The Throne Room, The Red Keep.
Alicent sat, her hands gripping the jagged armrests of the Iron Throne until her knuckles turned white.
The metal bit into her skin, but the pain was distant compared to the cold dread settling in her stomach.
She watched her son, no longer the boy who had cried over a pig, but a stranger in black leather and steel who commanded the room with a terrifying, suffocating gravity.
Aemond turned his back on the Throne, facing the encircled envoys. He did not shout. He did not rage.
His voice dropped to a conversational, almost intimate volume that carried effortlessly through the silent hall.
"Lord Sebaston Estermont."
The Stormlands representative flinched as if struck. He was sweating profusely, his eyes darting between the steel wall of guards and the one-eyed Prince.
"Y-Yes, Your Grace?" Sebaston stammered.
"You seem ill at ease," Aemond observed, tilting his head.
"Do you share the sentiments of your companions? Do you believe the King is a prisoner? Do you demand to storm his sickbed?"
"No! Never!" Sebaston cried out, stepping further away from the other three.
"House Estermont, and House Baratheon, have absolute faith in the Queen Regent and the Hand. We came only... we came only because of the joint pact. We meant no offense!"
"I believe you," Aemond smiled. It was a sharp, wolfish expression.
"The Stormlands have always been friends to the Crown. Ser Criston, escort Lord Sebaston to the guest wing. See that he is given the finest wine and every comfort. He is a true friend of the Throne."
"Thank you, Your Grace! Thank you!" Sebaston bowed hurriedly, barely looking at his former companions before scurrying behind the line of Kingsguard.
Now, only three remained: Medrick Manderly, Will Royce, and Benjicot Blackwood. They stood back-to-back, isolated in the center of the hall.
Aemond walked slowly toward them.
"And then there were three," he mused.
"The Wolf, the Falcon, and the Raven. Tell me, when you plotted this little display of 'unity,' did you expect me to tremble? Did you think I would open the King's door and let you gawk at him like a carnival attraction?"
"We expected the Crown to honor the rights of its vassals!" Medrick Manderly shouted, his hand twitching toward a sword belt that wasn't there.
"To detain envoys is a violation of the sacred laws of gods and men! Even Maegor respected the immunity of messengers!"
"Maegor killed the messengers who brought him news he disliked," Aemond corrected coldly.
"I am far more merciful. I am not killing you."
He stopped inches from Medrick's face.
"You say you wish to wait for the King's recovery? Very well. I grant your wish. You shall remain in King's Landing. You will live here, eat here, and sleep here until His Majesty is well enough to receive you."
"That could be months!" Benjicot Blackwood spat, his dark eyes burning.
"You mean to hold us hostage."
"I mean to keep you safe," Aemond countered smoothly.
"The city is dangerous for those who spread sedition. If you were to leave, who knows what accidents might befall you on the Kingsroad? No, it is safer here. You will remain as... guests."
He turned to the guards.
"Take them to the Tower of the Hand. The fourth level. Place a guard at every door and window. They are not to leave their chambers without my written permission."
"This is tyranny!" Will Royce roared, his voice booming like a war horn.
"The Vale will not stand for this! Lady Jeyne will summon the banners!"
"Let her," Aemond said, his voice slicing through Royce's shout.
"Let her summon them. And when she does, remind her that I have Vhagar. Remind her that I have the King. And remind her that her representative, her renowned cousin, is currently enjoying my hospitality."
He signaled with a flick of his wrist.
The guards moved in. There was no fight, the envoys were unarmed and outnumbered twenty to one.
Medrick was seized by the arms, struggling in vain. Benjicot was shoved forward.
Will Royce stood his ground for a moment, glaring at Aemond with pure hatred, before two Gold Cloaks forced him to move.
"You are making a mistake, Prince!" Medrick shouted as he was dragged away.
"The North remembers! You have started a war you cannot finish!"
"I finish everything I start," Aemond replied calmly.
The heavy oak doors groaned open, and the shouting envoys were hauled out into the corridor.
The doors slammed shut with a finality that made the Small Council flinch.
Silence returned to the Throne Room, a heavy, oppressive silence.
Aemond turned back to the dais. He looked up at Alicent, who was still pressed against the back of the Iron Throne, her eyes wide and glassy.
"The business of the envoys is concluded," Aemond announced to the room.
He looked at Tyland Lannister.
"Lord Hand, send ravens to White Harbor, the Eyrie, and Riverrun. Inform them that their representatives have fallen ill upon arrival in the capital and are currently recuperating under the Crown's care. Request that the Lords themselves come to King's Landing to retrieve them, and to swear fealty."
Tyland hesitated for a fraction of a second, then bowed deeply.
"A brilliant strategy, Your Grace. It buys us time and leverage."
"It buys us war," Larys Strong whispered to himself, though his face bore a faint, twisted smile of approval.
Aemond walked up the steps of the dais, stopping beside the Throne.
He placed a hand on the armrest, right beside Alicent's trembling fingers.
"Mother," he whispered, low enough that only she could hear.
"You need to rest. The burden of rule is heavy, and your hands... they are shaking."
Alicent looked up at him. In his single violet eye, she saw no madness, only a terrifying clarity of purpose.
He truly believed he was saving them.
"What have you done, Aemond?" she breathed.
"They will not come to swear fealty. They will come with swords."
"Then let them come," Aemond said, straightening up and looking out over the kneeling court.
"I have been waiting for them."
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