Early morning in King's Landing was shrouded in grey-white fog, the towers of the Red Keep rising like islands in the mist.
In the throne room, torches along the walls had been lit early, striving to dispel the cold dampness seeping through the high windows. Aemond Targaryen stood beside the Iron Throne. Upon the Iron Throne sat the Queen Regent, Alicent.
The seat was a monstrous thing—thousands of surrendered swords forged together by dragonfire, the back, the armrests, even the edges of the seat bristling with jagged blades. Alicent sat straight-backed, her dark blue velvet gown spread about her, her auburn hair beneath a silver net neatly arranged.
Beneath the high platform of the throne, left and right, stood the members of the Small Council.
At the front left stood Galwyn Hightower, Captain of the Red Keep garrison, Alicent's younger brother, his white cloak over black armor immaculately clean. Beside him stood Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
At the front right stood the Hand of the King, Tyland Lannister, and behind him Larys Strong, Master of Whisperers, the club-footed lord leaning on his cane with practiced nonchalance. At the end stood Grand Maester Orwyle, the old man in his grey robes with head bowed, silent, as if none of this concerned him.
In the center of the hall, the representatives of the Four Kingdoms stood in formation.
They had arrived in King's Landing the day before last, spent a day at the city's guest house, and only this morning had been permitted to enter the Red Keep and be brought to the throne room.
At the forefront stood the North's representative: Medrick Manderly, heir to Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor. In his early twenties, he was tall, with the characteristic round face of House Manderly and light brown hair. He wore a silver-grey fur-lined cloak over chainmail, and at this moment his gaze swept across the throne room—from the high windows to the Iron Throne.
Behind him came the Vale's representative: William Royce, younger brother of the Lord of Runestone. He was a famed knight in the Vale, bearing the Valyrian steel sword of his house, Lamentation. In his twenties, he wore ancient bronze armor inscribed with old runes that, it was said, warded against sorcery and evil. His black hair was neatly trimmed, his beard short and well-kept.
House Royce had always been close to Rhaenyra, and the Vale was the homeland of Rhaenyra's late mother, Aemma Arryn. But William's expression was calm as still water, revealing no partiality. House Royce's loyalty to Rhaenyra was well known, but that did not mean they held any love for Prince Daemon. After all, Daemon's murdered first wife, Rhea Royce, had been his aunt—and the Lady of Runestone. After Rhea's death, Daemon had laid claim to Runestone, prompting Lady Jeyne of the Vale to declare him persona non grata, and by King Viserys I's decree, Runestone had passed to Rhea's nephew and his brother.
The third was the Riverlands' representative: Benjicot Blackwood, the youngest son of the Lord of Raventree Hall, but as he was the only son to survive to adulthood, he was effectively the heir. Only eighteen, with black hair and black eyes, a lean face, dressed in a dark grey coat trimmed with raven feathers. His house had a century-old feud with House Bracken. And the Brackens were now fervent Green supporters in the Riverlands, making his position in this delegation precarious.
Finally came the Stormlands' representative: Sebastian Errol. In his mid-forties, with a broad-shouldered build, sweat beading on his brow. Sebastian's eyes darted about, and he kept his head lowered.
Behind the four stood two or three knights or attendants each, twelve men in total, standing in formation. All were armored, but according to audience protocol, their weapons remained on the weapon racks at the entrance to the throne room.
Queen Alicent drew a deep breath and spoke.
Her voice echoed through the hall, clear but carrying a note of strain:
"Honored delegates."
The representatives of the Four Kingdoms and their escorts bowed in unison.
"We have come before the Queen Regent," William Royce replied on behalf of the group. "May the Seven Gods grant the King a swift recovery."
Medrick hesitated for a moment, then added, "May the Old Gods also watch over His Grace."
House Manderly were not First Men; they were Andals who did not keep the old gods. But this time, they came on behalf of Lord Stark.
Alicent nodded and continued.
"Welcome to King's Landing. But His Grace the King is gravely ill, and the maesters have strictly ordered him to rest. Today, in my capacity as Regent, I shall hear your intentions. Any documents or messages may be delivered."
William Royce stepped forward, his bronze boots ringing clearly on the stone floor. He produced from his breast four rolled parchments sealed with wax, and raised them high.
Four wax seals, four heraldic devices: the direwolf of Stark, the falcon of Arryn, the trout of Tully, the crowned stag of Baratheon.
"Queen Regent," William's voice was steady and strong. "We are commanded by our lords of the Four Kingdoms. These documents are to be delivered to His Grace the King, and we are to present our realms' concerns to him in person. This is a tradition of centuries, and the protocol we vassals are obliged to follow before His Grace."
On the Iron Throne, the Queen Regent leaned forward slightly, gazing at them. "Lord Royce, I understand tradition. But His Grace's current condition—Grand Maester Orwyle?"
Called upon, Grand Maester Orwyle raised his head and stepped forward.
"Yes, Queen Regent. His Grace has suffered repeated bouts of illness of late, fevers that come and go. He requires complete rest. Any interruption could... worsen his condition."
"Then," Aemond spoke from beside the Iron Throne, "your documents may be left and delivered by the Regent. As for your personal audience, when His Grace recovers, there will naturally be an opportunity."
Medrick Manderly let out a soft snort—not loud, but noticeable enough in the hushed hall.
All eyes turned to him.
The young man stepped forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with William Royce.
"Prince Aemond, we are not here merely to deliver documents. We wish to see His Grace the King with our own eyes, to confirm his well-being, and to hear his personal word concerning a series of significant events of late."
Aemond's eye narrowed.
"Significant events? Which ones, specifically? Tell me."
Medrick did not retreat.
"First: one year ago, His Grace named Prince Aegon his heir, but since then, there has been no formal decree issued on the matter. Second: Princess Rhaenyra crossed the Narrow Sea to Tyrosh, and His Grace has not spoken a word. Third: High Tide has fallen—House Velaryon, once the pillar of the royal fleet, their ancestral lands seized by the Crown, and His Grace has not declared his position before the realm. Fourth: the bloodletting at Dragonstone—the seat of House Targaryen burning, and still His Grace is silent."
He finished in one breath. In the hall, silence lay thick as death.
"These," Medrick said at last, "are all grave matters that shake the foundations of the realm. The Wardens of the Four Kingdoms must know: is this His Grace's will, or..."
He hesitated, then said heavily, "...or is this someone's unauthorized decision?"
Aemond smiled.
"Lord Manderly, are you twenty years old? Twenty-one? So young, yet you understand the foundations of the realm so well?"
"My father taught me that loyalty is not blind obedience," Medrick replied. "True loyalty is to hold to the right path when the monarch may be deceived."
"What a beautiful phrase," Aemond said, descending the steps. "Then let me ask you—what is this so-called right path of yours? Is it to force your way into the sickroom of a gravely ill old man? To interrogate him? Or to show that you care nothing for His Grace's condition?"