The Red Keep, Small Council Chamber.
Morning light filtered through the stained glass of the Small Council chamber in the Red Keep, casting long, colored shadows across the heavy oak table.
The expressions of those seated varied from cold calculation to sheer terror.
Alicent Hightower, the Queen Mother and Regent, sat at the head of the table in the seat belonging to the King. She sat uneasily.
Not long ago, when the City Watch had mounted the heads of Jacaerys and Joffrey upon the walls of the Red Keep, she had stood at her window watching for a full quarter-hour until her stomach turned and her handmaidens had to escort her back to her chambers.
Now, she had to preside over this meeting.
Her second son, Aemond, had pushed the Kingdom to the very precipice of civil war in a single night.
To her right sat Lord Tyland Lannister, the Hand of the King.
The Westerman was dressed in crimson silk embroidered with golden lions, his grey-gold hair groomed to perfection.
Grand Maester Orwyle sat to Alicent's left, his heavy chain of office clinking as he glanced nervously at the empty seat across from him, that of Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, who had yet to arrive.
Larys Strong, the Master of Whispers, sat beside Orwyle, a faint, inscrutable smile playing on his lips.
Beside Tyland sat the new Master of Ships, Ser Erwin Redwyne, a man in his forties with the signature ginger hair of the Arbor.
Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, a stout man from the Crownlands who had declared for the Greens early, sat nearby.
Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood three paces behind the Queen, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
If one looked closely, a trace of grim satisfaction could be seen in the set of his jaw.
Prince Aegon sat at his mother's left; he knew what had happened the previous night, and he looked visibly shaken.
At the far end of the table sat William Darklyn, commander of the Royal Army.
The meeting had been in session for fifteen minutes, yet a heavy silence reigned.
Creak.
The heavy doors opened. Every eye snapped toward the entrance.
Aemond Targaryen walked in.
He had changed into clean black leather, but his silver hair was still damp. He had clearly washed recently, yet he hadn't quite managed to scrub away the lingering scent of last night's blood.
He was flanked by Hal, the captain of his guard, and Ser Gwayne Hightower.
Aemond did not take a seat. He walked to the center of the table, leaned forward with his hands braced on the wood, and let his violet eye slowly scan every person in the room.
"Everyone is here," Aemond began.
"Ah, except Lord Lyman. He is old and slow; it is understandable."
Alicent finally looked up at her son, the boy who had slaughtered three of his nephews in a single night.
Her lips trembled. "Aemond..."
"Mother," Aemond interrupted. His tone was polite, yet it felt like ice.
"I know what you want to say. But first, let me finish what needs to be done."
He straightened up and turned to Jasper Wylde.
"Lord Jasper."
The stout man stood immediately, a fawning look on his face.
"Your Grace."
"Dispatch messengers to Tyrosh," Aemond commanded.
"Carry a royal decree from the King and the Regent. Demand that Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lord Corlys Velaryon come to the Red Keep immediately to explain themselves. Explain why her vassals and the Velaryon heirs, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey, infiltrated the Dragonpit to steal House Targaryen's dragons and commit arson and murder."
The room went deathly still.
Lord Tyland's eyebrows shot up. He looked at Aemond with a flash of surprise that quickly gave way to professional admiration.
Frame the narrative first. Label them thieves and murderers before they can label us kinslayers.
"As you command, Your Grace," Jasper bowed deeply.
"I will have messengers on a ship before sunset."
"Good. Furthermore," Aemond continued, "send ravens to every Lord in the Seven Kingdoms. Proclaim that the three Velaryon scions were caught in the act of dragon-theft and arson, and were executed for their crimes."
Aemond then turned his gaze to Ser Erwin Redwyne.
"Ser Erwin. What is the current strength of the Royal Navy?"
Erwin stammered for a moment before finding his voice.
"Your Grace, the Royal Navy currently consists of thirty-one warships: three dromonds and twenty-eight galleys. We have roughly forty auxiliary vessels for patrol and transport. Most are in the harbor; some are patrolling Crackclaw Point."
"And their combat readiness?"
"Well..." Erwin chose his words carefully.
"Sufficient for coastal security and anti-smuggling. But against a major fleet... Your Grace, the Navy has never been our focus. The Velaryons have always controlled the Narrow Sea..."
"I know," Aemond cut him off.
"That is why I am asking you."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"By my order, every ship in the Royal Navy is to enter maximum combat readiness starting this moment. Supply, repair, and reorganize. You have three days. Prepare for an offensive against High Tide and Dragonstone."
A collective gasp echoed through the room. Erwin Redwyne's eyes bulged.
"An... an offensive against High Tide? Your Grace, even if their main fleet is at Tyrosh, their remaining force outnumbers ours, and their sailors are far more experienced."
"I will be riding Vhagar," Aemond said calmly.
That single sentence silenced every objection in Erwin's throat. Vhagar.
With her in the sky, numerical superiority meant nothing.
A single dive of dragonfire could turn an entire fleet into a row of burning coffins.
"I understand," Erwin said, nodding firmly.
"With Vhagar, the advantage is ours."
-----
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