The Small Council Chamber, Red Keep, 269 AC.
The chamber smelled of parchment and rose oil.
Sunlight slanted through high-arched windows, casting long golden lines across the table carved like a seven-pointed star. At each point sat a lord of the realm, robes rustling, fingers drumming, eyes already wary. They waited beneath the coffered ceiling of the Red Keep's council chamber—where power whispered louder than swords.
The hour of the meeting had come and gone.
Still, the King was not present.
Lord Tywin Lannister sat at the Hand's seat, posture perfect, golden lion brooch gleaming against his black and crimson. He did not fidget. He did not sigh. He waited, his stillness more imposing than any outburst.
Across from him, Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Coin, adjusted the gold chain at his neck and cleared his throat with practised patience. "The Crown's debts grow by the day, my lords. Perhaps we might begin?"
"Begin without the king?" scoffed Lord Symond Staunton, Master of Laws, his voice pinched with mild scandal. "He will not like that."
"He will not notice," Lord Lucerys Velaryon said smoothly. The Master of Ships lounged in his seat like a man who belonged to the sea more than the stone walls around him. "Our good king likes to make an entrance. Always has."
Owen Merryweather chuckled warmly, smoothing his doublet. "No man alive makes an entrance quite like His Grace." He gave a look around the table, eyes twinkling. "And no one laughs quite so heartily as His Grace either."
Pycelle harrumphed gently, adjusting the folds of his long, maesterly sleeves. "A king is never late, my lords. Only delayed by matters of great import."
Tywin did not respond. His eyes flicked to the door once, then back to the table. "Then let us discuss matters of great import before the room fills with perfume and ballads."
Qarlton gave a dry smile. "A sound idea. There's the matter of the new granary fires in Lannisport—"
But then—
The doors burst open.
Not slammed, but swept wide with theatrical grace.
Torchlight flickered as two figures stepped into the chamber—one tall and bright, the other hard and silent as a shadow.
King Aerys II Targaryen entered in flowing robes of deep purple trimmed with gold. His hair, silver and long, caught the light like polished silk, and his beard had been oiled and perfumed to shine—jewels glittered on his fingers—far too many for a morning meeting. Behind him, a step behind and clad in white, came Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Aerys paused at the threshold, surveying the council like a performer eyeing his stage.
"Forgive my tardiness, my lords," he drawled, voice rich and theatrical. "A king must tend to many matters—some far more fragrant than coin or law."
Owen Merryweather laughed as if the jest were spun from gold. "A jest worthy of the mummers, Your Grace!"
Aerys smiled thinly and moved to his seat, the train of his robe whispering behind him. Ser Gerold took up a position just behind, saying nothing, stone-faced.
Tywin did not rise.
He inclined his head, cold and correct. "Your Grace."
Aerys lounged back in his chair, one boot resting on a velvet footstool. He drummed his long, graceful fingers on the armrest—each adorned with more rings than any five men should wear.
"Well?" he said, flicking his gaze toward Lord Chelsted. "Let's hear the latest woes of the realm. Has someone else taken to burning their grain stores? Or perhaps the Sept is demanding more donations?"
Lord Qarlton inclined his head, clearing his throat with just enough deference. "If it pleases Your Grace, it's the Crown's debts that weigh most heavily—not our granaries or septs."
He unfurled a scroll and smoothed it out on the table's edge.
"The War of the Ninepenny Kings depleted the treasury more than most cared to admit. We still owe 80,000 gold coins to Iron Bank, several Myrish counting houses, and half the smiths in the city."
"How dreary," Aerys muttered, turning his ring thoughtfully.
"We are paying interest upon interest, Your Grace," Qarlton continued. "The debt festers like rot in a cask—and that's without accounting for rising import costs. If we do not act, the realm will soon feel it: shortages, unrest, and worse."
"I thought wars were meant to enrich us," Aerys mused. "All that plunder, all those proud sellswords. What did we win if not gold?"
Tywin Lannister's voice was quiet but steely. "Glory, perhaps. But not coin."
Eyes turned to the Hand.
Tywin lifted his gaze at last—calm, composed, unreadable. "The Crown owes more than it can repay within the year. If it defaults, the Iron Throne risks losing not just the trust of foreign lenders, but control of its ports, its fleets… and the loyalty of its lords."
"Your opinion, Lord Tywin?" Qarlton asked with forced neutrality. "As Hand of the King."
"I will erase the debt," Tywin said, plainly. "A gift of one hundred thousand gold dragons. No loans. No interest. In full."
Even Pycelle blinked in surprise.
Lord Lucerys raised a brow. "A generous act, Lord Lannister. Or should I say… an investment?"
Aerys straightened, interest flashing in his violet eyes. "So the lion roars with a coin at last."
"It is not a roar," Tywin said. "It is a remedy."
"Still," Aerys murmured, fingers tapping. "I suppose the debt becomes dull if someone else bleeds for it."
"Consider it a strength," Tywin said coolly. "Stability is more valuable than any single vault."
Lord Qarlton bowed his head. "Then we must turn to tariffs, Your Grace. The harbour at Duskendale has begun undercutting royal merchants—offering lower tolls for ships from Lys and Pentos."
"Pirates in lord's clothing," Lord Staunton muttered.
Lucerys Velaryon, ever half-amused, added, "And with ships not worth the barnacles on their hulls. But they're drawing trade nonetheless. Perhaps it's time we considered adjusting port fees at King's Landing."
"Less tax," Qarlton warned, "means less revenue."
"More ships," Lucerys countered, "means more opportunity."
Pycelle hummed thoughtfully. "A delicate balance. One would not wish to appear weak before the Free Cities."
"Nor greedy before our smallfolk," added Owen Merryweather, all smiles. "They do so hate when bread costs more than wine."
That drew a thin smile from Aerys. "Let them drink song, then. It's cheaper."
Laughter echoed from Owen, and Pycelle smiled tightly.
But Tywin's face did not change.
"I received a raven this morning from Raventree, my lords," Pycelle said, adjusting the sleeves of his robe. "Another skirmish between House Blackwood and House Bracken. A rider is slain. Arrows traded in the night."
Lucerys sighed. "And so the Old Gods and the Blackwoods bite the Brackens once more."
"Their feud is older than Aegon's crown," said Staunton drily. "It's a grudge from the Age of Heroes—six millennia of arrows and insults. Do we send swords or just parchment?"
"Send both," Tywin said. "A warning sealed with the King's hand—and a small escort of Gold Cloaks to remind them the realm is watching."
"Gold Cloaks?" Aerys scoffed, waving a hand. "Let them fling arrows at each other. It keeps them busy."
"The trouble," Tywin said, "is that they are not flinging at each other. They are flinging at the Crown's peace."
The room stilled.
Then Aerys sighed, leaning back once more.
"Very well. A letter. A token force. But make it clear we are bored with their squabbling."
His voice sharpened faintly. "I will not have some petty feud muddy the glory of my reign."
Pycelle bowed his head. "As you command, Your Grace."
Lord Qarlton Chelsted cleared his throat, his fingers steepled. "There's been… noise from the city."
Aerys arched a brow, intrigued. "Not riots, I hope."
"Songs, actually," said Lord Qarlton. "About a bard—a mystery performer who appeared in the Street of Sisters and, by some accounts, earned a cart full of gold dragons."
"Ah, finally," Aerys leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "A tale worth listening to."
Lucerys Velaryon nodded. "I've had reports from the harbour. Sailors, merchants, even the whores down at Maiden's Bridge—they've all been whispering of a performance in the Street of Sisters."
Tywin looked unimpressed. "Exaggeration. The city loves its myths."
"Perhaps," Chelsted allowed, "but no one knows who he is. Some claim he was sent by the Seven. Others say he's a minstrel from Essos—one of those exotic breeds with strings made from spider silk and voices kissed by gods."
"No name," said Pycelle, stroking his beard. "No known origin. He appeared suddenly, played but two songs—and earned more than a hundred gold dragons before vanishing into the crowd."
Lord Staunton arched a brow, incredulous. "Two songs—and he earned over a hundred gold?
"Indeed," Pycelle said gravely. "The crowd grew so thick the Gold Cloaks had to divert foot traffic around the square."
Lord Owen Merryweather let out a soft laugh. "And now every lout with a lyre thinks he's a prophet in disguise. Half the bards in Flea Bottom have been trying to mimic the act."
"And failing?" asked Aerys, his violet eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Spectacularly," Lucerys replied. "One bard was booed off the square before his second verse. Another was chased away entirely—for wasting the crowd's time."
"And yet this mystery bard made a fortune," Aerys mused, eyes narrowing. "Curious."
Pycelle grunted. "I've even heard wild rumours that it was Prince Rhaegar himself."
"And others," Staunton added with a scoff, "swear it was the boy prince—Aemon the Unburnt."
Aerys snorted, then smiled faintly. "Yes, of course. Because no one else in the realm can carry a tune."
Pycelle whispered. "It's spreading regardless. Bards have begun crowding the square, hoping to capture the same attention. Thus far, none have managed more than a few silver stags."
"They lack the magic," Lord Staunton muttered.
Aerys leaned back, tapping a single-ringed finger against the table. "Rhaegar plays, certainly. The harp is second nature to him. But even he would admit—his teacher outshines him."
He smiled, thoughtfully. "Aemon. That boy has music in his bones. He plays like he was born with a harp in his hand. And his voice—graceful, clear, something between lullaby and prayer."
Lucerys Velaryon gave a light nod. "I heard him once—four years past on the voyage back from Dragonstone, after the late queen's funeral. A short sail, just three hours, but he sat on the deck with that wooden harp of his, playing something graceful and melancholic. I remember… even the gulls fell silent. It stayed with me." He paused.
"Even the sailors stopped. The Kingsguard, too. It was… the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."
Aerys tilted his head. "Yet they remain within these walls, watched like hawks by the Kingsguard—neither Rhaegar nor Aemon has set foot beyond the Red Keep without my leave; no, this bard cannot be either of them."
There was a long pause before he spoke again—this time, his voice was lighter, touched with a note of genuine delight.
"If he plays again," Aerys said, sitting straighter, "I want him brought to court."
He glanced around the room, his smile sharpening. "Not as a prisoner— as a guest. Let the lords and ladies hear the voice that's enchanted the streets. If his song is worth gold, let it gild the halls of the Iron Throne."
"And if he refuses?" asked Lucerys, more out of curiosity than concern.
Aerys's smile widened. "Then he sings from a cell. Either way, I will hear him."
Owen chuckled. "I shall prepare the masques and wine, then."
Tywin said nothing, his golden gaze unreadable.
Pycelle dipped his head. "Shall I have the Gold Cloaks a watch over the Street of Sisters?"
"Yes," Aerys replied, rising slightly in his seat, his rings catching the light.
"And if he is from Essos?" Pycelle asked again.
"Then he'll learn Westerosi courtesies," Aerys grinned. "He sings for the king—or not at all."
He turned toward the great arched window, where sunlight spilled across the painted floor.
"Let the Red Keep hear this voice the city so adores. Music, after all, is wasted on the streets."
A pause followed as the council members exchanged glances. Then Tywin leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting, measured and smooth.
"On the matter of the royal household… Is there news of the Queen?"
Pycelle cleared his throat. "Yes, Your Grace. The Queen is in good health, though her confinement grows heavy. We expect the child within days."
Aerys said nothing at first, only turned back to them, and slowly resumed his seat.
"The last time ended in ash and tears," Lord Symond murmured, his voice low.
Pycelle nodded gravely. "But this pregnancy has been calmer. Stronger. Her Grace is watched closely. She remains in prayer often and has taken broth without complaint."
"Let us hope the gods reward such discipline," Lord Qarlton offered. "A living child will be seen as a blessing. A sign, perhaps."
Aerys gave a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "A living child would be more than a sign. It would be a solution."
The lords understood his meaning, but none dared press it further.
Tywin inclined his head. "All preparations for the Queen's lying-in have been made. When the time comes, the realm will be ready."
"See that it is," Aerys said, folding his hands. "This child will be born beneath the Dragon's Tower… and the city will hear its cry before the bells do."
"May the Mother grant her ease," Lucerys added softly.
"And a healthy child," Pycelle nodded, stroking his beard. "The realm prospers when the royal line is strong."
Aerys gave a small, pleased smile—modest as if the continuation of his bloodline were an inevitable fact of nature.
Then, as the moment passed and the light from the window shifted slightly across the polished oak table, Ser Gerold stepped forward with a subtle nod.
"Shall we move to the princes, then?"
Then Lord Symond Staunton, always direct, cleared his throat. "With your leave, Your Grace… it may be time to speak of Prince Rhaegar's future. The boy is of age. As heir, he will need a bride worthy of the crown."
Tywin Lannister did not move, but something in his gaze sharpened—a flicker, a narrowing, a stillness too precise to be idle. The Lion of Casterly Rock remained silent, yet the air around him seemed to chill.
Aerys steepled his fingers. "He will have a queen. In time. Not before. I will not see him snared before the stars align."
He leaned back, letting the words echo. Then added with a faint smirk, "And the court will not dictate which stars."
Pycelle chose that moment to lean forward, his expression one of avuncular concern. "And what of the other prince—Aemon? A boy of singular promise. It may be wise to consider… alternatives for his future."
Aerys tilted his head.
Pycelle continued, "Forgive me, Your Grace, but Aemon is a scholar beyond his years. He speaks High Valyrian and its bastard dialect. He's fluent in Ghiscari, Summer Tongue—and I daresay, he's made strides in the Old Tongue of the First Men, a language even I do not pretend to know."
That drew a few surprised glances. Tywin's brows rose slightly. Lord Symond raised a sceptical brow.
Pycelle warmed to his point. "It would be a disservice not to let such a mind flourish. The Citadel—"
"No." The word came sharp as steel from Ser Gerold Hightower.
All heads turned.
The Lord Commander sat straight, his white cloak draped like marble over his shoulders. "With respect, Grand Maester… Aemon is not meant for chains."
Pycelle blinked. "But he's a prodigy."
"And a warrior," Gerold snapped. "I've seen him fight. Not once. Not in the show. In a true contest. He bested Ser Tylar Lannett—a knight twice his age, twice his size. And he did it with control, restraint, and brilliance. No luck."
He looked to the king now, eyes fierce with conviction.
"I've trained men my whole life, Your Grace. But Aemon? He's different. There's something in him I've never seen before—if he continues on the path he's carving, he may rival even his namesake. Perhaps… surpass him."
A pause.
'Aemon the Dragonknight.'
Even Tywin's brow lifted slightly.
Pycelle cleared his throat again, clearly annoyed. "He is bright beyond his years, Lord Commander. Surely such brilliance should not be buried beneath plate and swordplay."
"And fewer still who might rival Aemon the Dragonknight," Gerold said coldly. "And the boy is ten. Aemon is not meant to sit at a desk. He was born to lead. To protect. To wield the sword with the heart of a knight."
A pause. Pycelle opened his mouth again, but Aerys raised a hand.
The King's gaze had turned thoughtful now. Proud. A touch wistful.
"Aemon is… both fire and wind," Aerys said, his voice softer now. "But he is a Targaryen. A dragon. And he will not waste his life measuring powders and debating scrolls."
He turned slightly toward the window, sunlight glinting off his crown.
"Rhaegar is the realm's light," he said. "Melancholic, yes—always with his harp, buried in books, or walking the grounds with Aemon. But he has the blood of kings. The soul of old Valyria."
A pause, then he smiled. "And Aemon—my uncle's boy—was born with a harp in his hands and fire in his lungs. Graceful as a bard. Fierce as a knight. He will serve the court—not behind walls of grey but beneath banners of red and black."
Aerys rose slightly again, arms wide.
"No Citadel," he declared. "No proposals. Not now. They will both have Valyrian wives—real ones. We are not in want of matches from tired houses. Let the Seven know: the blood of the dragon still flows. And it will not be diluted."
Silence followed. Tywin's jaw tightened, his eyes flicking toward the King—but he said nothing.
"Rhaegar will be a king."
Aery's smile deepened.
"And Aemon… Aemon will be his sword. His shadow. His flame."
And in that moment, Aerys was radiant—not mad, not cruel, but the very image of a Targaryen king enraptured by the legend of his house.
A dragon, basking in the warmth of his own flame.
He let the silence linger, drunk on vision, glowing in the firelight of his own making.
Then, with a sweep of his robes and the glint of rubies across his chest, he turned from the polished oak table.
"The council is ended," he declared, voice rich with satisfaction. "Let the scribes write well of this day."
Ser Gerold Hightower moved with him, the white cloak of the Lord Commander trailing behind like a banner of honour. The Kingsguard's armoured steps echoed softly on stone.
The lords rose as one.
Lord Qarlton Chelsted bowed deeply, murmuring his loyalty. Lord Staunton crossed a hand to his chest in solemn formality. Even Pycelle, old and slow, managed a respectful incline, though his eyes flickered with something less than agreement.
Lucerys Velaryon lingered a moment longer than the others, his sea-grey eyes drifting toward the king's empty chair. A corner of his mouth twitched—half a smile, half a shadow—before he turned and followed the rest out.
One by one, they followed the King's departure, their steps a shuffle of silk and purpose as they exited beneath the giant archway.
And then—silence.
Save for the faint rustle of a single cloak.
Only Tywin Lannister remained.
He stood alone at the head of the long table—an imposing slab of polished oak, its edges carved with curling dragon motifs. At its centre sprawled a vast inked map of Westeros: keeps and strongholds, roads and rivers, ports and trade routes. The realm, rendered in ink and memory.
The firelight caught the lion's face, casting one side in amber and the other in shadow.
For a long moment, he did not move.
But his eyes moved—north to the Neck, south to Oldtown, east to King's Landing.
Then, slowly, he looked toward Dragonstone.
Not now, Tywin thought, his gaze lingering on the map of Dragonstone. But soon. The Crown would look west.
The lion did not roar.
He waited.
At last, he turned to leave. His cloak stirred behind him, and the great chamber exhaled into silence once more.
The table remained.
And the game—quiet, relentless—had begun.
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Author's Note:
Hey guys!
So while working on this story, I've been toying with the idea of starting a second fanfic on the side. Nothing crazy — just something fun to balance things out.
If I do it, what would you want to see?
A Naruto fanfic
A Harry Potter fanfic
Another Game of Thrones / ASoIaF fanfic
Drop a comment and let me know what you'd be most excited for! I'm curious what you'd pick.
Thanks for sticking with me — you're the best! ❤️
(And don't worry, the next chapter will be posted Sunday!)