan sidestepped, then kicked Gerold's lead leg out from under him. The big knight staggered. Three crushing overhead strikes drove him back until his back hit the wall.
Clang!
Vigilance flew from Gerold's hands, edge chipped and notched.
Barristan laid the flat of Neptune's Greatsword across the older knight's throat. "Yield."
Gerold looked down at his bloody, split palms and gave a bitter laugh.
Across the hall, Jon had already dropped Lewyn and turned to Oswell. He slammed the golden sword against Oswell's throat and pinned him to the door.
"I've wanted to do this for a long time, Whent," Jon growled. "You ever speak against Prince Daeron again and I won't be so gentle."
He released Oswell, kicked the chipped sword away, and stepped back.
The Dragon Guard swarmed in with iron chains. Ordinary rope wasn't enough for Kingsguard.
Footsteps sounded behind them—steady, unhurried.
Daeron walked forward. His purple eyes passed over every face. He stopped at the throne room doors, raised his hand, and knocked.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was almost polite.
"Get out!" Aerys screamed from inside. "There's no one here!"
Daeron's expression never changed. He gave a small gesture.
The Dragon Guard put their shoulders to the doors and pushed.
The heavy panels swung open.
Aerys sat high on the Iron Throne in his purple robes and golden crown, looking small and furious.
The Dragon Guard poured into the hall.
Aerys flinched, then glared down at his second son. "You wretched, disloyal boy! I said there's no one here!"
Daeron waved everyone back. "Wait outside."
"Prince—" Barristan began.
"Outside."
The white cloaks and black-armored guards withdrew, leaving father and son alone.
Daeron looked up at the man on the throne. He drew Dark Sister, kicked the severed head of the pyromancer Rossart across the floor until it stopped at the base of the Iron Throne, and climbed the steps until the Valyrian-steel blade hovered an inch from his father's nose.
"You were waiting for him?" Daeron asked quietly.
Aerys stared at the bloody head—Rossart's parrot-tongue still visible between slack lips—and went pale.
Daeron didn't raise his voice. "I want to rule all affairs of the Seven Kingdoms."
Aerys's mouth opened and closed. "What?"
Daeron leaned in until the tip of Dark Sister pressed against his father's chest. "I. Will. Rule. All. Affairs. Of. The. Seven. Kingdoms."
Aerys's hands bled where the throne's blades cut him. He pressed backward, iron teeth digging into his back, but he still refused to leave the seat.
"I will be named heir at the Great Council," Daeron said. "You will abdicate. After that you may live in the Red Keep or on Dragonstone. I don't care which. If you want dragons, I'll turn the Dragonmont back into a nesting ground. Whatever makes you happy."
Aerys's eyes darted. "And Rhaegar?"
"I will deal with him."
Daeron's voice hardened. "Nod, Father. The Great Council is in half a month. This ends today."
Aerys's face twisted with rage and self-pity. "You ungrateful—"
Daeron drove an elbow into his father's jaw.
Aerys's head snapped sideways. Blood and spit flew. The mad king sagged, cheek already swelling.
Daeron stepped back, sheathed Dark Sister, and called out, "Bring His Grace to his chambers to rest."
Ser Jon and two Dragon Guard lifted the stunned king from the Iron Throne and carried him away.
The three captive Kingsguard exhaled in relief. At least the king was alive.
Daeron sat on the Iron Throne for a long moment. It was cold, uncomfortable, and ugly—just a half-finished monument Aegon the Conqueror had built for himself. He stood up.
"Eventually I'll melt you down," he muttered.
He walked out of the throne room.
In the great hall of Maegor's Holdfast, the Dragon Guard had rounded up every lord and lady still inside the Red Keep—small council members, courtiers, everyone unlucky enough to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Lord Corlton opened his mouth, saw the blood on Daeron's silver hair, and wisely closed it again.
Daeron's purple eyes swept the room. He said nothing. He simply wiped the blood from his hands on a cloth and climbed the stairs.
Lady Olenna Tyrell stood rigid, one arm protectively around her frightened granddaughter Janna. Her sharp eyes followed Daeron, wide with disbelief.
She had been on her way to afternoon tea.
Now she had watched the king carried out of the throne room and his son walk out alone.
Daeron kept climbing.
He had already forced the throne. There was nothing left he was afraid to do.
The Great Council had better go smoothly.
If it didn't, he would burn the whole thing down.
Targaryens going mad was practically tradition.