The Council Chambers, The Red Keep.
The midday sun slanted in through the high windows. Aemond stood behind the head of the long table, his hands gripping the back of the chair.
He had been standing there for a quarter of an hour.
The sunlight streamed in from behind him, illuminating his broad shoulders and slender arms; his signature long silver hair appeared almost transparent in the halo of light.
His face was hidden in shadow, making his expression unreadable, save for the occasional cold glint reflected in his violet eye.
Hal stood three paces behind him.
Even now, he couldn't help but steal a glance at the four chairs.
The table was wide, its dark oak surface polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting the silhouettes of those present.
There were only four chairs, all arranged on the left side of the long table, evenly spaced.
Their backs faced the door, and their seats faced the head of the table.
Four chairs. Four people.
Hal silently counted the list of those about to arrive: Larys Strong, Master of Whisperers; Gwayne Hightower, Commander of the Royal Guard; Ser William Darklyn, Commander of the Royal Army; and Will Simmons, Master of Coin.
Four people, four chairs, all on the left. The right side was empty.
The space directly opposite the head of the table was also vacant.
Hal swallowed hard. He had a vague inkling of what this meant, but he didn't dare dwell on it.
Footsteps echoed outside the door, more than one person.
Hal straightened his back. The door was pushed open.
Four men entered in single file. Leading the way was Larys Strong. His cane tapped against the stone floor, thump, thump, thump, in a steady rhythm.
He wore deep green velvet robes embroidered with the fire sigil of Harrenhal, his sparse grey hair combed neatly.
The first thing he saw upon entering was the four chairs. He hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Then, his gaze swept across the table to the silhouetted figure standing against the light at the head. He smiled.
It was a faint smile, a mere curling of the lips that didn't reach his eyes. He continued forward. Thump, thump, thump.
The second man was Gwayne Hightower, brother to Queen Mother Alicent, the new Commander of the Royal Guard, and the representative of House Hightower in King's Landing.
With salt-and-pepper hair and a resolute face, dressed in the white-and-gold battle robes of the Guard.
He, too, saw the four chairs as he entered. His pace faltered. His brow furrowed.
The third was Will Simmons.
He had long since grown accustomed to such displays.
The fourth was Ser William Darklyn, Commander of the Royal Army and City Watch, a fifty-year-old veteran who had fought in the Stepstones and suppressed the Iron Islands rebellion.
He came to a halt upon entering. He stared at the four chairs.
On the left. Only on the left. Four of them. His face darkened.
The four men stood at the door; none of them made the first move. Aemond remained behind the head chair, his hands still gripping the wood.
The backlight kept his face deeply shrouded. He didn't speak. Silence flooded the room like rising water.
Larys Strong was the first to move. He limped toward the left side of the table, his cane tapping clearly in the silence. He walked to the first chair on the left and stopped.
He didn't sit immediately. He looked back at the three empty chairs, then at the silent silhouette at the head of the table.
He took a deep breath. Then, he sat. He propped his cane against the chair, folded his hands over his knees, straightened his back, and looked straight ahead.
Gwayne Hightower watched him, his frown deepening.
But he didn't hesitate for long. He strode to the second chair and sat down.
Will Simmons followed, taking the third chair.
He even smoothed out the hem of his robes before sitting, his movements as natural as if this were the established norm.
Ser William Darklyn was the last. He stood at the door, looking at the three men already seated, the four chairs clustered on one side, and the young man at the head of the table who had yet to utter a word.
His fist clenched, then relaxed. He walked to the fourth chair and sat.
The four of them sat in a row, all facing the head of the table, all facing that silhouetted figure.
Aemond finally moved. He stepped out from behind the chair and walked to the front of the head position. He didn't sit immediately.
He stood beside the chair, looking down at the four men, from left to right.
From right to left. His gaze finally settled on Larys Strong in the first chair.
He smiled. But the words he spoke next left everyone stunned.
"Larys."
Larys looked up. Aemond watched him, his violet eye carrying a certain playfulness.
"Do you think you are qualified to sit in that position?"
Larys's expression froze for an instant. Gwayne Hightower glanced at him sideways.
A slight smirk touched Ser William Darklyn's lips.
Will Simmons kept his head down, staring at his fingers as if he had heard nothing.
Larys's breath hitched. Then, he stood up. His movements were slow; his cane hit the floor first, then his body rose.
His knees were in poor condition, making the movement difficult, yet he maintained his smile.
"The Prince is right," his voice was steady, even carrying a hint of self-deprecation.
"I was presumptuous."
He bowed slightly toward Gwayne Hightower.
"Lord Gwayne, please." He stepped aside, preparing to move down the line.
Aemond raised his hand. His finger pointed to the fourth chair, the one occupied by Ser William Darklyn.
"Go sit at the end."
Larys's smile vanished. It was only for a second, then he nodded.
"As you command, Prince."
He limped, step by step, toward the fourth chair.
Ser William Darklyn watched him approach and shifted his body forward slightly.
Larys sat in the fourth chair, propped his cane beside him, folded his hands over his knees, and sat with a straight back and a smile.
He looked exactly as he had moments before.
But everyone knew everything had changed.
Aemond watched him. This cripple, this Lord of Harrenhal, this Master of Whisperers, the man who always stood in the shadows of the Throne Room.
He was Aegon's man. At least, he had been lately. Since Viserys's passing, Larys had frequented Aegon's chambers more than anyone else.
He reported intelligence to the new King, offered counsel, and drank with him to ease his boredom.
He had even offered to help Queen Aelyn contact House Rogare to help Aegon build his own network.
And now, this cripple wanted to curry favor with him as well.
Aemond loathed it. A cripple playing both sides right in front of him. A man without a fixed stance deserved no respect.
Aemond withdrew his gaze. He couldn't move against him yet. The war was not over, and the intelligence network still required him.
Tyra was currently capable of taking over the informants planted in the slums of King's Landing, but Aemond needed intelligence from across the Seven Kingdoms.
Sooner or later, though, his time would come.
Just as Aemond was about to sit, there was a knock at the door.
Thump, thump, thump. Three light raps.
Hal looked at Aemond. Aemond nodded. Hal walked over and opened the door.
The sunlight from the hallway poured in, illuminating two figures: Queen Mother Alicent and Queen Aelyn, who was cradling an infant.
-----
A/N:
If you are enjoying the start of the story.
Drop some stones to help this book reach higher.
You can read upto 20+ Chapters. + Images
You can also read "+2 Free Chapters".
patreon/
LastDreamer