"It is not about whom you know, but who knows you. And in politics, who knows about who knows you."
Aemon was hardly the type to needlessly boast about his achievements, but he had to admit that he had managed the messy work of arranging a regency magnificently. How could he not, seated on the steps of the Iron Throne itself? His designs had not been malicious, by no means, but they had required a bit of subterfuge. Subtlety. And since it had been for the good of the realm, that meant it had been worth it.
It had been a rather clever scheme.
Vaegon would never have accepted the power of regent. Even when he finally realized the necessity of it, it was simply not in his nature to seize power. That was just who his little brother was, a man who so stubbornly clung to his ideals. He always had been. Fortunately for Aemon, one of those ideals was maintaining the strength of the crown instead of weakening it.
Like a council of regents would have done. And since the small council was in agreement that a regency was needed, having the two princes state that one of their number should be sole regent was quite fortuitous. Especially since the one who was not the heir was not the one who wanted the power.
It also meant that Lord Corlys and Ser Braxton could no longer indefinitely stall his plans. How very convenient.
"Your Grace." The court herald interrupted his musings, his voice carrying with its usual ease over the persistent murmur of the court. When hundreds of nobles of varied ranks were gathered together, it was only expected for them to feel entitled to comment, however quietly. "There are no further petitioners."
"Excellent," Aemon said, taking in the scene before him. From his vantage point atop the steps of the Iron Throne, he could easily take in the entire length of the hall. Lined with men-at-arms, armed and armored and clad in Targaryen colors, it was as safe for him to be so exposed as was possible for a man standing atop a mountain of slowly rusting swords. And if the dozens of armed guards were not sufficient, then the five knights of the Kingsguard standing guard between the raised dais and the crowd of courtiers would be enough to see them to safety.
Only five, not six. Vaegon had wanted to keep one slot open for one more candidate. As for the seventh… Lord Commander Pate was at his liege's side in the royal apartments. Whether to guard his king or to be at his friend's side in a desperate attempt to help him regain his wits, who was to say?
"My lords and ladies, it is with a heavy heart that I must share this news with you," Aemon began. He knew his voice would carry through the hall- it had been constructed to make the king heard, after all, and he had spent quite a few years learning the cruder points of oratory. "As you might guess from my place upon this throne, His Grace my father has been incapacitated. Not by illness or infirmity, but by grief at having had so many of his dearest friends so treacherously struck down at a wedding!"
The crowd gasped at the news. The king, incapacitated by grief? A regency? What of the war? What of his promises? What of the countless dozens of plans that were in play? And the roads! What of the roads?
"My place as regent was one taken out of necessity, not greed," he reassured them. "It required both the whole of the Small Council and Her Grace Queen Alysanne to convince me to do so, but I did so with only the noblest intentions." By some heroic effort of self-control, none in the audience scoffed at that pronouncement. They did, however, cease their muttering in the face of something far more interesting. "That of peace! For it is thanks to my brother, Prince Vaegon Targaryen, the Hand of the King, that we are able to celebrate peace, as he has secured the Dornish surrender!"
His brother shifted slightly in his seat at the high table with the other members of the Small Council, just barely to the right of the Iron Throne, as the hall erupted with cheers. Well, that had been the expected response. Winning a war had a way of pleasing a crowd, after all. More importantly, it brushed aside any doubts as to the legitimacy of the regency by giving it one immediate and undeniable success.
Still, the raucous cheers and applause lingered for quite some time.
"And it is a victory as His Grace my father desired!" he continued once the applause began to fade. "The Dornish shall not be rewarded for the murder of my brother, shall not be rewarded for trying to turn a wedding into a battlefield! No, instead, Dorne shall not be. The crown of Dorne has been broken, their realm shattered, never to be made whole again lest they face the combined might of the Seven Kingdoms! Already, where there was once one Princess ruling all of Dorne, she now shares Dorne with half a dozen kings and queens she once called vassals!"
And again with the cheering.
"Of course, that is not to say we did not gain anything beyond peace and a broken Dorne, great prizes though they are," at that, some laughter echoed through the gathered crowd. "Again, thanks to both my brother and Lord Greyjoy, we need no longer fear the efforts of slavers and pirates at sea, for the three-headed dragon now flies on fully half of the Stepstones!"
A mild exaggeration, that, but the sentiment was the same. Still, it would take more than a bit of time, coin, and effort to bring those islands properly into the realm. A matter for the next meeting of the Small Council, but that could wait. No doubt Lords Tyrell and Velaryon would squabble over whose jurisdiction this would be.
"I see no better way to end than on such fine news," he declared, rising to his feet. "Let his session of the court be closed!"
He began to slowly make his way down the steps of the Iron Throne, and his fellow councilors- no, his councilors now- rose to follow him.
As the Kingsguard formed up around them, the assembled crowd still tried to get their attention. The words were indistinct and blended together, but the occasional shouter managed to rise above the noise.
"Your Grace, a moment of your time!" a wealthy-looking man with no clear heraldry shouted. A merchant of some sort, no doubt. Their little group did not stop, though Vaegon did turn fractionally as his hand twitched towards his belt. "My lord Hand!"
"Your Grace, about the Stepstones!" another voice rose to the forefront. This time, Aemon did come to a halt, if only to get a look at the one speaking, and the rest of the group stopped with him. Judging by his dress and the badge of office he bore, it was clear that he belonged to the Guild of Stonemasons. No doubt he wished for his brotherhood to expand to the Stepstones. "The Guild is willing to offer its services! At below-market rates!"
But this one was not facing Aemon. Their gaze flowed past him, past the Prince Regent.
It was Vaegon who had his attention.
"Your Grace, you have seen what we can do!" Another voice called out. Again, this one addressed his brother.
"It seems they have need of me, Aemon," Vaegon observed, coming to a halt. "Best to see what they have planned."
"Very well," Aemon agreed after a moment. "Ser Joffrey, if you would?"
"Yes, Your Grace," the aging knight agreed, his voice bland and unemotive, moving in front of Vaegon. The two of them turned to face the crowd, hands not too subtly near their weapons, while the rest of their group kept moving. To Aemon's steadily building horror, much of the crowd tried to speak with his brother, and they could leave swiftly and without difficulty.
Why would they go straight for his brother, Aemon wondered. Was it out of convenience, since he had reacted first? Or was there something else at play? Mayhaps it had something to do with his brother's suspicious fortune?
No, that was absurd. Aemon had just spent considerable time extolling his brother's accomplishments. It was only natural for others to want to speak with Vaegon. Besides, Vaegon had made himself approachable. He was merely jumping at shadows. Right?
Right?
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