After the Dragons Danced (A Rhaena Targaryen SI) -- 17. Rulers and Protectors

Trigger Warning: Suicidal thoughts, Depression, Self-harm and Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.

Fifth Moon, 132 AC | King’s Landing

AEGON

Like every other night for most of this last year, sleep did not come to Aegon. He thought of having a servant bring him dreamwine, but he decided against it. The maester had told him not to take too much of it, or else he would become dependent and the portion less potent. These days, he found no difference between being awake and being asleep. The nightmares tormented him all the same, awake or not, drunk on dreamwine or not.

As had been his routine for some days now, he pulled on his dressing gown, tied it at the waist, and made his way to the highest crenellation on Maegor’s Holdfast. Following him was Ser Oscar Tully, the Kingsguard that was on duty for the night, and five more Red Cloaks that her siblings had deployed to protect him. There were more men-at-arms manning said battlements who bowed in respect when they saw him, before resuming their watch. Most of those were longbowmen, meant to protect the castle from external attack.

The wintry night was chilly, and it smelled like rain. It would rain soon, Aegon knew. There were scant stars in the sky, their light dim and muted by the clouds that covered them. Mother had once said that when dragonlords died, they went to the stars, forever more watching over the people they left behind. He dearly hoped that was a lie. His parents, his brothers, his sister; the six of them would be embarrassed to be of the same blood as him, he knew.

The ones alive surely were. Baela and Rhaena, his mischievous and charming elder sisters, and Viserys, the little brother he was meant to protect. Both of them were surely ashamed of having him as a sibling. His little brother had refused to come back to King’s Landing after being rescued from the bad men by his sisters. His sisters had stayed away, to do their conquests and kill the bad men. Anger was bubbling up his belly at that, followed instantly by a feeling of guilt. Deep down, Aegon knew that had he had a sibling like him, he’d be ashamed of him too.

A light drizzle morphed into a steady shower in a few moments. The water felt cold as it ran down his hair and his skin, wetting his dressing robe and the night-shirt he wore beneath that. He was taken back to the day of Viserys’ nameday, only seven days before the war began. They had spent the night laying on the beach, Stormcloud above them, flying leisurely in the sky. The rain had begun to fall, and his dragon enjoyed it immensely. Viserys had been beside him with his orange and teal egg that he had long ago named Vexaron. They had spent the whole night together, just the two of them, watching the stars, swimming in the pools on the western side of the Dragonmont and frolicking in the rain before their exasperated father finally found them at dawn and dragged them back into the castle to face their furious mother.

That had been his last good day.

Only a moon’s turn after his ninth nameday, he had abandoned his brother. It was two years later now, and he still had never laid his eyes upon Viserys. For his eleventh nameday last year, Viserys had gifted him a sword made of Dragonsteel. Apparently they had taken it after they had killed House Rogare, one of the bad men that had taken his brother. His brother had named it Deathsong. Like Reign, the sword his sisters had gifted him during his coronation, the hilt of the sword was shaped in the likeness of a dragon; Stormcloud for Reign and Syrax for Deathsong.

Aegon hadn’t known what to send his brother as a gift for his own nameday, two turns of the moon ago. There was nothing in the world which could redeem the shame of being a coward, the shame of leaving a brother to die in the hands of enemies. He could have commanded Stormcloud to burn those men; he could have escaped with Viserys; he could have even stayed with him. Any other alternative was much, much better than the craven course he had chosen.

He remembered the first letter he had received from Tyrosh, writ in Viserys’ own hand, assuring him that he was safe and whole and unharmed. Unlike him, Baela and Rhaena had been brave, and had been the ones to go and rescue him. They had obliterated the family that had abducted him, then sacked two of the three cities that were responsible for the death of Jacaerys.

Jacaerys. His eldest brother. The one who should have been sitting the throne that had been thrust upon him, the one who had been there to guide him whenever he was afraid. It had been raining on the day he died. Stormcloud had just died of his wounds, and Aegon had been crying, rushing into his brother’s arms and struggling to tell him what had happened. When he had confessed that he had left his brother, he had expected Jacaerys to throttle him dead. Instead, he had brought him into an embrace, and told him that he had been brave, and that he was going to get their brother back.

The last words his brother had told him had been lies. In his grieving mother’s arms, he had watched as Jacaerys had flown off with his dragonriders, to go destroy their enemies and to rescue his little brother. He had not slept a wink that night, instead, watching from the battlements around Dragonstone as fire rained down in the distance during the battle. He had watched with tears in his eyes as Cannibal swooped down from his lair in the Dragonmont and devoured Stormcloud’s remains, leaving nothing of him but the black stains of his dried blood.

The battle had ended the next night. Baela had broken down, wailing in distress, once her beloved and his dragon had been confirmed to have been dead. She had sworn vengeance upon any of mother’s enemies since that day, vowing to put an end to them whenever she came across any of them. Unlike his craven self, she had fulfilled that promise and then some.

His mind took him back to the day his father and the bastard girl left for the Riverlands, to hunt down the one-eyed monster that had killed Lucerys. It had been pouring rain that day too. Caraxes, a tempestuous dragon in the best of times, seemed ready to tear the head off any who approached him, save his rider. Father had hugged him, telling him to watch over Mother. Joff was her heir now, he had said, and he had to learn how to rule. The responsibility of taking care of Mother would be his, and Aegon had sworn a solemn vow to fulfil that duty. He had then given Baela an embrace, telling her something had her in tears. Father had then climbed atop the shrieking Caraxes and taken off, the brown girl following him on Sheepstealer.

That had been the last he had seen of his father. The last thing he had told him had been a lie. Aegon had failed his mother horribly. His mind threatened to take him to that day, when all he saw was flames and all he heard was screaming. A strong urge to feel pain washed over him, but there was nothing nearby he could use to achieve that. Sharp blades of any kind were not accessible to him, whether he used his kingly authority to command it or not. He looked down at the iron spikes that lined the moat at the bottom of Maegor’s. For longer than he was willing to admit, he imagined throwing himself atop them and finally ending his suffering, finally closing the gaping void where his soul was supposed to be.

From the periphery of his vision, he saw Ser Oscar Tully and the Red Cloaks approaching a tad closer than they had been before. The guards Baela and Rhaena had assigned to him were to protect him from all threats, even himself. He was the king. His person was inviolable.

Aegon sighed as the rain came down harder. His entire body was completely drenched now.

It had been raining just like this on the day Joffrey died. Aegon had begged him not to leave them, but he had been determined. Syrax was familiar enough with him, his brother had said, it would be easy enough for her to take him to the Dragonpit to get Tyraxes and burn all the people who wished to kill their dragons. Aegon knew that none could ever ride a dragon that was not bonded to him. He had told Joffrey that, but Joffrey was always the most stubborn of his brothers. By the time he had told Mother of his plan, it was too late. All they could do was watch as Syrax shook violently, throwing his brother off her back, killing him.

Aegon had been happy to see Syrax die only moments later. It had been his mother’s dragon, the dragon that laid Stormcloud’s egg, but she had also killed his brother. Even as Mother cried for the loss of the other half of her soul, Aegon felt rather relieved.

Father had always said that a dragonrider was the holiest thing a person could be. He had always said that dragons made them exalted above all others, made them worthy of the legacy of Valyria. Dragons gave them freedom to forge the destiny of entire realms, freedom to fly, freedom to be what they wished, freedom to be the masters of their own destinies.

Father had lied.

These past two years, he had seen the truth. The dragons were shackles. Chains that bound them to the sky. The sky, which was filled with danger and fire and death. Father had died in the sky. Stormcloud had died in the sky. Jace had died in the sky. Luke had died in the sky. Joffrey had died in the sky. Moondancer had died in the sky. Baela and Rhaena’s grandmother had died in the sky.

Fear coursed through him then. Baela had a new dragon now. She was away, fighting their enemies, getting vengeance for the death of their family. She was chaining herself to her dragon, chaining herself to the sky, condemning herself to fire and danger and death. Rhaena too, he remembered. The last letter he had got from Viserys was lauding Rhaena’s achievement of finally taking to the skies on Morning, something she now did as often as her duties allowed.

Tears were flowing down his face. Aegon wanted to save them. But how? Would they even believe him, now that he had failed them so many times already? He wouldn’t, if he was them. No one would believe Aegon the Unworthy.

He sighed, before he stared at the raining skies once more.

Baela and Rhaena had left ten turns of the moon ago, again, on a rainy day such as this. They had told him that all they wished to do was to rescue Viserys and bring him back. Now, they had conquered a city, secured the Stepstones, punished the cities that had stolen his brother, and even burned parts of Dorne.

That was how wars went, Aegon had come to learn. They began with a small thing, before growing larger and larger, and before realising it, one’s mother was being burned to death. The last war had begun with the death of little Visenya, the little sister she had hoped to grow up with and perhaps one day marry. To some at court, the war had begun decades earlier, when his mother and Jaehaera’s grandmother had won different dresses to a feast. Now, most of his family was dead.

Aegon sent a prayer to the Seven and the Pantheon to keep his siblings safe, at least until they came back. From there, he would at least try to save them.

“Aegon!” a voice called out behind him, “What are you doing in the rain?”

For a moment, Aegon’s heart soared with joy, thinking it was Mother, coming to chastise him and Lucerys for playing in the storm, but as always, the joy turned to ashes in his mouth. It was Elinda.

The Kingsguard went to block Elinda as he approached him, but he bid him to let her approach.

“You need to come back inside!” she exclaimed, taking a hold of him and guiding him back to his apartments in the castle.

Elinda then turned to Ser Oscar, “Why did you let him go out in the rain?”

“He is the king, my lady,” Ser Oscar replied, “It is not for me to tell him where he can and cannot go.”

Elinda let out an exasperated breath before calling for a hot bath. She instructed Aegon to shed his clothes and bathe himself. He complied, bathing as quickly as he could. He put on a fresh dressing robe once he was done. The roaring hearth in the main chamber of his quarters made him pause in his step, and suddenly, he was shaking, with tears staining his eyes. Hands were on her shoulders, trying to calm him.

“It’s only the hearth,” he heard a voice telling him, “There’s no danger to you, Your Grace.” He was being guided to sit down on one of the couches.

“You’re here. You’re safe,” the voice continued to soothe him.

It took a long moment before the shaking ceased.

“You need to eat,” Elinda said, guiding him to the round table in the main chamber. There was a plate of rice with venison and a salad made of sweet grass, spinach and plums. It was then that he noticed the gnawing hunger at the pit of his belly. He all but inhaled his food.

“What were you doing outside?” she asked.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Aegon answered, weakly.

Elinda softened, “I know that this is hard. I miss your siblings too. But they’re safe, as they’ve told you in the letters they've been sending you.”

Aye, they were safe, but they were away from him. Aegon did not voice that thought, instead shifting his focus back to his food.

“How about we play a game of chess?” she offered gently, “Gaemon has been teaching me. I think I can last reasonably long even against you.”

Aegon had no desire to play any games of any kind, “No.” The rejection came out quite a bit sharper than he had intended. He truly wished to be alone.

“What do you want to do then?” she asked, once he was done with his food.

“Just… just leave me alone,” he replied.

Her eyes turned sad, “How about I bring Gaemon here once he awakens?”

Aegon did not want Gaemon here, nor anyone for that matter. He just wished to be left alone.

“No,” he replied, “He has his own duties to fulfil once he wakes up. I would only be a bother to him. Thank you for the food. Again, I just want to be left alone.”

She let out a long sigh, “Only if you promise not to go outside again. It’s raining quite heavily, and I do not wish for you to fall ill.”

“Targaryens do not suffer the same ailments as normal men,” Aegon repeated something he had heard Father say once.

Elinda gave him an eye roll, “’Tis dragonriders who that applies to. Your grandfather’s sister, Princess Daenerys, died of the shivers, did she not?

Aegon had been a dragonrider once. Elinda’s voice turned serious, “Promise me you shan’t go outside in all this rain.”

“I am the king.”

She put his hands on his shoulders, annoyed, “Promise me you shan’t go outside in all this rain, Your Grace.”

Aegon nodded. As he had wished for, Elinda took the empty plate, checking specifically that the knife he had eaten with was there, and left. Why had he asked her to leave? He thought with anguish as he heard the door shut behind her.

After moments of indecision, he decided to walk to the window of his chambers and stare at the rain as it fell. He had promised Elinda not to go outside, not to keep the windows shut. He thus opened them. The sound of the falling rain was soothing to him, even if all it did was remind him of the worst days of his life. At least on those days, he had felt something beyond the emptiness that life held for him now.

Aegon tried to imagine what his siblings must be doing now. Probably laughing together at some jape or the other. Or riding their dragons. He remembered how much Baela had wished for a dragon of her own. She had tried to hide it from the rest of them, but he had seen her shed tears after Stormcloud had hatched for him, while her egg did not quicken for months afterwards. She had been so, so happy when Moondancer hatched. All she had wished for was for the dragon to grow large enough for her to ride.

Moondancer had died, and now, she rode Silverwing, the largest dragon in the world. She went into battle with her, often and without fear. How could she do that? She had lost Moondancer and almost died in battle already, Aegon did not understand how she could bear to be so fearless in the face of danger even now.

Suddenly, he was back on Dragonstone on that day. No, no, no! He could not, he could not see that… Not again. He shut his eyes as hard as he could, but he could not make it go away. The burned man was commanding his dragon to step forth, and… No! No! No!.

He was on the floor in the corner, his knees on his chest, sobbing weakly as his body rocked back and forth. There was nothing, nothing that could take that away now. Except… He felt the touch of his teeth on the skin of his forearm, and the muted pain felt oh, so relieving. He bit down on a chunk of skin, and finally, that day went away from his mind.

Only, he opened his eyes and saw the flames roaring in the hearth once more, and he brought back there. He heard her mother shrieking. He remembered the knife as it carved a chunk of her breast. No! No! No! No!. Aegon was shaking now. He could not move, but he needed to. He went to his bed. With all the effort he could muster, tore the blanket away from it. He then ran to the hearth and shoved it in there.

The flames finally stopped. There was smoke all over his room, now. It smelled nice. He raised his head up, fresh tears staining his eyes, and breathed it in. The sensation of it filling his lungs felt so, so good. The pain in his throat as he coughed it back out was even better.

The door to his chamber opened and Ser Oscar stepped in, “Your Grace…” he called out, his sword drawn, looking this way and that for any assailant, “Your Grace, are you hurt?”

Aegon shook his head, “’Twas only the fire. It was getting too hot and it needed to be snuffed out.”

“Oh! You need to come with me, Your Grace,” he said, before letting out a cough, “There’s quite a bit of smoke here.”

Aegon allowed himself to be dragged to a set of empty chambers, Ser Oscar and five of the Red Cloaks by his side. This time, the Red Cloaks were inside the chamber as well and not only outside, guarding him as silent sentinels.

“Leave!” he commanded them, with the most kingly voice he could muster.

The men looked at each other for a moment, before bowing their heads and doing so. A servant brought him a goblet of water, and Aegon drank deep. Oh, that felt nice. He was guided to the window of the chamber, and was told to stay there for a long moment after the blinds were drawn and the windows were opened. There was a maester with him now, telling him to breathe in as deeply as he can. The rain was much better than the smoke, he found. He coughed a few more times, but after a while, the scratching in his throat stopped.

Another servant had him out of his clothes, in a bath, and dressed in new clothes within a short time. Couldn’t these people understand that he wanted to be left alone? After the servant left, Elinda then came, and just sat next to him, reading a huge book, saying nothing to him.

“I thought I said I wished to be left alone,” Aegon said, curtly.

“Aye, you did,” Elinda answered, in a kinder tone than what he had addressed her with, “but that was before you almost burned down your chambers. Do not worry, Your Grace, I will not be a disturbance to you.” She then got up and went to the corner of the room, sitting on the chaise ensconced near the window and continuing her reading there.

Aegon was tempted to call for Ser Oscar to get Elinda out, but he reminded himself that she was family. Instead, as he liked to do, he went to the windows, opened them, and watched the rain until daybreak.

Lord Corlys was the one to interrupt the comfortable silence they had fallen into, announcing that there was to be a council meeting today. Aegon thought of refusing the invitation. He was not yet a man-grown, he had no authority over his regents, as some of them so often liked to remind him, but he did not. He had been a craven older brother and an inadequate son, he should at least try to be a halfway decent king.

CORLYS - HAND OF THE KING

The council chambers grew emptier every day, Corlys thought, as he took his seat directly next to the king’s. Of the ten council members that had been appointed at the onset of the regency, only six remained now. Lord Olyver Caron, Lady Jeyne Arryn and Lord Roland Westerling had returned to their seats of power to deal with the respective Dornish, Mountain Clan, and ironborn invasions into their domains. Lord Torrhen Manderly left only yesterday, to take up the rulership of White Harbour into his own hands.

At least the king attended. With the amount of turmoil and grief he was aware Aegon was facing, especially with the continued absence of his siblings, he was glad that the boy was determined to see how the Seven Kingdoms were governed, in preparation for him taking the rule into his own hands in half-a-decade.

Gods, he would be eighty-three years of age then; well and truly ancient. Grandfather had died at the ripe old age of eighty-eight. For the first time in a decade, he hoped to live that long. He wished to see his grandchildren marry, and hold his great-grandsons and daughters in his hands. He wished to see House Velaryon restored from the lowly state it was currently in.

Already, he had begun to search for a wife for Alyn. Two candidates appealed to him thus far; Priscilla Celtigar, the daughter of Lord Bartimos, who had been a stalwart even if misguided supporter for the queen during the war. The second was much more unconventional. Saera’s children had children of their own, and one of them would serve nicely. The measure of Valyrian blood in their house had to be maintained, to preserve their relations with House Targaryen. House Velaryon had thrived best when they had the favour of their Targaryen kin, especially now that they had no dragons of their own and there was no chance of them getting any.

Viserys was surely going to claim Sheepstealer, Corlys thought. The whereabouts of the girl that rode him were unknown, but it would not remain that way forever. One could not hide a dragon for long. And once he claimed Sheepstealer, the three of them were going to obliterate the hell spawn that is the Cannibal. With so many dragons dead after the war, having a cannibal endangered the very existence of the species. He was sure the twins would come to that conclusion on their own, but if they didn’t, well, he was there as an advisor after all.

Tyland Lannister’s entry into the chamber brought him out of his wandering thoughts. As always, he wore his silken robe to hide his lack of ears and eyes. The queen had done a number of the man, but he had remained unyielding and loyal to his king. Now, he professed a dogged loyalty to the new king, and Corlys had good cause to doubt him. None could go through the ordeal that Tyland had, and serve the son of the woman who was responsible for said ordeal. Still, the twins had approved of him, and they would take the regency into their own hands whenever they returned.

“Now that we’re all here,” Corlys began, “shall we begin?”

“The Master of Laws is not here,” the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard pointed out.

“Lord Torrhen left King’s Landing quite late yesterday,” Corlys explained, “His father and older brother died of a mysterious new pestilence that is spreading across the Northern coast; leaving him as the Lord of White Harbour.”

“I advise that we find a replacement for him sooner rather than later,” the Grand Maester explained, “Lady Jeyne, Lord Olyver and Lord Roland were merely advisors with no official place on the council, but a Master of Laws is essential to have. We cannot go without one for too long.”

“Very well, Grand Maester,” Lord Corlys replied, “Please present a list of all candidates to be considered to the Tower of the Hand. Once I have verified their abilities and qualifications, we shall sort through them and pick one at a future meeting.”

The man nodded. Corlys would delay that as much as he feasibly could. The twins had urged him to forestall the selection of any other man to be on the council until they returned. At that time, they had planned to have been back by, at most, their sixteenth nameday. The moon had turned twice since said nameday, and according to the reports he had heard of Tyrosh, they were not going to be back any time soon. If the rest of the regents outvoted him, however, his hands would be tied.

“Now, let us begin,” Corlys said to them, as the king’s friend, the bastard boy Gaemon Palehair, began to pour wines in their cups. By the king’s appointment, he was serving as cupbearer.

“Lord Manfryd,” he called the Master of Coin, “you were to report the progress on the rebuilding of King’s Landing.”

The man cleared his throat, coughed twice, composed himself before beginning, “The Myrish architects have been a blessing to the realm. They have already completed the plans for the entire city as inspired by Princess Rhaena’s ideas. Work shall begin on that as time goes on. As of now, at the instruction of the princesses, priority has been given to the construction of a Great Sept at the top of Visenya’s Hill. As we speak, the foundations have been laid and building has begun.

“The head of the project informs me that the building shall take a decade to be habitable, and another two to be fully complete according to Princess Rhaena’s vision. The rain and the winter have slowed labour a bit, but the workers hope that the progress shall double as the seasons change and summer comes.”

Corlys asked, “I assume that the coffers of The Crown shall be enough to fund the venture.”

“More than enough, my lord,” the Lord Treasurer replied, smiling, “The riches taken from the Triarchy and the return of the gold of Viserys’ reign assures that the crown’s coffers will be healthy for decades to come.”

“Very well,” Lord Corlys replied, before turning to the Master of Ships, “Lord Tyland, what of the work in the shipyard?”

Lord Tyland explained, “The progress made has been remarkable. The designs the princess offered gave the shipwrights a bit of trouble, but building has commenced since, once they deciphered how they worked and especially with the assistance of the Myrish, Lyseni and Tyroshi engineers. For the designs we are used to, construction has been efficient.”

“The princesses have requested for more ships to aid their work in pacifying Tyrosh and the Stepstones,” Corlys told him.

“Thirty galleys, fifteen cogs and five carracks are ready to set sail immediately, with more being built as the days go by. The building has become more efficient, with the methods of mass production being taught. With time, I believe the shipyards of King’s Landing shall become as formidable as the Arsenal of Braavos.”

“Good,” Corlys said, “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, Grand Maester, are there any communications that we need to be aware of?”

“Yes, my lords. The ironborn grow bolder with each passing moon. They’ve invaded and taken the Shield Isles, and reports have it that they plan to sail up the Mander to plunder as far up as Highgarden and Bitterbridge.

“Lady Alerie Tyrell requests for the crown’s aid post-haste in repelling them. Lady Johanna Westerling as well.”

“There’s a very simple way to end these predations, my lords,” Ser Tyland offered, “a betrothal. Let the kraken wed a dragon, and his hunger for conquest shall be sated.”

“And who is to wed him?” the usually silent boy-king asked.

“Princess Rhaena, Your Grace,” the man offered, “Princess Baela will surely marry Prince Viserys when he comes of age, but what of Princess Rhaena? She’s of age, and yet unbetrothed. An alliance with the overmighty ironborn will surely settle hostilities.”

“No,” Corlys countered, “House Targaryen’s marriage arrangements shall be left to its scions to decide.”

Tyland Lannister turned to the king, “Surely His Grace sees the benefit of this match.”

The king replied, “A marriage to my sister would only serve to embolden Lord Dalton, not sate him.”

“Princess Rhaena’s dragon is but a hatchling, Your Grace, it shall be years before she is effective in battle.”

“The answer is no,” the king said, “As Lord Corlys said, marriages of the members of my house shall be decided by us, and none else, my lord.” That finally shut up the blustering knight.

The Master of Coin spoke up next, “The Reach and the Westerlands can surely take care of themselves. The Tyrells especially, given that they did not take part in the war. For generations before Aegon’s conquest, they beat back the ironborn whenever they dared to reave into their lands. They can certainly do so now.”

“Aye, at least until the dragons return from the East,” the Lord Commander added.

“Speaking of the East,” the Grand Maester took his turn, “Volantis has annexed Lys and the Disputed Lands, adding them to their domains. Shouldn’t we be concerned for that? Every king since the conqueror has worked to prevent another Valyria from rising again. Even after meeting with their rulers, the princesses agreed to intervene should one Free City grow too powerful.”

“And none will. Already, reports are coming in that Mantarys, Tolos and Elyria, with the support of Braavos, are striking Volantis in the rear. To their North, Pentos aims to contest some of the territories of the Disputed Lands that Volantis took for themselves. Of course, as anticipated, Volantis grew greedy and reached for lands that were beyond the scope of their agreement with the Iron Throne. Let them pay the price for that,” Corlys explained.

“War amongst the Free Cities is good for Westeros,” Lord Mooton said, “It will keep their attention away from Tyrosh and the Narrow Sea as we claim it for ourselves.”

“Mayhaps we might have ourselves another Century of Blood, with the vacuum left after Myr and Lys were so brutally sacked.” Corlys added.

“How long will it be until my siblings return?” the king he crowned asked.

“We don’t know, Your Grace. From the last reports I received from them, the Champions of Trios have been causing chaos all across the city, killing freedmen and septons. The prince and the princesses are struggling to find them and restore order,” the Grand Maester explained.

“They will have them in hand soon enough. All we can do now is send them whatever they need,” Corlys said, turning to the Grand Maester, “Anything else?”

“Lord Tully requests aid in dealing with the brigands that have come about in the Riverlands. He reports that Lord Blackwood and his retinue got ambushed several times by outlaws as they travelled up North for his sister’s wedding.”

“I will coordinate with Eddard’s Gold Cloaks to see it done. Five hundred men would be enough to find and deal with these outlaws, I believe” the Lord Commander said.

The rest of the council agreed to that. The Grand Maester moved on to the next issue once that was settled, “The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch has requested aid as well. Wildling attacks at The Wall have increased as the winter has worn on.”

“That is Lord Stark’s issue to deal with,” Ser Tyland said, “He is the Warden of the North, is he not? Like the Tyrells, they were not involved in the war, meaning they have more men to call upon to fight their battles. Him depositing ten thousand of them when he came south is surely proof of that.”

“I second that,” Corlys agreed, with some deal of resentment. If the Northmen had marched south earlier than the delaying Lord Stark chose to, the war would have ended much earlier than it did. Perhaps Addam might have lived. The rest of the councillors agreed with him, and the issue was laid to rest.

Just as Corlys was about to call the meeting to an end, one of the Grand Maester’s assistants walked in, handing him a raven scroll. All in the Red Keep knew not to interrupt a council meeting, therefore whatever was on there must have been truly important. He held his breath, hoping it was not news of the death of one of his grandchildren.

“My Lords,” the Grand Maester told them, shock colouring his features once he had finished reading it, “Sunspear, the Shadow City, the Planky Town, and every port and harbour in Dorne has been put to the torch.”

“Why?” Lord Mooton was the first to ask.

“Princess Baela reports that she had given Princess Aliandra two turns of the moon to cease her invasions into the Stormlands and the Stepstones or else Dorne would suffer brutal consequence,” he explained, “That was three moons ago. The day before last, she intercepted a small Dornish fleet sailing towards the coast of Shame Isle, one of the islands of the Stepstones. She had also received a raven from House Baratheon a fortnight earlier, seeking her aid against the emboldened Vulture King that had invaded as far into the marches as Blackhaven. Their fate was sealed then, the Princess says, and that she had larger troubles to deal with than troublesome Dornishmen.”

“Princess Aliandra had sworn off all responsibility for the Vulture King’s invasions, had she not?” The Lord Commander asked.

“We all know that all Vulture Kings since the conqueror’s time have had the full support of the Martell Princes,” Corlys said, “For decades, they’ve not experienced any serious consequences of their incursions. Since the Dragon’s Wroth, no king has dared to take the fight to them, instead choosing to battle from a defensive front, a fact that has only served to embolden them. ‘Tis time they learn, I think.”

“How do we know this won’t make the incursions even worse?” Ser Tyland asked, shaking his head.

“All we can do is wait and see,” Corlys said, “Mayhaps Dorne will descend into a civil war of its own, now that the main branch of House Martell is most likely dead.”

“We can only hope,” Lord Mooton replied.

After a beat of silence, Corlys spoke to the entire council, “If there is nothing else, this meeting is over.”

As he rose to leave, his cane helping him in that endeavour, he turned to the king, offering to play him a game of chess. They hadn’t played against each other in a while. The boy refused, instead wishing to return to his chambers. The Lord Commander asked him to go train at sword-play for an hour or two, but the king refused. He sighed to see it. Corlys wished for his siblings to return, they would at least rekindle that spark of life that he seemed to have lost.

Author’s Note:

Aside from serving as a tool for exposition, the council scene can be used to glean the intention of different players across the kingdom, some of whom are represented on said council.

The Aegon POV honestly did a number on me. I had planned for the reader to be in his head for the whole chapter, but in writing this, a lot of my inner demons were getting exposed, l0l. I legit broke down at several points while expounding his thoughts. I therefore used Corlys’ POV to drive the rest of the plot. I hope the chapter still flows.

Please tell me what you think of the chapter and the story so far in the comments.