The midday sun slanted through the high windows.
Aemond stood behind the head of the long table, gripping the back of the chair with both hands. He had been standing there for a quarter of an hour. The sunlight fell from behind—broad shoulders, slender arms, his famously long silver hair almost translucent in the halo. His face was hidden in shadow, impossible to see clearly, though sometimes a faint cold light reflected in those violet eyes.
Hal Bellere stood three paces behind him.
But at this moment, he could not help stealing a glance at the four chairs.
The long table was wide, the black oak surface polished to a mirror shine. There were only four chairs, all arranged on the left side of the table at equal distances: the backs of the chairs faced the door, the seats faced the head of the table.
Four chairs. Four people.
Hal silently counted the list of attendees: Larys Strong, Master of Whisperers; Galwyn Hightower, Commander of the Praetorian Guard; Ser William Darklyn, Commander of the Royal Army and defender of King's Landing; and Will Simmons, Master of Coin.
Four people, four chairs, all on the left.
The right side was empty.
The head of the table was also empty.
Hal swallowed.
He vaguely understood what this meant, but did not dare to think about it.
Footsteps sounded outside. More than one person.
Hal straightened.
The door opened.
Four men entered.
At the front was Larys Strong. His crutches struck the stone floor—thud, thud, thud—the rhythm steady. He wore a dark green velvet robe with the sigil of Harrenhal embroidered on his breast; his sparse grey hair was neatly combed.
The first thing he saw was the four chairs.
He hesitated for a moment.
Then his gaze swept across the long table to the illuminated figure behind the head chair. He smiled. It was a very faint smile, only the corners of his lips lifting slightly; there was no mirth in his eyes.
He continued walking forward. Crutches—thud, thud, thud.
The second man was Galwyn Hightower. The Queen Mother Alicent's uncle, the new Commander of the Praetorian Guard, and the representative of House Hightower in King's Landing. He was fifty-two years old, with grey hair and a stern face, dressed in the golden robes of the Praetorian Guard. He too saw the four chairs upon entering.
His steps faltered. He frowned.
The third was Will Simmons. He had long grown accustomed to such things.
The fourth was Ser William Darklyn. Commander of the Royal Army, defender of King's Landing. A fifty-year-old veteran who had fought in the Stepstones and suppressed the Iron Islands rebellion. He stopped in the doorway. He looked at the four chairs. Left side. Only the left. Four.
His face darkened.
The four men stood at the door. No one moved first.
Aemond still stood behind the head chair, gripping its back with both hands. The sunlight streamed through his back, casting his face deeper into shadow.
He did not speak.
Silence spread like water.
Larys Strong moved first. Leaning on his crutches, he walked step by step to the left side of the long table. His steps were not fast, but steady; the sound of his crutches on the stone was especially clear in the silence.
He reached the first chair on the left.
He stopped.
He did not sit immediately. He looked at the three empty chairs, then at the silent figure behind the head chair. He drew a deep breath.
Then he sat.
His crutches rested against the side of the chair. His hands folded on his knees. His back straight. His eyes forward.
Galwyn Hightower watched him, frowning deeper. But he did not hesitate long. He walked to the second chair on the left. He sat.
Will Simmons went to the third chair on the left. He even straightened the hem of his robe before sitting, moving as naturally as if it were the normal order.
Ser William Darklyn was last.
He stood at the door, looking at the three already seated, at the four chairs on the left, and at the young man behind the head chair who had not yet made a sound. His fists clenched. Then unclenched.
He walked to the fourth chair on the left.
He sat.
All four sat in a row, all facing the head of the table, all looking at the backlit silhouette.
Aemond finally moved.
He stepped out from behind the chair and walked around to the head seat. He did not sit immediately. He stood beside the head chair and looked down at the four men. Left to right. Right to left.
His gaze finally fell on Larys Strong in the first chair on the left.
He smiled.
But what he said next made everyone fall silent.
"Larys."
Larys looked up.
Aemond looked at him, his violet eyes carrying something playful.
"Do you think you are qualified for this position?"
Larys's expression froze for an instant.
Galwyn Hightower glanced at him sideways. Ser William Darklyn's lips twitched slightly upward. Will Simmons lowered his head and stared at his fingers, as if he had heard nothing.
Larys's breath caught.
Then he stood.
The movement was very slow: first his crutches braced against the floor, then his body slowly rose. His knees were bad; the motion was a bit difficult, but he maintained his smile.
"The prince is right," his voice was even, with a hint of self-mockery. "I was presumptuous."
He bowed slightly to Galwyn Hightower beside him.
"Lord Galwyn, please."
He turned aside, ready to move away.
Aemond raised his hand.
He pointed to the fourth chair on the left—Ser William Darklyn's chair.
"You go and sit at the end."
Larys's smile froze on his face. Only for a moment. Then he nodded.
"As the prince commands."
Leaning on his crutches, he walked step by step toward the fourth chair. Ser William Darklyn watched him approach, then stood and moved aside.
Then Larys sat in the fourth chair. His crutches rested beside him. His hands folded on his knees. His back straight. His face smiling.
Just as before.
But everyone knew that everything was different.
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 was Aegon's man. At least recently. Since Viserys's death, Larys had been the one most frequently visiting Aegon's chambers. He reported intelligence to the new king, gave counsel to the new king, accompanied him in drink to ease his boredom. He had even offered to help Queen Aelinor contact House Rogare, to help Aegon build his own connections.
This cripple still wanted to curry favor with him.
Aemond did not like it. Before him stood a cripple playing both sides.
Such people, with no clear position, need not be respected.
Aemond looked away.
He could not touch him yet. The war was not over. The intelligence network still needed him. The eyes he had placed in King's Landing were also in Talya's hands. But he needed the intelligence from all the Seven Kingdoms.
Sooner or later.
He was about to sit in the head chair when another knock came at the door.
Thud, thud, thud.
Three knocks, very light.
Hal looked at Aemond.
Aemond nodded.
Hal opened the door.
Sunlight from beyond streamed in, illuminating two figures.
Queen Mother Alicent.
And Queen Aelinor Rogare, carrying an infant.
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