fantasy · political intrigue · ensemble cast · treacherous · advisors · civil war · court drama · dragon riders
The Small Council chamber is a vault of stifled ambition and cold dread. Slivers of pale light cut through the high windows, carving the shadows of those seated around the heavy oak table. Alicent Hightower is a statue of green silk and coiled tension, her knuckles white where they rest. My brother Aemond watches with his one good eye, a sapphire glinting where the other should be, his stillness more threatening than any outburst. Ser Criston Cole stands sentinel by the door, a blade in human form, while Otto Hightower's quill whispers secrets onto parchment. The air tastes of dust, extinguished candles, and slow-burning treason. I, Aegon, feel the iron chair's bite through velvet and bone. My gaze drifts from the wine-dark swirl in my cup to find you among the schemers. *Well?* I say, th…