King's Landing, the Red Keep, Maegor's Holdfast, the Small Council chamber.
The afternoon sun streamed through the stained glass windows, casting patches of colored light across the long table. Aemond Targaryen sat in the high seat, leaning back in his chair, one hand on the armrest, the other on the table, his fingers tapping steadily. Behind him stood Hal Bellere, dressed in black armor, his face expressionless.
On either side of the long table sat the important ministers of the Small Council.
Tyland Lannister, the Hand of the King, had just returned from the Westerlands, dusty but still maintaining the unique elegance of a Lannister. Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, and Ser Erwin Redwyne, the Master of Ships, both bowed their heads with solemn expressions. Will Simmons, the Master of Coin and Aemond's trusted man, was young and shrewd, a smile playing on his lips. Also at the end of the long table sat Grand Maester Norren, dressed in a grey robe.
As for the Master of Whisperers, Larys Strong, he had been sent by the Regent to Moonspire to meet the approaching Hightower army.
Queen Alicent was also present. She sat to Aemond's right, wearing a long dark blue gown, her hair pinned up high, her face tired and haggard. Since Viserys the First's death, she had been living in Maegor's Holdfast, rarely leaving the castle. Today was the first time in days she had attended a Small Council meeting. Though the last time her son Aemond had reprimanded her to stay out of state affairs, the Queen Mother still needed to attend this meeting for the sake of her eldest son Aegon.
Aemond had not stopped her. After all, Alicent was his mother. And on that night on High Tide, his mother Alicent had been by his side from beginning to end... For some ambiguous matters, Aemond also knew that as long as his mother did not overstep...
"Everyone, let us begin," Aemond spoke. His voice was not loud, but the entire hall immediately fell silent.
"You all know about Tyrosh?"
The Hand, Tyland, nodded. "Yes, Regent. The news has spread throughout King's Landing."
"The Blacks' rear is burning. A bastard uprising. Hugh Hammer has declared himself King of Tyrosh and controls Lucerys and Daemon's two daughters." Aemond's voice was even, as if speaking of something insignificant. "What do you think?"
Silence fell over the council chamber for a moment, then light laughter broke out. Several ministers wore expressions of schadenfreude. The Master of Ships, Erwin, could not help but laugh loudly. "Regent, this is excellent news. The rebels are divided and devouring each other. For us..."
He did not finish, because Aemond's violet eyes slid over them. The gaze was faint, but Erwin's laughter abruptly stopped.
Aemond ignored him and turned to Grand Maester Norren at the end of the table.
"Grand Maester," he spoke.
Grand Maester Norren raised his head, a proper respect on his face. "What does the Regent command?"
"Everyone was laughing just now," Aemond said. "I see you were laughing too. You seemed happy?"
"I am curious. Tell me, what is so funny?"
Grand Maester Norren's smile stiffened for a moment, but he quickly changed his expression and said seriously. "Regent, this is good. The Blacks' bastard betrayed them, internal chaos. For us..."
"Good?" Aemond interrupted, his voice still even. "You say this is good?"
Grand Maester Norren swallowed and continued, forcing courage.
"Yes, Regent. Hugh has rebelled. The Blacks are too busy to take care of themselves. We can take advantage of the opportunity..."
"Take advantage of the opportunity?" Aemond interrupted again. "Take the opportunity to be happy? Or take the opportunity to celebrate?"
He stood, placed his hands on the table, leaned forward slightly, and stared at Grand Maester Norren with his violet eyes.
"Grand Maester, let me ask you—who is Hugh Hammer?"
Grand Maester Norren was stunned for a moment. "A... a bastard..."
"What does he now hold?"
"He has... Prince Lucerys and the two princesses..."
"No." Aemond shook his head.
Cold sweat beaded on Grand Maester Norren's forehead. "And... and..."
"And the dragons," Aemond finished for him. "He controls the bastard Sara and two dragons. Silverwing. Vermithor. Two dragons are now in the hands of a shameless bastard. You say this is good?"
Dead silence fell over the council chamber. The ministers who had been laughing just now lowered their heads, not daring to breathe. Grand Maester Norren's face was twisted. He wanted to say that the other ministers had also laughed—why was he the only one being singled out?
Aemond sat down again, leaned back, and resumed tapping his fingers on the table.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap.
Each tap seemed to strike Grand Maester Norren's heart.
"Grand Maester," Aemond raised a finger and pointed at him.
Grand Maester Norren looked up.
"You just laughed," Aemond stared at him. "Smiling as if you were having a good time."
Hearing the Regent's questioning, Grand Maester Norren's face grew even paler.
"I want to make you laugh," Aemond said. "Now smile for me."
Grand Maester Norren sat stiffly, not knowing whether to laugh or not.
"Laugh," Aemond insisted.
Grand Maester Norren forced out a smile, uglier than tears.
"That's not sincere enough," Aemond said. "Laugh again."
Grand Maester Norren smiled again, this time even uglier.
"Still not enough," Aemond shook his head. "Grand Maester, do you think it's a happy thing that these bastards are stealing Targaryen dragons?"
Grand Maester Norren finally could not hold back. "Regent, I... I didn't mean that..."
"Then what did you mean?"
"I... I just think that the Blacks' internal uprising is advantageous for us..."
"Advantageous?" Aemond sneered. "Two dragons falling into enemy hands—you call that advantageous?"
Grand Maester Norren was speechless.
Aemond stared at him, silent for a moment, then slowly said, "Strike yourself."
Grand Maester Norren was stunned. "Regent, this..."
"Strike."
Grand Maester Norren gritted his teeth, raised his hand, and gave himself a light slap.
"Not loud enough," Aemond said.
Grand Maester Norren's face reddened. He looked at the ministers around him; they turned their heads one by one, none looking at him. The Grand Maester looked again at Queen Alicent, hoping the Queen Mother would say a few words for him. But the Queen Mother looked at him coldly, clear disgust in her eyes.
Grand Maester Norren drew a deep breath, raised his hand, and struck himself hard.
Smack!
The sharp sound was especially loud in the quiet council chamber.
"Continue."
Grand Maester Norren gritted his teeth and struck again.
Smack!
"Continue."
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Slap after slap. Grand Maester Norren's face grew redder, and blood began to seep from the corners of his lips. His hair was disheveled; he looked somewhat humiliated.
In the council chamber, some ministers gloated, some were expressionless, but no one dared make a sound.
Queen Mother Alicent watched the scene; an indescribable joy rose in her heart.
It was this very Grand Maester Norren and High Septon Owen who had personally incited Aegon to march. Saying that His Grace should personally go into battle to boost morale, saying it was a good opportunity to establish his prestige. And the result? Her eldest son Aegon was grievously wounded, Sunfyre was dying, and he was still hiding in a cave to recover—she, his mother, did not even know where her own son was.
Thinking of this, Alicent's eyes grew somewhat watery. But she quickly composed herself.