The Throne Room, The Red Keep.
Inside the Throne Room of the Red Keep, a chilling solemnity hung in the air.
The body of the late King Viserys I lay upon a high dais draped in black velvet, surrounded by massive blocks of ice that radiated a numbing cold, a futile attempt to preserve the Monarch's final shred of dignity.
Crownland nobles and their heirs queued in a silent, trembling line to pay their respects.
But in the council chambers adjacent to the hall, the real power was coalescing.
Aemond Targaryen stood at the head of the long table, clad in black plate.
His violet eye shimmered with a cold intensity as his hand rested on a map of the Seven Kingdoms.
"They must bow," declared Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, wiping sweat from his brow.
Though he was a stout man, his words were sharp.
"The Faith is already behind us. The grey-beards at the Citadel are masters of self-preservation. Defining Orwyle's actions as those of a lone conspirator is their only way to salvage their reputation."
Aemond gave a short nod, his fingers tapping the table.
He knew the Citadel's "neutrality" was a thin veil; true obedience was born of fear and mutual interest.
The door opened, and Tyra led in the visibly anxious Sebaston Estermont.
The Stormlands noble immediately dropped to one knee.
"Prince Aemond, my loyalty is absolute! Orwyle met secretly with the envoys of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands in that tavern cellar. I heard them plot to crown Rhaenyra, claiming the King had been murdered... I rebuked those traitors on the spot!"
Aemond watched him with approval. The information might not be entirely true, but it was exactly the "fact" he required.
"Well done, Sebaston," Aemond said, a trace of rare praise in his voice.
"Loyalty is a virtue that shall be rewarded. Five hundred Gold Dragons are yours, and Lord Borros shall hear of your service to the Crown."
Sebaston beamed, offering profuse thanks as he was led away.
Once the door closed, the room returned to an icy stillness.
Jasper Wylde tremulously presented a new raven scroll.
"Your Grace... the responses from the Crownlands are largely submissive, save for Crackclaw Point. Lord Caswell Staunton of Rook's Rest has been... exceedingly defiant."
Aemond took the letter. It read:
"Rook's Rest recognizes no usurper's decree. We swore to Queen Aemma, and we recognize only her seed. May the kinslayer and regicide face the Gods' wrath!"
"These relics," Aemond muttered, crushing the parchment into a ball.
"They have forgotten that if Visenya's dragonfire could make them kneel once, it can erase them a second time."
He turned to the Hand, Tyland Lannister. "What is the status of the West and the Reach?"
"The Hightowers have twenty thousand men ready to march," Tyland replied.
"Your brother, Prince Daeron, will serve as deputy commander. As for Jason Lannister, the Lion of the Rock still needs time to gather his vassals."
"Twenty thousand?" Aemond raised an eyebrow.
"Indeed. Led by Lord Hightower himself."
Aemond pondered for a moment. "Then tell Daeron to 'invite' the Tyrell babe and his mother to King's Landing on the way. Highgarden's neutrality is too ambiguous; I need their position to be clear."
Tyland hesitated. "That might provoke resentment among the other Reach Houses..."
"Resentment?" Aemond stood and walked to the window.
"Lord Hand, in the South, those who do not stand with us are enemies. The Tyrells are the Wardens of the South; if they will not serve, let them be guests of the Crown."
The Hand nodded slowly. "Understood. And the naval defenses?"
"Ser Erwyn is at the harbor. A third of the iron chains are set, and twenty hulks are ready to be scuttled." Aemond looked out at the shimmering Blackwater Bay.
"But in the end, only a dragon can stop a dragon."
As the meeting dispersed, Aemond remained alone. He looked at the map, his finger lingering on Crackclaw Point.
It was a small territory with fewer than two thousand men, but he knew the most stubborn resistance often came from those with nothing to lose.
As the only rebel in the Crownlands, House Staunton would feel the full weight of his hand.
-----
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