“Let the ravens fly,” Aegon declared from atop the Iron Throne.
“Let the realm know the pretender is dead, and that their true king has returned to claim his father’s seat.”
Grand maester Orwyle bowed his head and exited the throne room to send the ravens.
Tyland stepped forward as Grand Maester Orwyle exited the hall, bowing low before the Iron Throne.
“The pretender is dead, the throne is reclaimed, and the realm will finally see its true king back in his rightful place. You fought through the seven hells to sit that chair. Long live the King.”
“Long live the King,” Ormund Hightower added, bowing deep.
“As we speak, Hightower and Lannister men are securing King’s Landing, garrisoning the gates, rounding up the pretender’s loyalists, and disarming the Gold Cloaks to ship them to the Wall. Furthermore, the royal treasury is already being escorted back from Casterly Rock and Oldtown, leaving only the final third in Braavos. Yet there remains the matter of Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince is no doubt enraged, vengeful, and desperate. So long as he lives, the rebels will rally behind him. But if you offer terms to your lords now, Nephew, you will isolate him completely, leaving him stranded and ready to be dispatched.”
“Peace?” Aegon asked, his eyes darkening as he glared down from the throne.
“What peace? I want every savage Northman in my lands hunted down like the rabid dogs they are. I want every single castle in the Riverlands scorched and torn down by their own hands and teeth, except Riverrun. There will be no peace, Uncle. They must all suffer as I have.”
“I understand your anger, Your Grace,” Ormund said quietly.
“You have suffered more than any man should, and every traitor who raised a banner against you deserves death. But if you give them no path to surrender, you force every Northman and Riverlord to fight to the last breath. A beast backed into a corner with no escape will tear at your throat until it dies.”
Tyland stepped up beside him.
“We share your rage, Sire. But if we scorch every hall and offer no terms, we will spend years wasting our men and gold fighting ghosts in the mud.”
“What men and what gold?” Aegon asked, his eyes cold and unyielding.
“Do you think I want to rule the Riverlands? Conquer it? No, my lords, you misunderstand me. I want them extinct. Aemond will take Vhagar and burn every castle, save for those who held true to my cause. Burn every forest, scorch every host. Let them starve and rot in their cinders until the Riverlands are rid of their rats and can finally be remade into a functional kingdom.”
“Come now, Nephew, you frighten me,” Ormund said, offering a faint, placating smile as he tried to sway the young king.
“Let us focus on Daemon first. Once the Rogue Prince is dealt with, we can decide what to do with these Rivermen.”
“There is no need,” Aegon said, startling them both once again.
“I already have something in motion. If it works, we will hear of his death by tomorrow.”
“How about we turn to happier subjects?” Tyland interjected smoothly from the side, eager to pivot away from the tension.
“After all, Your Grace, we have won the war. Daemon remains, true, but I trust fully in Your Grace’s designs. Beyond him, we are left only with inconsequential rebels, easily dealt with or burned away by dragonfire in due time.”
Tyland took a step closer, clasping his hands together with a smile.
“Now, let us speak of victory. We must hold a grand court and a proper celebration, an event to gather every loyal lord who stood by your banner. It is time for them to celebrate your triumph. It will be the perfect stage for dispensing royal justice to the captives, Your Grace, and forcing any surviving rebel lords to crawl into this hall, bend the knee, and swear new oaths of fealty before the Iron Throne.” Get faster updates on g.com.
“Oh. The dungeons beneath the castle are filled to the very brim, Your Grace,” Tyland cautioned.
“I dislike pressing the issue when greater matters loom, but judgments must be carried out swiftly before disease takes hold or desperation breeds a riot in the dark. The Black Cells are choked past capacity with Gold Cloaks, former councilors, and household guards who served the pretender. We must clear the chains before the lords arrive for the victory court.”
“And another small matter, Your Grace,” Ormund added from the side, competing with Tyland to bombard the King with burdens and bad news.
“Joffrey Waters, the pretender’s son. Or what remains of him, after the mob in the streets.”
“And what do I care for another dead bastard, Uncle? Am I expected to mourn every bastard in the Seven Kingdoms?”
“Of course not, Your Grace,” Ormund bowed his head smoothly, offering a dark, placating smile.
“A triviality. I shall simply have what is left of him dumped into the Blackwater or fed to the hounds.”
Aegon let out a heavy sigh and buried his face in his hands.
“Uncle,” Aegon muttered through his fingers.
“You and Tyland can organize this celebration and see that the ravens fly. I care not for the details, just see it done. Any news of larys?” aegon asked
“No, Your Grace,” Tyland answered.
“Our Master of Whispers remains missing, though the guards search for him. Perhaps we might turn our eyes to the pretender’s mistress of spies. The White Worm sits rotting in the crowded cells beneath us even now.”
“I will consider it,” Aegon said, rising stiffly from the iron blades of the throne.
“If you will excuse me, my lords, I have matters of my own to attend to.”
“Your Grace.” Both Tyland and Ormund bowed low as Aegon left the throne room, exiting the hall and heading straight for his late father’s chambers.
Inside, the room was cold and thick with dust, dominated by the ruined miniature of Valyria that King Viserys had spent his life obsessing over.
Out from the deep shadows, a slender maid emerged soundlessly.
Aegon turned to her.
“Are you the Faceless Man?”
“A man would be correct, blessed one,” the maid replied, her voice flat and completely devoid of warmth.
Aegon looked at her.
“Why do you call me that? Blessed.”
The candlelight caught her eyes, which remained entirely unblinking.
“Because you smell of the grave, Aegon of House Targaryen. You have crossed the veil of death and crawled back into the sun. To the Faceless Men, you are blessed. You sit closest to the Stranger.”
“I need you to kill Daemon,” Aegon said without hesitation.
“State your price.”
The maid’s expression did not change.
“To hire a man to take the life of a prince of the realm, a dragon rider, and a warrior of renown… it is a costly endeavor. The Many-Faced God demands balance. A great life requires a great sacrifice.”
Aegon scoffed.
“Well, you just said I am blessed. That I sit close to your god. Won’t you do me this favor?”
“A man can, and a man will,” she murmured, stepping closer.
“If the blessed one does us a favor in return.”
“Name your price.”
“Your face and your body,” she whispered, her gaze boring into his.
“When your borrowed time expires and you die for the final time, your vessel belongs to the House of Black and White. The Stranger wishes to reclaim the one who escaped.”
Aegon looked at her.
“Just that?”
“A man is very satisfied with that.”
“Fine then,” Aegon agreed.
“But I want him dead tonight. He will be drunk, enraged, drowning in whores and wine.”
“A man will do what he can,” she whispered, turning to retreat into the dark.
“And one more thing.”
The maid stopped and looked back at him.
“Tell Daemon I want him to know it was me.”