Chapter 5

The Small Council

Hand of the King: Lord Jon Connington
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: Ser Barristan Selmy
Lord Commander of the King's armies: Ser Arthur Dayne
Master of Coin: Lord Mace Tyrell
Master of Laws: Lord Brandon Stark
Master of Whisperers: Lord Varys
Master of Ships: Lord Paxter Redwyne
Grand Maester: Pycelle
Representative of Dorne: Prince Oberyn Martell

Jon stared at the parchment before him, the inked names blurring together as confusion clawed at his mind. Brandon Stark? Alive? How? And where were the Lannisters or Baratheons?

He ran his thumb over the edge of the parchment, trying to suppress the rising tide of questions. This world was a tapestry woven from unfamiliar threads, and every knot seemed to tighten around his throat.

"Your Grace?" Rylen's voice cut through his thoughts. The aide stood patiently by the door, hands clasped behind his back. "The council meeting is about to begin."

Jon set the parchment down carefully, as though it might burn him. "I… yes," he said, his voice rough with fatigue. He rose from his seat, glancing at the stack of books and notes piled across the table. He hadn't had time to even begin reading them, and the weight of his ignorance pressed down on him.

Ghost rose silently from his spot beside the table, stretching his lean, pale form before padding over to Jon's side.

"Shall I call a servant to take Ser Fury for a walk or to his chamber, Your Grace?" Rylen asked lightly.

Jon froze mid-step. His brows furrowed as he turned to look at Rylen. "His… chamber?"

Rylen hesitated, as though he wasn't sure whether he'd said something foolish. "Yes, Your Grace."

Jon blinked, then let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. Of course Ghost had his own chamber. He was Aegon Targaryen, Crown Prince. Why wouldn't his direwolf be treated like royalty?

For a fleeting moment, Jon was struck by the absurdity of it all. He couldn't help but wonder what Ghost's chamber even looked like. Did it have velvet cushions? Golden food bowls? He'd have to see it later, but for now, he had far more pressing matters.

"Can't he just accompany me?" Jon asked, resting a hand briefly on Ghost's thick fur.

"Certainly, Your Grace," Rylen replied quickly, bowing his head. "I'm sure your uncle will be glad to see him."

Jon nodded and began walking again, Ghost's silent presence grounding him as they moved down the corridor.

"Yes… Could you walk me to the meeting? I'm afraid I didn't have time to read all of your notes."

"Of course, Your Grace. Would you like me to summarize the topics for you?"

"Please."

Rylen cleared his throat softly as they walked. "The meeting today is primarily to discuss preparations for the upcoming royal wedding, Your Grace. Lord Mace Tyrell will present the updated costs, and Grand Maester Pycelle has prepared a report on the supplies required for the feast."

Jon gave a short nod, trying to absorb the information. A wedding feast. Numbers and costs. I can handle that… I think.

"The Master of Ships, Lord Paxter Redwyne, will discuss repairs and reinforcements needed at the city's harbors. There have been reports of increased pirate activity near the Stepstones," Rylen continued, his tone steady.

"Pirates," Jon murmured, his brow furrowing. That felt more real, more immediate, than feasts and decorations.

"Yes, Your Grace. Lord Stark, the Master of Laws, wishes to address an incident regarding land disputes in the Crownlands. A minor house is refusing to yield lands they claim as ancestral."

Jon's stomach tightened. Brandon Stark. His uncle.

"And finally," Rylen hesitated slightly, "Prince Oberyn Martell has requested to speak privately with the council about concerns raised by Dorne regarding border tensions with the Reach."

"Border tensions?" Jon asked, his voice sharper now.

"Yes, Your Grace. Nothing too severe, or so it seems, but Prince Oberyn is… thorough." Rylen allowed a faint smile to cross his lips.

Jon exhaled slowly, trying to keep his breathing steady. "Anything else I should know?"

"King Rhaegar will also be present today, Your Grace," Rylen said. "And the Queen asked me to remind you of your meeting concerning the wedding arrangements with her and Lady Faye, after the council meeting."

The reminder brought a flicker of unease. Lady Faye.

"Thank you, Rylen," Jon murmured. Apparently, people didn't expect Aegon to remember many things.

The aide bowed his head. "You'll do well, Your Grace. And if I may… Ser Fury's presence is sure to command respect."

Jon glanced down at Ghost, who looked up at him with a steady, knowing gaze. A faint smile tugged at the corner of Jon's lips. "Ser Fury… I'll have to knight you properly one day."

The two guards standing at the entrance of the council chamber straightened, then bowed.

"Your Grace."

Jon replied with a nod as the guards pushed open the heavy doors.

Inside, ten men were seated around a long, polished table. At Jon's arrival, all but one of them rose and offered a respectful bow. At the far end of the table, King Rhaegar remained seated, his silver hair glinting faintly in the light of the stained-glass windows behind him. He offered Jon a brief smile.

"I'm glad you were able to join us, Aegon."

Jon inclined his head, but his focus was pulled elsewhere. He recognized Ser Arthur, of course, but eight unfamiliar faces studied him, their expressions varying from curiosity to cool neutrality. Yet, as his eyes scanned the room, he felt he could match a few names to faces. An older man with stooped shoulders and tired eyes, Pycelle, surely. A confident man with sharp features and dark eyes that gleamed with amusement, Prince Oberyn, no doubt. And the man with the proud bearing of a knight, his posture too perfect to be anything but Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy.

But the rest… the rest were strangers. Until one of them stepped forward.

Jon froze, his breath catching in his throat as his gaze landed on the man's face, half of it marred by thick, uneven burn scars. The man smiled, a faint twitch of his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Your Grace," he said softly, before glancing down at Ghost. The direwolf's tail began to wag almost immediately, his mouth parting slightly in what Jon swore was a wolfish grin.

"Ser Fury. Always a pleasure."

Jon's stomach knotted. Ghost's reaction, so familiar, so trusting, told him everything he needed to know.

This is Brandon Stark.

Jon swallowed, forcing himself to recover as Brandon's scarred face turned up to meet his gaze. There was something steady in his uncle's eyes, something that felt both familiar and deeply unsettling.

"Good to see you here, nephew," Brandon said, his voice so low that only Jon could hear him.

He stepped aside, allowing Jon to walk past him and towards the head of the table. Ghost padded along silently at his side, his claws clicking softly against the stone floor. Jon could feel every gaze on him, measuring, analyzing, waiting to see if the Prince, if Aegon Targaryen, was worthy of sitting among them.

Rhaegar gestured to the chair at his right side. "Come, sit, Aegon."

Jon approached and lowered himself into the seat. It felt larger than it needed to be, the polished wood pressing into his back. Ghost settled at his feet, a silent sentinel.

The other councilors took their seats once more, and the shuffle of fabric and creak of chairs filled the silence. Rhaegar let the quiet linger a moment longer before speaking.

"Now that we are all gathered, let us begin." His gaze swept over the table. "Lord Connington, you may proceed."

The Hand of the King, Jon Connington, leaned forward, his pale blue eyes sharp beneath silver-streaked auburn hair. He looked every inch the seasoned commander Jon had read about in old tomes, a man who had once fought fiercely for Rhaegar's cause.

"Your Grace," Lord Connington began, his voice calm and precise. "Preparations for the royal wedding are progressing, though we face a few… challenges."

Jon listened closely, trying to focus despite the knot of unease in his stomach. He couldn't stop glancing across the table at Brandon Stark. The man was watching him too, though his expression remained unreadable.

"Grand Maester Pycelle," Connington continued, "has provided us with estimates for the feast. They are… ambitious, as expected."

Pycelle cleared his throat, his wrinkled hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the scroll before him. "Your Graces, my lords… a royal wedding of this magnitude requires ample provisions. We must ensure that every visiting noble feels welcomed and well-fed. The expenses are… considerable, but necessary."

Jon's gaze flicked briefly to Rhaegar, who nodded in faint agreement.

"And Lord Tyrell?" Rhaegar prompted.

Mace Tyrell, seated across from Jon, puffed out his chest slightly. "The Reach has always been generous with its bounty, Your Grace. My house is more than capable of supplying the grains, fruits, and wines needed. However, the expense of transporting such goods safely must not be overlooked."

Money. Food. Feasts. It all felt so far removed from the worries that gnawed at Jon's mind, pirates near the Stepstones, border disputes in Dorne, the unfamiliar faces watching him so closely.

Ser Arthur spoke next, his calm baritone cutting through the discussion. "The repairs to the city's harbors are no trivial matter, Your Grace. Pirates have grown bolder, and ships carrying supplies for the wedding are tempting targets."

Jon felt himself straighten slightly. This, at least, was something he could understand. "What's being done about the pirates?" he asked, his voice firm.

Lord Paxter Redwyne adjusted his gloves and cleared his throat. "I've dispatched several ships from the Arbor to patrol the waters, Your Grace. But the Stepstones remain a lawless place, and more permanent measures may be required."

Jon nodded, his fingers tapping lightly against the table's surface. "If we let them grow bolder, they'll start attacking more than just merchant ships."

"Wise words, Your Grace," Ser Arthur said with a small nod of approval.

There was a brief pause before Prince Oberyn Martell leaned forward, his dark eyes sharp with intent. "And what of Dorne's concerns, Your Graces? While your wedding preparations occupy the court, our borders are stirring. There have been skirmishes, small, but skirmishes nonetheless."

Jon's attention snapped to Oberyn, and he caught the faintest smirk playing on the prince's lips. "Skirmishes?" Jon asked. "Who's involved?"

"The Marcher Lords, as always," Oberyn said with a wave of his hand. "Old blood feuds and restless swords. But I would advise against ignoring it, Your Grace. A spark left unattended can become a wildfire."

Jon leaned back slightly, his mind buzzing with information. Feasts, pirates, border skirmishes, every topic felt like a different battlefront, and yet they were all threads in the same tangled web.

Rhaegar raised his hand, silencing the murmurs around the table. "Enough for now. We will address each concern in turn. But before we continue, Aegon, do you have anything you wish to add?"

Every eye in the room turned to Jon. Ghost shifted slightly at his feet, sensing his unease. Jon swallowed and sat up straighter, his voice steady as he spoke.

"No wildfire starts from one spark alone," Jon said, his eyes flicking briefly to Oberyn before looking across the table. "We need to address these threats, pirates, border skirmishes, disputes in the Crownlands, before they grow into something larger. The feast is important, but so is keeping the realm stable while we prepare for it."

There was a brief silence. Jon couldn't tell if he'd said the right thing, but Rhaegar gave a faint smile and nodded approvingly.

"Well said, my son."

The discussion resumed, but Jon felt a faint weight lift from his shoulders. For the first time since entering the chamber, he felt like he might actually belong at this table.

And across from him, Brandon Stark was still watching. He gave Jon a small nod of approval, a subtle gesture, but one that steadied Jon's nerves further.

"By the way, my nephew, Prince Trystane, sends his apologies on behalf of himself and his wife for not being able to attend the wedding," Prince Oberyn said, his sharp eyes turning toward Rhaegar. "As you know, Princess Daenerys can give birth at any moment."

Rhaegar inclined his head in acknowledgment. "That is perfectly understandable. As much as I would have enjoyed seeing my sister and her husband, her health comes first, of course."

Oberyn's lips twitched into a faint smirk, though his gaze remained serious. "And my niece? Will she attend?"

"Yes," Rhaegar replied evenly. "Rhaenys and her husband, Lord Willas, will attend."

The King's gaze shifted then, settling briefly on Jon. There was something soft, almost wistful, in his lilac eyes. "It will be good to see your sister again, Aegon."

Jon shifted uncomfortably under his father's gaze. Rhaenys. His sister. The name felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else's life. She was as much a stranger to him as the men seated at this table.

"I look forward to seeing her," Jon said carefully, keeping his voice steady.

There was a brief pause, a moment of stillness where the weight of family history hung heavily over the table.

"Shall we return to the matters at hand, Your Grace?" Jon Connington prompted gently, his sharp eyes flicking between father and son.

Rhaegar nodded, his kingly mask slipping back into place. "Yes, let us continue."

The conversation resumed, reports on grain stockpiles, harbor patrols, and disputes in the Crownlands, and Jon forced himself to focus. Yet, in the back of his mind, he couldn't stop thinking about Rhaenys. About Brandon Stark. About Lady Faye. About all the people who should have been part of his life but felt like strangers.

He had a lot of reading to do.