The throne room of the Red Keep had never been so silent.
The vaulted hall, with its high, stained-glass windows casting beams of red and gold upon cold stone, was filled with men of court and war. The banners of a thousand houses hung from the rafters, though many would be stripped before the day's end.
At the far end of the hall, the Iron Throne loomed like a beast wrought from a blacksmith's fever dream—sharp, jagged, forged in fire and conquest. And upon it sat King Daeron II Targaryen, called Daeron the Good.
He wore no crown upon his brow today, only the solemn weight of justice. His face—long praised for its dignity and calm—was set like stone. The once-warm eyes were colder now, dimmed by war and loss. His royal robes shimmered crimson and gold beneath the sunbeams, but there was no joy in the light.
Lining the walls behind him were the ancient dragon skulls, watching with hollow eyes. Balerion the Black Dread loomed largest of all, his empty sockets seeming to judge all who stood below. Vhagar. Meraxes. Vermithor. Sunfyre. Meleys. Caraxes. Their bones bore witness to the judgment of their bloodline.
Below the throne, at the steps of iron, stood Prince Baelor Targaryen, the Dragonknight reborn in soul and spirit, and beside him, Prince Maekar, tall and grim in his blackened armor. The white cloaks of the Kingsguard flanked them—silent sentinels of royal wrath.
And though none saw him at first, Brynden Rivers—called Bloodraven—watched from behind a great pillar near the eastern arch. His pale face was mostly shadowed, his eye patch still fresh, and his remaining eye glinting faintly with thought.
The King's voice rose at last.
"Lords of Westeros," Daeron began, each word ringing clear in the hush, "the rebellion is ended. The sword of the usurper has been broken, his claim extinguished, his kin scattered to the winds. The blood of House Targaryen has been spilled, and though the realm is quiet again, it has come at great cost."
He looked across the gathered lords, the survivors, the pardoned, and the trembling. "This war was not waged by common men alone. Lords and knights gave strength and steel to a lie. They gave gold to treason, their banners to fire. And so, justice must be done."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the court. But none dared speak against him aloud.
"I, Daeron of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, do declare: All those who bore arms or banners in support of Daemon Blackfyre shall be stripped of their lands, titles, or wealth—according to the degree of their crimes—and must submit hostages to the Crown as pledge of their renewed loyalty."
His voice turned harder.
"Let it be known that Lord Gormon Peake, whose loyalty to the Blackfyre cause burned brightest, shall forfeit two of his three castles to the Crown. Only Starpike shall remain to him, and even that shall be subject to the scrutiny of the Crown for ten years hence."
Cries of dismay rose in the gallery, but the King did not flinch.
"Let it be known that Ser Eustace Osgrey of Coldmoat, whose banners flew beneath Blackfyre, shall surrender his only surviving child—his daughter, Alysanne—as hostage to the court, and a significant portion of his lands shall be awarded to House Webber, who remained loyal in dark times."
Gasps now, and wide eyes. Some glanced around for Lord Osgrey, who stood pale and silent, gripping his sword hilt with white-knuckled hands.
The King's gaze swept the chamber like a sword's edge.
"Let no man mistake my mercy for weakness. The crown forgives, but it does not forget. Rebellion will find no sanctuary in these Seven Kingdoms—not while I draw breath."
He rose then, towering above the hall atop the Iron Throne, his words hammering down like dragonfire.
"This is the price of treason. Let it be remembered."
A breath held by every man and woman in the chamber finally loosed as the King sat again.
Behind the pillar, Brynden Rivers said nothing. He did not move. He merely watched.
The skulls of dragons loomed above, and the bones of war settled into dust. And still, the one-eyed bastard of Aegon IV watched the judgment of kings unfold with a face carved from stone.