A week had passed since the bells of King's Landing tolled for the fallen king, and though the mourning cloaks still hung in blackened folds over the Red Keep's towers, the wheels of governance turned ever onward.
Within the Small Council chamber, the fire burned low, casting flickering light across the long table carved with the map of Westeros. At its head sat Lord Brynden Rivers, Hand of the King, flanked by Grand Maester Orwel, Lord Aethan Celtigar, master of laws, Lord Harwyn Greyjoy, master of ships, Lord Symon Manderly, master of coin, and Ser Ronnel Hightower, who had arrived from Oldtown to represent the Reach in the uncertain days to come.
Prince Aegon was absent, as was Maester Aemon, for the matter to be discussed concerned both men too directly, and Lord Bloodraven would suffer no whispers of manipulation or favoritism in the choosing of a king.
"My lords," Brynden began, his voice calm and measured, "with King Maekar gone to the Stranger, the Iron Throne stands empty. It falls upon us, the king's council, to advise the realm on who shall next wear the crown."
There was a stillness, until Grand Maester Orwel cleared his throat. "The blood of the dragon runs true in many still. The late Prince Daeron's daughter, Princess Vaella, remains of the royal line."
"Aye," said Lord Manderly, "though she is feeble of mind, and younger than she should be. A child of ten, and touched, some say."
Ser Ronnel Hightower frowned. "A queen who cannot speak a sentence nor hold her own cup is no queen for a realm of dragons."
"And yet her claim is pure," Orwel reminded them. "She is the sole surviving child of Maekar's eldest son."
Ser Ronnel spoke next. "Then there is Prince Maegor, the infant son of Aerion Brightflame, born in exile in Lys. Though young, his blood is of the Conqueror."
"A Brightflame," muttered Lord Celtigar. "And madness behind him."
"An infant can be molded," said Lord Greyoy with a glimmer in his eye. "Shaped by his councilors and regents. If nothing else, he is a clean slate."
Brynden said nothing for a moment, only steepled his pale fingers.
Lord Celtigar then raised a third name. "And there is Prince Aegon—Maekar's fourth son. Of sound mind and strong body, proven in battle. Beloved by the smallfolk and knighted in his youth."
"Too low in birth order," Orwel reminded. "Behind three elder brothers, all now dead."
"Aye," said Ser Ronnel;. "But he lives. And the realm knows him. He fought bravely at Starpike and lived to mourn his father. What more can one ask of a prince?"
The room grew tense.
It was Lord Symon Manderly who finally broke it with a bold suggestion. "There is another. Maester Aemon. Learned, wise, just. Many say he should have been the king all along, had he not taken his vows."
All turned to look at Brynden.
The Hand's expression hardened like ice.
"You would have us pluck a man from the Citadel who has given his life to the realm's knowledge and burden him with a throne he does not want?"
The lord of coin swallowed. "If the realm wills it…"
Brynden cut him off. "Aemon Targaryen is the truest man I have ever known. He will not break his vows, nor should we insult him by asking."
No one dared argue.
Brynden leaned forward. "There is only one path now. We shall convene a Great Council, here in King's Landing. Let the lords of the realm weigh the blood, the merit, and the need of the realm. Let them judge the claims of Vaella, Maegor, and Aegon, and may the gods guide them to the king the realm needs."
There was silence, then nods of agreement.
As the council dispersed, Lord Brynden remained seated, gazing down at the carved rivers and hills of Westeros beneath his fingertips.
"Let us hope," he murmured to himself, "that they choose the dragon who will not burn the world."