82: The Son of Ice and Fire, The Tourney pt.4

This is going to be the longest chapter in this fic.

I actually fell asleep while editing, and I just woke up! So here’s a little preview, since I was supposed to post this hours ago.

The Tounrey arc of the fic will end with the next chapter—then all hell breaks loose!

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The Tyrell tents dominated the western part of the  tourney grounds—a sprawling expanse of green and gold, with golden roses fluttering proudly in the cool evening breeze. Within these grand pavilions, beneath a canopy of vibrant fabric, prominent lords—the supporters of Prince Aegon Targaryen—gathered under the cover of darkness. This was their first such council: a secret meeting to forge plans, strategize, and solidify their loyalty to Aegon against Maekar.

Aegon sat at the head of the table, his face a mask of controlled tension. Around him sat lords from the Westerlands, Stormlands, the Reach, Dorne, and the Riverlands. Some nursed cups of dark Arbor wine; others stood with arms crossed, their expressions grim.

His gaze moved from face to face, taking in those gathered—Tywin Lannister, eyes cold and calculating; Stannis Baratheon, stern as ever; Mace Tyrell, chest puffed with pride; Edmure Tully, determination and anxiety etched on his features; and his uncles, Doran and Oberyn Martell—Doran contemplative, Oberyn simmering beneath a calm surface.

Doran cleared his throat, frowning. "This should never have happened," he said, his voice soft but edged with steel. "The bastard should never have been given the opportunity to gain this much power."

Aegon nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. "It was my father's mistake," he replied. "He allowed Maekar to rise unchecked."

Lady Olenna leaned forward. "Now is not the time to dwell on past mistakes, my dear boy." She paused, her gaze sweeping across the gathered lords. "The realm is too divided as it stands. When your father, the good king passes, war will come regardless. It's inevitable."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group, a grim acceptance of the reality they faced. Lords shifted in their seats, the weight of the coming storm settling over them.

Stannis Baratheon, his jaw clenched, spoke with his characteristic bluntness. "There won’t be a need for a war if we act quickly.Prince Maekar is defying the laws of the realm. His forces should be brought to justice by order of the king himself."

Tywin Lannister arched an eyebrow, his gaze shifting to Stannis. "Naive of you to think such charges can be so easily levied, Lord Stannis," he said, his voice dry, almost amused. "Do you honestly believe the king would do such a thing?"

Lord Randyll Tarly spoke up. "Lord Tywin is correct. It is foolish to think this can be resolved peacefully. The war is inevitable. Prince Maekar’s camp is weak, and we have the advantage of unity in the Reach, the Westerlands, and Dorne." He paused, a faint smirk crossing his lips. "And this time, we can end the rebellion properly—ensure that those who stood against the Crown during Robert’s Rebellion pay dearly for their mistakes."

The room echoed with murmurs of agreement. Lords shared nods, glances of grim satisfaction. But amid the approval, there were also grunts of disdain.

"A bastard born to a northern savage and a whore," one lord muttered, his voice thick with contempt. "That’s who thinks he can claim the Iron Throne?"

A ripple of laughter echoed in the room.

Another scoffed, his tone dripping with derision. "He’ll be begging on his knees before long."

Tywin raised a hand, the movement silencing the derisive laughter almost immediately. His face remained cold, impassive. "You forget yourselves," he said smoothly. "This bastard, as you call him, has gathered significant power behind him. His hold over King’s Landing is unbreakable. And many of your own bannermen remain divided. Only Dorne, the Reach, and my own Westerlands remain entirely whole. Make no mistake—this conflict could be bloodier than the last rebellion."

Edmure Tully cleared his throat, his face pale but his voice steady. "Then we must secure the Crownlands quickly. When the time comes, we should lay siege to King’s Landing. Trap Prince Maekar within its walls—starve him out, force him to surrender."

Mace Tyrell, who had been sitting silently for most of the discussion, let out a derisive snort. "Isn’t your good brother Lord Stark uncle to Prince Maekar, Lord Edmure?" he asked, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Are we quite sure of your loyalties in this matter?"

Edmure’s face flushed, his hands balling into fists as he shot Mace a glare. "I am nothing like my father, Lord Mace. I know well enough the cost of making the wrong choice." He looked towards Aegon, his eyes sincere. "I am loyal to you, my prince."

Aegon nodded, his gaze softening slightly as he addressed Edmure. "Lord Edmure has my trust. He is an honest man, true to his word. And his loyalty has never wavered."

Edmure shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. "I only ask for the safety of my sister, Catelyn, and her children during the coming conflict. That they be spared from harm."

Aegon inclined his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "You have my word, Lord Edmure. And as for young Cregan, perhaps he should be brought under my care—much like you were under my father’s." He paused, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

One of the lords from the Reach chuckled, his tone mocking. "Might do the North some good to raise a lad less like a savage. Teach him the ways of proper southern nobility."

The laughter that followed rippled through the gathered lords.

Tywin leaned forward, his fingers steepled, his expression cold. "It would be better for Prince Maekar to be dealt with before this conflict truly begins," he said, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the murmurs around the room. His eyes grew sharper, and his tone took on a steely edge. "Strike him down before this becomes a conflict that engulfs all of Westeros."

Stannis shot Tywin a glare. "You suggest we kill him?" Stannis' voice was taut, filled with a mixture of disdain and indignation. "A stain like that on our honor will not easily be erased, Lannister. He must be brought to justice before the king."

Tywin turned his head slightly, his gaze now focused fully on Stannis, his lips curling into a barely-there smirk. "Honor means little here, Baratheon. Not when the realm is at stake."

The tension between the two men simmered, both refusing to look away, the lines of the debate clearly drawn in their expressions.

Aegon, watching the exchange, found himself smiling, a faint curl of his lips. His mind drifted toward his own plots—the steps he had taken, the pieces he had maneuvered. Tywin understood the stakes, as did Aegon, but Stannis, for all his supposed wisdom, was shackled by his sense of honor. 

‘Naive fool,’ Aegon thought.

Yet, as he glanced around the table, Aegon caught a glimpse of his uncle Doran, who was wearing a similar, almost knowing smile.

When the discussion lulled, Aegon rose to his feet, calling the meeting to an end. "My lords, that is enough for tonight," he said. "A lot can change by the end of this tourney—" he allowed a small, almost wicked smile to touch his lips, his gaze flickering around the room—"anything can happen."

The lords murmured in agreement, some nodding, some exchanging unreadable glances. One by one, they began to leave, some whispering to one another, others casting lingering glances at Aegon before stepping out of the grand tent.

Once the tent had emptied, leaving only Aegon and Doran behind, the prince turned toward his uncle. "You wished to speak with me privately, Uncle?" Aegon asked, his voice calm.

Doran met his nephew’s eyes, his own expression cautious. "Have you thought of what I proposed?" he asked, keeping his tone low.

Aegon frowned, his eyes hardening. He already knew what Doran was referring to. "No, Uncle. I am to marry Margaery Tyrell," he said, his voice clipped, each word delivered with forceful finality.

Doran's lips pressed into a thin line, his frustration evident. "Aegon, you must understand. Rhaenys is the better choice for you..."

Aegon's eyes flashed, and for a moment, the rage he kept buried beneath layers of control bubbled to the surface. His face flushed, his jaw clenching as if he were about to lash out, but then he caught himself, swallowing his fury. He straightened, his eyes locking onto Doran's with cold, hard determination.

"My decision is final," Aegon said, his voice low but filled with menacing weight. He leaned in, his eyes never leaving his uncle’s. "Rhaenys will marry a son from one of the many loyal lords who just left, just as Daenerys is to marry Joffrey. The alliances are already set. We will speak of this no more."

Doran’s expression shifted, his frustration evident, but he did not challenge his nephew. He simply nodded, though his eyes held an intensity that showed he was far from pleased.

Without waiting for further argument, Aegon turned and strode out of the tent, Gerold Dayne following him.

As he walked into the cold night air, he found himself craving something—an outlet, a way to release this rage that simmered inside him. His fists clenched at his sides as he moved into the darkness of the camp, the need to hurt something, anything, consuming his thoughts.

He could almost hear Euron’s voice taunting him to give in to his dark desires.