The day of the long-awaited celebration finally arrived, but after all the gold Tyland had poured into it, Aegon looked out at the hall and realized what a joke it was.
Half the realm was in open rebellion against him.
The other half, like Lady Jeyne Arryn, had closed the Bloody Gate and was hiding in their mountains.
Beneath the steps of the Iron Throne stood his brothers Aemond and Daeron, while Tyland stood among the Westerlands lords, and Helaena remained in her chambers, there was no need for her to see what was to happen.
Larys stood with a scroll filled with the names of the treasonous Crownlords who stood with Rhaenyra.
The tables before him were mostly filled with Crownland lords and their noble wives, hauled only minutes ago from their confinement in their chambers or the damp dark of the dungeons.
They sat stiff as corpses, clutching their goblets with pale, trembling hands, looking absolutely terrified and in shock.
The rest of the room was just a sea of Green and red coats, Hightowers, Lannisters, and their bannermen.
Even loyal lords who wanted to stand by him couldn’t attend: Lord Bracken was trapped in his own castle surrounded by enemies on all sides, and Lady Johanna Lannister was stuck in the West, ruling as regent for her young son after Jason’s death.
I need to end this accursed civil war, and end it fast.
Aegon pushed himself up from the throne, the heavy ruby-studded crown of the Conqueror sitting upon his brow.
The Great Hall fell dead silent.
Every captive lord in the room froze.
“Lord Stokeworth,” Aegon’s voice echoed off the high stone walls, cold and sharp.
Sitting near the middle tables, Lord Stokeworth flinched so violently he nearly knocked over his wine flagon.
Beside him, his wife let out a muffled, terrified sob, burying her face in her hands.
“Y-Your Grace…” Stokeworth stammered, frantically scrambling out from behind the bench to throw himself onto his knees.
“When I was crowned beneath the light of the Seven, you stood in the Dragonpit and swore a holy oath of fealty to my face, did you not?” Aegon asked, his voice ringing clearly off the high stone walls.
Every eye in the hall turned toward the trembling old lord.
“I was forced, Your Grace! I swear it!” Stokeworth begged.
“She had dragons over the city! We had no defense”
“I know, my lord. I know,” Aegon said, raising two fingers to cut him off.
“I am a generous king. A merciful king,” Aegon continued, leaning heavily on his sword as he stared down at the old man.
“And in truth… you never truly betrayed me, Lord Stokeworth. Because I never expected loyalty from you or your fickle house to begin with. You do not anger me, my lord. You simply bore me. You disappoint me.”
“I look at my uncle’s bannermen, and I see loyal, hardy men who bled and fought to keep my crown on my head,” Aegon said.
“Then I look at you… and what do I see?”
“MERCY, YOUR GRACE!” Stokeworth shrieked, weeping openly as he pressed his forehead into the filthy rushes.
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“Forgive me, my lord… but I have no more to give,” Aegon said softly.
He gestured to the guards, and two heavy men-at-arms stepped forward, seizing Lord Stokeworth by his arms and forcing him to his knees.
The old lord thrashed frantically against their iron grip, his boots kicking, while his wife let out a blood-curdling shriek from the tables, her hands clawing at her own face in terror.
No one moved to help them.
The Great Hall remained dead silent, every lord and lady frozen.
Aegon descended the steps, the dark Valyrian steel of Blackfyre resting in his hand, its ripples catching the amber torchlight.
He stopped right before the weeping old man, resting the tip of the blade lightly against the stone floor.
“You are hereby stripped of your lands, your titles, and your wealth,” Aegon said, staring down into the man’s terrified eyes with cold indifference.
“Any last words, my lord?”
At these words, murmurs broke out between the ranks of the Hightower bannermen and the Westerlands lords.
“My daughter,” Stokeworth said after calming down, his voice trembling, but holding firm with the last of his moments.
“Take my lands. Take my gold. Give my castle to whoever you wish, Your Grace… but spare my girl. She is innocent of my crimes.”
“That I will,” Aegon said softly.
Blackfyre came down in a single, dark arc.
Steel bit bone, and Lord Stokeworth collapsed into the floor without another sound, crimson brood pooling fast across the cold stone floor while his wife’s screams echoed off the high rafters.
Aegon lowered the blade.
He didn’t even look down at the corpse before his voice cut through the dead silence of the hall.
“Lord Rosby.”
“NO! YOUR GRACE, NO!”
Aegon didn’t even turn.
He simply closed his eyes and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
Slowly, he turned his head to look, finding yet another frail, sickly old man scrambling backward from the table, clutching his dirty tunic as if his heart were about to burst right out of his chest.
“By the Seven,” Aegon muttered.
“Do I have only infirm old men under me?”
He gestured sharply with the bloody tip of Blackfyre.
“Bring him here.”
Aegon looked down at the frail old man who was begging and shouting.
“By the Seven, Lord Rosby, you know it is either the Wall or Blackfyre. Do you want a quick, honorable end, or to freeze to death on your way to the Wall?” Read this novel at novelping . com for the best experience.
“The Wall, Your Grace! I choose the Wall!” Rosby shrieked.
“As you wish,” Aegon said, turning his back on him.
“Lord Rosby, for high treason against the Crown, you are hereby stripped of your lands, your titles, and your wealth. Remove him from my sight, he disgusts me.”
Guards seized the weeping, trembling old man by the arms and dragged him out of the Great Hall.
“Oh… wait,” Aegon said suddenly, holding up a hand to halt the guards in their tracks.
“I almost forgot. Seeing as Lord Stark and his northern savages are currently in open rebellion against me, there is no way to escort you up the Kingsroad to the Night’s Watch. Which means you will stay in my cellars until that little matter is dealt with. Now take him away!”
“Lady Meredyth Darklyn,” Larys called out.
A woman stepped forward with her head held high, accompanied by a young boy, moving to kneel before the Iron Throne.
“You stand before the Iron Throne accused of standing with the Pretender,” Larys said, “offering willing and staunch support, my lady, not under threat of dragonfire, but of your own choice.”
“It was my late lord husband who stood by his oath, as all members of House Darklyn should,” Lady Meredyth replied, her voice firm.
“And he paid for it with his life outside Duskendale. But my son had no part in his rebellion. He bears no guilt for this war.”
Aegon went quiet, considering her words as silence fell over the hall.
He stared down at the young boy.
“House Darklyn are men of honor and bravery,” Aegon finally spoke.
“I cannot fault a man for being true to an oath. Since the days of Queen Visenya Targaryen, the Darklyns have proven their courage. Five of your line have worn the white cloak of the Kingsguard. Your husband paid for his treason with his head at Duskendale. I will not strip a seat from a noble house whose sons have guarded mine for generations, nor will I punish a boy for his father’s choice. House Darklyn is hereby granted a full royal pardon. Your son’s lands, titles, and rights to Duskendale are confirmed. Arise, Lord Darklyn.”
Lady Meredyth bowed her head deep, her hands resting over her son’s shoulders.
“Your Grace is as merciful as you are just,” she said.
“House Darklyn shall not forget this kindness.”
The young boy stood beside his mother, bowing low toward the throne.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, his young voice firm and earnest.
“I will serve you faithfully.”
“Lord Corlys Velaryon!” Larys called out.
Instead of the old Lord of Tides, a young maiden stepped forward.
She had pale skin, deep violet eyes, and long, shimmering silver-white Valyrian hair.
Walking with quiet grace down the center of the Great Hall, she stopped at the base of the steps and knelt before the Iron Throne.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice soft yet steady in the silent hall.
“I present myself in place of my grandsire, Lord Corlys. His health has greatly deteriorated, leaving him unable to make the journey across the bay to appear before you in person. He sends his deepest apologies for his absence, and asks that you hear his submission through me.”
“Rhaena, as beautiful as ever. Forgive me that you had to witness what I had to do,” Aegon called out with a light smile.
“Why is your grandsire across the bay in the first place? Why is he not in my dungeons?”