The great hall of the Red Keep held its breath.
Following Lord Brynden's thunderous declaration and the sight of Aenys Blackfyre's grim fate, a heavy silence descended upon the chamber. No one spoke of further Blackfyre claims. Instead, the lords and ladies turned inward, murmuring amongst themselves about who might lead Westeros out of shadow and blood.
Three names hung in the air like dust after battle.
Princess Vaella Targaryen, the only surviving child of Prince Daeron, eldest son of Maekar. A girl sweet of face but slow of mind, more fit for the peace of a sept than the intrigues of a court.
Prince Maegor, infant son of Prince Aerion Brightflame — a babe born amidst madness, whose father drank wildfire and thought himself a dragon. Too young to speak, much less rule.
And finally, Prince Aegon Targaryen, the fourth son of King Maekar — a man of quiet strength and modest ways, married to a Blackwood, raised among maesters, known to speak plainly, and often speak last.
The great lords conferred with their bannermen. Scribes passed through the hall handing each noble a square of parchment. In ink black as crow's wings, names were scrawled. No speeches followed, no great appeals or threats. The votes were made solemnly — each sealed in wax, marked by signet, then passed to the dais where Grand Maester Melleon and his attending maesters waited with satchels of silk and bone.
When the last parchment was handed in, the doors were shut, and the counting began.
For a full hour, the murmurs in the throne room swelled like the tide. Rumors fluttered: that the North would favor Maegor, that the Reach preferred Vaella, that Dorne had said nothing. None could say for certain.
Prince Aegon remained still at the base of the Iron Throne, his head bowed slightly, Betha beside him holding his hand. He said no word, offered no smile. Behind him stood Prince Duncan, fidgeting, and Princess Rhae and Daella, eyes rimmed red with tears. Maester Aemon was not present.
Then, at last, Grand Maester Melleon approached the Hand.
He whispered into Brynden Rivers's ear, and gave a solemn nod. Brynden's pale eye flickered with a subtle satisfaction. With slow dignity, he rose from his black seat beside the throne.
The chamber fell still.
"The choice has been made," Brynden declared, his voice carrying through stone and shadow. "The Lords of Westeros have spoken. The will of the realm has been heard. So too, I pray, the will of the gods."
He stepped down from the Iron Throne and raised his voice once more.
"By the judgment of the Great Council, let it be known — Prince Aegon of House Targaryen, fourth son of King Maekar, is hereby proclaimed as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."
He turned toward the quiet figure standing before the Iron Throne.
"All hail King Aegon, the Fifth of His Name!"
A moment passed before the first cry rose — Lord Tully's voice, firm and strong: "Long live the King!"
Then came another: Lord Arryn, then Lord Baratheon, then Royce, and Mooton, and Beesbury.
"Long live the King!""Long live King Aegon!""Long live the Fifth of His Name!"
The words grew and echoed, until the throne room roared with voices — voices of relief, of approval, of fear, of loyalty and hope.
King Aegon the Fifth stood silent as the cries rang about him. His hand remained in Betha's, and his eyes sought the faces of his children, and then those of his dead brothers, lost to fire, folly, and fate. At last, he looked up at the Iron Throne — and knew that his trials had only just begun.