King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his name, stood on a balcony of the Red Keep overlooking his city, sunlight bathing his upturned face.
Winter had not ended with the death of the Night's King, but the days of near constant snow had. Sun, which had seemed to have taken a year's hiatus from the world of men, had returned, popping its bright head out of the grey skies to give the battered and bleeding lands of Westeros a respite from the cold. Snow still fell often and the air was still bitterly cold, but every now and again they were blessed with a ray of sunshine.
"Your Grace."
Not one moment of peace it seems. Oh, to be but a peasant boy…
But Aegon wasn't now and never had been a peasant boy. He was a king, the king despite recent attempts to claim the title, and a king never truly rested. Westeros had prevented a Long Night, but there was not an easy road left to it. There would be pain and suffering to come, just as there was pain and suffering behind them. Life was a vicious cycle.
"Your—"
"I heard you the first time, Arthur." The King opened his violet eyes, turning to face the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The only healthy Kingsguard I have left. Legendary Barristan the Bold and strong Balon Swann had been among the countless dead of the Second Battle for the Dawn, dying in service to their liege. Borran of the Bramsfort, Manfred Darke and Oswell Whent had done so as well, the last in a battle, the middle in a betrayal and the last in a falling Wall. That left only one fighting man, the Sword of the Morning, as defense to his liege, Rolland Storm still at the Gates of the Moon to recover from his shattered ribs. I suppose their replacements will be one of our first orders of business. But then again, a Kingsguard can't follow me into the sky. Neither can a council.
Balerion and Aegon's relationship was a rocky one. The black dragon almost seemed to detest Aegon for having stolen that first ride atop him, ignoring any commands the King had given as he and his siblings scrounged the battlefield, gobbling corpses like a fat man did lemon cakes. There had certainly been plenty of corpses to go around; the casualties had been beyond counting, miles of land covered in great piles of dead. The army of the living that had once been over fifty-thousand strong had been reduced to less than half that—closer to a quarter, though it was hard to get a truly accurate count—and that didn't even begin to number the wights. But Balerion allowed Aegon near him without complaint now, and despite a large amount of dragony grumbling had allowed Aegon to ride him several times since.
Not that he listened very well…or at all. In the two months since the Second Battle for the Dawn, the great black beast had shown a tendency to up and fly away to wherever the hell he wanted to go. Aegon didn't know if it would take training, time or reconstructing the Dragonpit, but Balerion at least showed an inclination for him now that hadn't existed prior. Maybe it was even respect.
But Aegon doubted that.
I suppose we'll discuss the dragons as well, though the Seven know none of us have any real knowledge about what to do. It'll be years of learning for all of us.
Ser Arthur tilted his head slightly, the greatsword Dawn at his side. "Your Grace, the Council is waiting. There is much to be discussed."
Aegon nodded, adjusting the pointed crown atop his head with a sigh. "This is one thing I didn't miss during our time at war, Arthur."
The Lord Commander gave a small, good-natured grimace. It was to be his first Small Council meeting, as it was the first time the appointed council had managed to convene in King's Landing after the destruction of the wars and the mass amounts of snow had left them widespread. "You leave me with such a bright outlook."
"I leave you with the truth, my friend, only the truth."
Soon after, Aegon stepped into the familiar small council chamber, the long table and its high-backed chairs the same as they had always been. His advisors stood as he entered, same as they always had. Only the faces had changed, several new in the room and one constant, scarred countenance noticeably absent.
"My lords, I apologize for the delay. It is not an excuse, but I was enjoying the sunshine. We have seen so terribly little of it lately." He nodded at their murmured pleasantries, then took his seat at the head of the table, gesturing for his lords to follow suit. He turned to look at the man nearest his right, an old face in a new position on the council. "Lord Tyrion, I believe you have the docket."
The halfman nodded, the Hand of the King pin proudly displayed on the breast of his crimson tunic. He was the first man to wear it in nearly two decades, for Aelor had never saw a point in the badge of office; everyone in Westeros knew who he was, pin or no buggering pin. Aegon supposed everyone would recognize the dwarf Lord of the Westerlands as well, but he clearly had no qualms about wearing the hand and quill. "Yes, Your Grace, and the stack is considerable. One of our more pressing issues is what to do with the survivors of the Night's Watch. There is no Wall to return to, and whatever the crimes that sent them there, they fought and died for the King during the Second Battle for the Dawn."
A new voice to the council, soft but firm, was the first to speak. The new Grandmaester was a physical opposite to the old, a slightly built, short and decidedly Dornish man named Ulwyk. He had been born into the knightly House Santagar, the second child of the Ser of Spottswood near Sunspear, but had taken the chain and forsaken his surname before his tenth nameday. His beard was black with a heavy peppering of grey, and Aegon supposed he had been a fair of face man in his youth. "How many black brothers survived, Lord Tyrion?"
"Thirty-two that have stayed in some semblance of a formation, waiting for further orders. It is highly likely many others have shed their black cloaks and disappeared into the smallfolk." Tyrion swallowed, likely unnoticed by most but not by Aegon. "There are no men with feasible claims among them, so that potential political situation has been avoided."
The king knew that held a particular point for Tyrion; Jaime was his elder brother, and there had been whispers even before the slaughter of the Neck that the former Kingsguard's claim was strong. Tyrion had been saved from that potential crisis when Jaime had fallen at the Neck, though Aegon was certain Tyrion would give up all claim to Casterly Rock if he could only have his brother back.
The king would give up most anything for one more discussion with his uncle.
Ulwyk rubbed his trimmed beard, the olive-skinned maester oblivious to the king's inner dialogue. "Perhaps they could be conscripted into the gold cloaks, at least for a period of time. I realize many of them are not the most trustworthy of individuals, but those who have remained show a semblance of loyalty. They could be required to serve for some amount of years depending on the severity of their crime—if they were ever guilty of one. Perhaps we could offer the incentive of allowing them to go their own way at the end of it."
Aegon pursed his lips, nodding. The idea seemed viable enough to him, though there would likely be some slight alterations to be made. Still, he looked over to another new face, one whose appointment had been Aegon's decision and not the Citadel's. "Ser Garth, your thoughts?"
Garth Hightower, known as Greysteel, was a younger brother of an old friend of Aelor's, Baelor Brightsmile the heir to Oldtown. The first had remained in the south, not venturing far since he lost his leg in the Rebellion, but the second son had come to replace Bronze Yohn Royce as Justicar, the Lord of Runestone falling in the savage but short fighting at the Red Keep when Viserys took it. Garth was tall and broad, not half as handsome as his crippled brother and a survivor of the Second Battle for the Dawn. Unmarried though near forty, he had led the considerable number of Hightower men through both of the recent wars.
In truth he wouldn't have been Aegon's first choice for the office of Master of Laws; Greysteel was known for questioning Aelor's brutal tactics even as he followed him during Robert's Rebellion, and his temperament was not one well suited to making friends. But the only better options in Aegon's mind, Alaric Langward and Randyll Tarly, had died like Aelor during the Second Battle for the Dawn, and Ser Garth was a strict defender of the law with a penchant for training men. Whatever his thoughts on Aelor, he would serve ably in the office.
The knight nodded. "I could use them. They'll have some notion of martial pursuits and organization, and will prove useful in rebuilding the gold cloaks. With His Grace's permission, I will begin recruiting from the smallfolk of the city as well."
The Targaryen King nodded. "You have it."
Tyrion nodded, moving on without being told to do so. "Also of importance and also to do with the fall of the Wall is what to do with the wildlings. There are few of them, but they fought hard for Your Grace. They agreed to bend the knee once; perhaps they will keep them bent."
"Do you intend to rebuild the Wall, Your Grace?" asked Ser Arthur, seated to the king's left.
Aegon shook his head. "I wouldn't even know how to begin, and the cost would be tremendous."
The final new member of the council spoke up, his fingers ink-stained already even though he had only been in the city for less than a week. "Rebuilding the Wall would be absurdly expensive, Your Grace, but the construction of a new castle would be more than manageable."
Aegon raised an eyebrow. "What are you suggesting?"
Alesander Staedmon was nicknamed Pennylover, and the Lord of Broad Arch in the Stormlands certainly had a mind for business. Black of hair and green eyed, he had a pug nose and large, almost club-like hands. "There is more than just ice in the ruins of the Wall; there is stone from the former castles. The wildlings have shown that they are willing to kneel, at least for now. I think we all would like to believe the Others have been permanently dealt with, but we do not know that. My humble suggestion is that we excavate the wildlings another gate through which to return to their homes, and turn the ruins into whatever fortifications we can. If we raise a castle and establish a loyal lord over the new holdings north of the old Wall, subservient to House Stark, we not only try and maintain the wildlings loyalty but we also open ourselves up to a larger supply of goods from the forests to the north. Furs, wood…there is no telling what resources lie untouched."
Stannis Baratheon, hero of the War of the Three Kings and the returning Master of Ships, said what was on everyone's mind. "The wildlings followed Mance Rayder, and only knelt when he persuaded them to. Now Mance Rayder is dead."
Lord Alesander nodded in concession. "That is true, Lord Stannis. But they fought even after Rayder was dead, even if it was for practical purposes."
"Their culture will not assimilate well to the south now that a unifying evil has been removed," pointed out Grandmaester Ulwyk. "Perhaps Lord Staedmon has the right of it."
Aegon was staring at the table, mind tossing the idea around. "There is only one southerner they will follow. I will talk to my brother and see his thoughts on the matter; he spoke to me once of how he felt he belonged in the North, and his relationship with the Starks is certainly a positive one. It is an excellent notion, Lord Staedmon, and one certainly worth more thought."
Tyrion was staring pointedly at Aegon with his mismatched eyes. "Speaking of Prince Jaehaerys…"
Aegon let out a great sigh. "I have told you, Lord Tyrion, I have no control over whom my brother believes his heart belongs too. Jaehaerys and Val have a bond forged from mutual suffering; it cannot be easily broken by the word of a brother, even if that brother is a king."
Varys had gone to the Vale with Alysanne before simply appearing at the main army, managing spies throughout the War of Three Kings despite the heavy snows. Aegon didn't know the details of how Varys did what Varys did and he was certain he didn't want to. "Lord Tyrion has a right to be concerned. Many nobles are grumbling about the obvious relationship, even if Lady Val is considered by some to be a wildling princess."
Two years ago Aegon would have slumped back in his chair, throwing his head back in exasperation at such an annoying issue. Now, though, he merely cocked an eyebrow. "How do so many even know of it? We're not entirely certain which nobles are dead or not yet."
Tyrion shrugged. "Perhaps if they were not concerned that a future Targaryen king would have barbarian blood..."
Aegon sighed again, long and deep. Aegon knew his unwed status needed to be addressed, and soon. It was another of his duties, and one of the most important/pleasurable ones at that. But Aegon was in no mood to discuss it, not now. "We will handle that soon, Lord Tyrion, I promise you, but not today. I will discuss the plausibility of Lord Staedmon's suggestion with Jaehaerys and Bran Stark both. For now we move on."
Ser Arthur spoke before Tyrion could. "The matter of your Kingsguard, Your Grace. I have a list of potential candidates I think suitable for your review."
"Excellent. I already have one member decided. Baelon Targaryen."
There was a moment of silence before Stannis spoke, voice neither approving nor condemning. "He is very young."
"I don't care for his age, I care for his ability to kill, and he does that better than nearly anyone present, myself included. I knighted him at the Neck, and the only reason I didn't give him the white cloak then was my family's shared mourning for Prince Aelor."
Greysteel seemed the most hesitant. "The Kingsguard is an old order of the highest honor, Your Grace. Ser Baelon is a very young man infamous for savagery. Some of the men were calling him 'Blooddragon', and it wasn't meant as a compliment."
Aegon sat straight in his chair, his voice deepening along with his seriousness. "I have discussed it with Baelon, and he is willing. There is no man left alive—aside from my two present Kingsguard—whom I would more willingly trust with the lives of myself and my family. This is not a point of contention, my lords. I am not asking your opinion; I am informing you of my decision."
Tyrion had the tact to instantly move on. "As Your Grace says. Next is the housing and feeding of the northern refugees while they remain in the south…"
And so it went.
Hours were spent in that chamber, details and decisions made in the dozens. Aegon missed Alysanne's guidance, but his surrogate mother had retired to Duskendale with Myrcella, her youngest children and little Lord Lucaerys, serving as his regent. The decision was made to leave the Iron Islands be until an army could be built up and the dragons controlled, for nearly every fighting man in Westeros was either dead or infinitely weary of war. Whenever it was deemed prudent, the severely weakened Ironborn would be given the chance to surrender their homes willingly. Those that didn't would be destroyed, for Aegon was adamant about changing the raiding culture even if it meant killing every surviving squid. The Iron Islands would be placed under the control of a loyal house, though which house it would be was left to be decided once the Islands were cleansed.
Matters of coin were discussed in excruciating detail, the expenses of the war high. Envoys were deemed necessary to send to the Free Cities to buy food and supplies for the Northern refugees, as all stores of the northern houses had been picked clean during the flight. Ravens were to be spent to each of the Lord Paramounts to gather the states of the houses under their command, to gather an idea of who was still living and who was the heir in the cases of those that weren't; the bodies after the Neck had been many and hard to distinguish. Two of the Lord Paramounts present at the Neck—Artys Arryn and Edmure Tully—had been wounded, the latter severely, and Mace Tyrell had died, though his son Garlan would survive.
It was determined that Summerhall, former seat of Prince Viserys, would be granted to Jaehaerys if Jaehaerys didn't take the opportunity in the north or to Daemon if he did. Aegon would write Alysanne, requesting betrothals of Daena, the eldest of Viserys' bastards, to Daemon, and Daenella to Lucaerys, to hopefully help prevent a future issue like that of the Blackfyre's. Aegon didn't know if Alysanne would accept in truth; the loss of Aelor so soon after Ren and Rhaella was very, very hard on her. Regardless, it was deemed the best way to handle the potential problems the twins could prove to be.
Aegon had a pounding headache when he called the meeting to a close, his lords rising as he did. The king's joints cracked alarmingly as he straightened, violet eyes tired and bloodshot. "That is enough for today, my lords. We will reconvene tomorrow."
He hadn't made it very far into his retreat before Tyrion called after him. "One last thing that needs be addressed today, Your Grace. What of the prisoners from the Golden Company?"
Aegon slowed to a stop. He had entirely forgotten about the influx of men that had been crowding the black cells of the Red Keep for months. Now that, Lord Tyrion, is an excellent question. The Golden Company had been part of half a dozen failed rebellions, each of which brought pain and suffering to the realm. Mercy had been shown in the past and been repaid with blood, but Aegon couldn't very well forget that among those imprisoned men was Lord Renly. Stannis served me well during the War of the Three Kings. I can't well repay that loyalty by chopping his baby brother's head off, even if Renly's a traitor.
The king contemplated a long moment before turning to face his advisors, expression a confident mask when he did. "These men have rebelled against the Targaryen kings time and time again, and no matter how many times they fail they always return to try again. My forbearers have shown them mercy, and that mercy has done us no good." He looked to Stannis. "Lord Renly's fate can be decided by Lord Baratheon; he has earned at least that much. As for the others…kill them."
Grandmaester Ulwyk seemed particularly taken aback. "But, Your Grace, they are prisoners of war."
"Prisoners of war whom, if I allow to live, will continue to breed men with claims to castles they no longer possess. They have never learned of their folly in the past, and they will always keep coming back as long as they draw breath. The Golden Company has been a thorn in the Iron Throne's side for much too long; it ends now, before they are once again plague shores with sword and fire."
"But none will dare attack again, Your Grace, not with the return of dragons."
"Perhaps. But where else would these men go but back to cesspools to further plot the downfall of the Targaryen dynasty? No. We kill them. All of them." Aegon turned and began striding from the room, head held high.
Garth Greysteel's voice called after him. "That is what your uncle would have done, Your Grace."
Aegon stopped for a moment before a great laugh escaped him. "Yes," the king said as he started forward again. "It is what my uncle would have done."