At noon, sunlight slanted in through the high windows.
Aemond stood behind the head of the long table, both hands gripping the back of the chair.
He had already been standing there for a quarter of an hour.
The sunlight came from behind him—broad shoulders, long arms, that distinctive silver hair almost translucent in the glow.
His face was hidden in shadow; his expression could not be seen. Only the occasional cold glint reflected in those violet eyes.
Hall stood three paces behind him.
Yet even he could not help sneaking a glance at the four chairs.
The long table was wide. The black oak surface was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting silhouettes.
There were only four chairs, all placed on the left side of the table, evenly spaced. Their backs faced the door, their seats faced the head.
Four chairs.
Four people.
In his mind, Hall silently counted the names about to arrive: the Master of Whisperers Larys Strong, the commander of the Royal Guard Gwayne Hightower, the commander of the City Watch Ser Willem Darklyn, and the Master of Coin Will Simmons.
Four people, four chairs, all on the left.
The right side was completely empty.
The space directly opposite the head seat was empty as well.
Hall swallowed.
He vaguely understood what this meant, but did not dare think further.
Footsteps sounded outside the door.
More than one person.
Hall straightened his back.
The door was pushed open.
Four men entered in single file.
The one in front was Larys Strong. His cane struck the stone floor—tap, tap, tap—steady and rhythmic.
He wore a dark green velvet robe, the flaming sigil of Harrenhal embroidered on his chest. His sparse gray hair was combed neatly.
The first thing he saw upon entering was the four chairs.
He hesitated for a moment.
Then his gaze swept across the long table, across the backlit figure behind the head.
He smiled.
A faint smile—only the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, with no trace of mirth in his eyes.
He continued forward.
Tap, tap, tap.
The second was Gwayne Hightower—Queen Alicent's uncle, the new commander of the Royal Guard, House Hightower's representative in King's Landing.
Fifty-two years old, hair and beard graying, his face stern. He wore the white-and-gold uniform of the Royal Guard. Upon entering, he too saw the four chairs.
His steps paused.
His brow furrowed.
The third was Will Simmons.
He was already used to this.
The fourth was Ser Willem Darklyn. Commander of the City Watch, master of the city's defenses, a veteran of fifty who had fought in the Stepstones and put down the Ironborn rebellion. He stopped just inside the door.
He looked at the four chairs.
On the left.
Only the left.
Four of them.
His face darkened.
The four men stood at the entrance. No one moved first.
Aemond remained behind the head chair, both hands gripping the backrest.
The sunlight from behind him deepened the shadow over his face.
He did not speak.
Silence spread like water.
Larys Strong was the first to move.
Leaning on his cane, he walked step by step toward the left side of the table.
His pace was unhurried, but steady. The tapping of his cane echoed clearly in the stillness.
He reached the first chair on the left.
Stopped.
He did not sit immediately.
He turned his head, glanced at the other three empty chairs, then at the silent silhouette behind the head.
He took a slow breath.
Then he sat down.
The cane rested against the chair. His hands folded on his knees. Back straight. Eyes forward.
Gwayne Hightower watched him, his brow tightening further.
But he did not hesitate long.
He strode to the second chair on the left.
And sat.
Will Simmons was third.
He walked to the third chair on the left and, before sitting, even adjusted the hem of his robe, as if this were perfectly ordinary.
Ser Willem Darklyn was last.
He stood at the doorway, looking at the three already seated, at the four chairs all placed on the left, at the young man who had not spoken a word.
His fists clenched.
Then loosened.
He walked to the fourth chair on the left.
And sat.
The four men sat in a row, all facing the head, all facing that backlit figure.
Aemond finally moved.
He stepped out from behind the chair and circled to the front of the head seat.
He did not sit immediately.
He stood beside it, looking down at the four men.
From left to right.
Then from right to left.
His gaze finally settled on Larys Strong, seated in the first chair.
He smiled.
But what he said next made everyone fall silent.
"Larys."
Larys lifted his head.
Aemond looked at him, amusement flickering in those violet eyes.
"Do you think you're qualified to sit in that seat?"
Larys's expression froze for a brief instant.
Gwayne turned his head to look at him.
The corner of Ser Willem Darklyn's mouth lifted slightly.
Will lowered his head, staring at his fingers, as if he had heard nothing.
Larys's breathing paused for a beat.
Then he stood.
Slowly. The cane planted first, then his body rose gradually.
His knees were bad; the motion was difficult. Yet he maintained his smile.
"You are right, Prince," he said evenly, even with a trace of self-mockery. "I was presumptuous."
He inclined his head slightly toward Gwayne beside him.
"Lord Gwayne, please."
He turned his body, preparing to move aside.
Aemond raised a hand.
His finger pointed to the fourth chair on the left—Ser Willem Darklyn's seat.
"You. Sit at the end."
Larys's smile froze.
Only for a moment.
Then he nodded.
"As you command, Prince."
Leaning on his cane, he walked step by step to the fourth chair.
Ser Willem Darklyn watched him approach and leaned slightly forward.
Then Larys sat in the fourth chair.
The cane rested at his side. Hands folded on his knees. Back straight. A faint smile on his face.
Exactly the same as before.
But everyone knew—it was no longer the same.
Aemond looked at him.
This cripple. This Lord of Harrenhal. This Master of Whisperers. This man who always stood in the shadows of the throne room.
He belonged to Aegon.
At least, lately.
After Viserys died, Larys had been running to Aegon's chambers more than anyone else.
He reported intelligence to the new king, offered counsel, drank with him to ease his mood.
He had even volunteered to help Queen Alyn contact House Rogare, to help Aegon build his own network.
And now this cripple wanted to curry favor with him as well.
Aemond disliked it very much.
A cripple, playing both sides in front of him.
Someone without a stance like that did not deserve respect.
Aemond withdrew his gaze.
He could not move against him yet.
The war was not over. The intelligence network still needed him.
And the informants he had planted among the lower classes of King's Landing—only Tella could take those over.
But what he needed even more was intelligence from across the Seven Kingdoms.
Sooner or later.
Just as he was about to sit at the head, the door was knocked again.
Knock, knock, knock.
Three light taps.
Hall glanced at Aemond.
Aemond gave a slight nod.
Hall stepped forward and opened the door.
Sunlight spilled in, revealing two figures.
Queen Alicent.
And Queen Alyn Rogare, holding an infant.
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