The Great Council of 233 AC Begins
The Iron Throne stood tall and cold as ever, forged in dragonflame and conquest, watching over the vast chamber like a beast long at rest. Beneath it, the throne room of the Red Keep thrummed with restless murmurings, for the lords and ladies of Westeros — highborn and low, great and lesser — had gathered once more, as they had not done since the time of the Old King Jaehaerys.
They had come from the Reach and the Vale, from the Westerlands and the North, from the Riverlands and Stormlands and the isles beyond. The banners of many houses fluttered above the assembled crowd — some proudly, some warily. At the front stood the most prominent: Lord Tully of Riverrun, Lord Arryn of the Eyrie, Lord Yohn Royce, Lord Oakheart, Lord Rowan, Lord Redwyne, and the green-bearded Lord Gormon Peake's cousin, now silent and shamed in the crowd.
Prince Aegon Targaryen stood beside his kin: his wife, Lady Betha Blackwood, called Black Betha by some, her face as pale as snow; and beside her, the princes Duncan and Jaehaerys, one wide-eyed with confusion, the other too young to understand. His sisters, Rhae and Daella, sat cloaked in black, their eyes red from mourning. Maester Aemon remained absent, having refused to be present for what he deemed "a choosing born of death."
Then the herald's voice echoed through the vaulted chamber.
"Lord Brynden Rivers, Hand of the King, Protector of the Realm."
The doors to the throne room opened with a slow, groaning creak, and in strode the Hand.
Brynden Rivers — Bloodraven — entered garbed in black and crimson, his long pale hair flowing past his shoulders, his cloak stitched with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, quartered with the personal raven sigil he had long used. His mismatched red and pale eyes swept the hall like scythes.
Behind him came six royal guards in crimson cloaks, and between them was carried a long spear.
Atop it, mounted for all to see, was the freshly severed head of Aenys Blackfyre.
A gasp rippled through the court. Lady Redwyne turned away with a cry. One knight of the Stormlands clutched his sword hilt and did not let go. Lord Mooton made the sign of the Seven. Even among the high lords, there was unease.
Prince Aegon flinched — not for fear, but for what this spectacle meant. Betha Blackwood gripped his hand tightly, her mouth set in a grim line. Prince Duncan looked at his father, then at the grisly prize, and began to weep.
Brynden said nothing at first. He climbed the long steps to the Iron Throne and seated himself upon it. From there, he looked upon the assembled lords.
He began in solemn tones. "Lords and ladies of Westeros. Lords Paramount and bannermen. Knights of the realm, faithful and true. We gather here today, as our forebears once did in the Year 101 After Conquest, at the Great Council of Harrenhal. Then, the realm stood at a crossroads — and by your voices, the boy Viserys was chosen to rule in peace after the Old King's passing."
He let his words sink into the chamber.
"Today, once more, the realm stands at a crossroads. King Maekar, Second of His Name, lies dead — crushed beneath the stones of treachery at Starpike. And so, it falls to us — you — to determine who shall wear the crown, and sit upon the Iron Throne."
It was Lord Owen Fossoway, the elder of Cider Hall, who rose to speak first — his green apple badge stark against his yellow cloak. "My lord Hand," he said loudly, "before the council may begin its solemn task, the realm demands an answer. Aenys Blackfyre came with safe conduct, as your letters swore. Why then is his head now on a spear?"
A hush fell over the throne room.
Brynden's red eye glinted like a dying ember. "Because Aenys Blackfyre was no supplicant," he replied, coldly. "He was the serpent in the garden. The poisoner at the feast. He sent others to die for him, schemed with traitors behind castle walls, and plotted to seize the Iron Throne not with sword alone, but with treachery and lies."
He stood, letting his cloak fall behind him.
"Let this council not be mistaken. The blood of bastards shall never sit the Iron Throne. The line of Daemon Blackfyre is ended, and his legacy buried beneath stone and silence. Any who would take up his cause anew will meet the same fate as Aenys — swift and without mercy."
Then he looked across the chamber — not to Prince Aegon, not to the lords of the realm, but to every hidden sympathizer in the shadows.
"This is the fate of all Blackfyres. And of all who mourn their passing."