"Show me a flattered fool and I will show you a weak ruler."
―Leto II
…
It was an afternoon of singular indolence within the august walls of the Red Keep, where Aegon had installed himself most comfortably upon the Iron Throne—not in the manner of a sovereign dispensing justice with solemn dignity, but rather as a disaffected youth might slump into a chair too grand for his frame. His posture spoke of languor, his expression of mild irritation, and his leisure of absolute negligence. A goblet of rich Arbor red dangled precariously from his idle fingers, while a contingent of like-minded companions lounged at various angles about the hall, all engaged in merriment that was unseemly in the sacred chamber of kings.
The business of the Crown, such as it was, had little place in Aegon's daily concerns, and what little he endured was often made tolerable only by drink and distraction. Thus, when Larys Strong—a man whose gait was as deliberate as his speech was guarded—entered the hall, Aegon gave him only the most cursory of glances, his interest kindled not by expectation, but by a vague curiosity as to what amusement the club-footed man might unwittingly provide.
"My Lord Strong," he drawled, his voice thick with wine and boredom. "Come to deliver more riddles? Perhaps a prophecy or two? My mother would love that."
Larys smiled, small and careful. "Your Grace jests, and yet even the jests of a king hold wisdom. Prophecies are merely the words men whisper when they are too fearful to speak plainly. It gladdens my heart to see His Grace presiding over court with such—ah—distinction."
Aegon, who had never been accused of resembling his father in temperament nor his great-grandfather in wisdom, narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The dubious compliment, framed with such delicate artifice, roused in him the inclination to preen and the instinct to doubt in equal measure.
"You've a talent for flattery, Lord Larys," he muttered, with the careless arrogance of one accustomed to honeyed words. "And as I have not the patience to unravel its sincerity, I shall simply accept it as my due. What is it you want?"
"A mere moment of Your Grace's time, if you would grant me the indulgence of a private word," Larys replied, lowering his gaze as though the request itself was an imposition too bold to utter outright.
Aegon cast an idle glance toward his companions. They had long since ceased to be amusing; they had begun repeating their jests, a most egregious sin in his estimation. He sighed, dramatically aggrieved, and waved a languid hand. "Go on, then. Off with you all."
His companions, muttering but obedient, filed out of the chamber, their revelry departing with them. Only Larys remained, his hands clasped before him in an attitude of near-monastic humility.
With a slow, measured step, Larys guided the king towards the open balcony, where the city sprawled before them in all its chaotic splendor—rooftops glinting beneath the afternoon sun, winding streets teeming with the ceaseless motion of trade and toil. For a long moment, neither spoke, though Aegon's patience for silence was not renowned.
"Well?" the king prompted, his tone irritable.
"My King," Larys began at last, with a hesitation most artfully employed, "it is not my place to offer unsolicited counsel—"
"And yet, here you are, offering it," Aegon interrupted, grinning. "Come, out with it. You always have something slippery to say."
Larys smiled faintly, a mere twitch of the lips, and lowered his eyes in practiced deference. "I speak only out of duty, Your Grace. I would not dare presume—"
Aegon sighed. "Larys, I am neither drunk enough nor patient enough to suffer through all these pleasantries. Speak plainly."
Larys inclined his head. "Your Grace is most magnanimous."
Aegon rolled his eyes.
There was a pause, then a most careful unfolding of words. "I have been troubled, Your Grace, by whispers that ought not to persist—whispers that, if left unchecked, might take root where they do not belong."
Aegon tensed, though he did not yet know why. "Whispers? Of what?"
Larys allowed himself a moment's hesitation, as though he must choose his words with the utmost care. "There are some, perhaps ill-intentioned, who perceive that Your Grace's authority is not... absolute."
Aegon frowned. "What in the seven hells does that mean?"
Larys clasped his hands before him and sighed, a picture of regret. "Only that Prince Aemond, in his ceaseless service to the realm, has become... rather formidable. His influence is vast, his actions decisive. Some might say—though I would never suggest it myself—that he governs with such efficiency, such unerring confidence, that one might wonder where the seat of power truly resides."
The king stiffened, his features darkening. "And who, pray, has dared to wonder such a thing?"
Larys spread his hands in a gesture of vague regret. "It is not for me to give voice to the murmurs of the court, Your Grace. I merely relay the perception that exists—that your esteemed brother, in his zeal to safeguard your rule, may be seen as ruling in your stead."
Aegon's face twisted into a sneer. "Aemond is my brother. He serves me."
"Indeed," Larys murmured. "And yet, it was only this morning that Prince Aemond called for a Small Council meeting—one to which I was summoned, and yet of which Your Grace remains unaware."
Aegon, who had been irritated before, now bristled with a sharper sort of anger. "Aemond called a council meeting? Without informing me?"
"It would appear so."
"And what in the name of the Stranger is this meeting about?"
Larys tilted his head, as if reluctant to add more fuel to the flame. "It concerns measures being undertaken in Your Grace's name—reforms aimed at consolidating power within the city, removing undue influence from the guildmasters."
Aegon scowled. "And what of it? The guildmasters are parasites."
"Undoubtedly," Larys conceded. "Yet, the manner in which this has been enacted—the decisiveness with which the decree was issued—might give some the impression that it was Prince Aemond, rather than Your Grace, who authored it."
Aegon, who had never been overly concerned with the particulars of governance, was nonetheless incensed at the suggestion that he was a mere figurehead. That he, Aegon the Second, was being managed—as his father had been by his grandfather, as a child by his nursemaid.
His indignation flared. "Where is Aemond now?"
"In the council chambers, Your Grace. He gathers the lords even as we speak."
Aegon's eyes burned with resentment. He had suffered many things in his young life—indifference, condescension, even ridicule—but he would not suffer the indignity of being made a fool before his own court.
"Then I shall attend this meeting," Aegon declared, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic edge of command. "And I shall remind my dear brother where true authority resides."
Larys bowed, his expression unreadable. "As Your Grace wills it."