A display of majesty before the council chamber

The morning light, carrying the sultry scent of aged wood, streamed through the carved lattice windows of the Red Keep Small Council, falling upon the emblem of the Iron Throne at the center of the long table.

The three-headed dragon emblem, a variant forged from crimson gold, symbolizing Jaehaerys, the "the Conciliator," and his dragon "Bronze Fury," Vermithor, gleamed with a cold, hard light, like a silent command that brought together the core of power of the Seven Kingdoms in this place.

A long table stretched from the throne to the entrance of the hall, with chairs arranged on either side according to rank, the backs of which were engraved with the family crests of the attending ministers.

The three-headed red dragon of the royal Targaryens, the roaring golden lion of House Lannister in the Westerlands, the crowned black stag of House Baratheon in the Stormlands, the silver seahorses of House Valerian on Tidehead Isle, the burning tower of House Hightower in Oldtown, and the tricolor stripes of House Strangler in Harrenhal, the triple hive of House Bisbury in Hivehold—

Every line was polished to a shine by the waiter, yet it still exuded the coldness of a power struggle.

The brocade hanging on the pillars depicts Jaehaerys's recent ascension to the throne and the suppression of a rebellion; the Dragonfire and spears within the threads seem to silently remind those present:

Every breath here is vital to the lifeline of Westeros.

At the very head of the table, King Jaehaerys sat on a throne covered with white fox fur, his long silver hair tied up with a golden crown, and the three-headed dragon pattern outlined in gold thread on his black robe flowed in the light.

Although his arm holding the ruby scepter trembled slightly, he still kept his back straight. As his gaze slowly swept across the hall, it carried the majesty accumulated from fifty years of rule, and even the air seemed to become a little heavier.

To the King's left, Crown Prince Baelon Targaryen, as the Hand of the King Hand of the King, sat before the assembled ministers.

However, he was still wearing the same black armor with red and gold trim that he wore in battle, the lifelike Vhagar- style dragon pattern on his breastplate echoing the dragon-patterned scabbard at his waist.

The old wound on his shoulder blade seemed to be throbbing again, but he didn't show it at all; only occasionally would his fingertips lightly press against his ribs.

Those were marks left from personally leading the charge during the recent battle, and were also his medals as the "Prince of Spring Dawn."

Standing behind him were his two sons with his late wife Alyssa:

Today, Viserys Targaryen, the eldest son, was dressed in a deep black velvet robe, secretly clutching in his arms the handkerchief his wife Aemma had recently embroidered, as well as the small wooden dragon he had recently carved for his daughter Rhaenyra. His gaze was gentle, yet it was difficult to conceal the composure that inadvertently revealed within it.

The second son Daemon Targaryen, was not so well-behaved. He was still dressed in his black and red riding attire, with the belt loosely draped over his waist, and he was playing with Caraxes's dragon scale-patterned badge in his hand.

Interestingly, he had a half-full wine jug hidden at his feet, but before his father, Baelon, could look at him, he instantly abandoned his usual carefree and dissolute demeanor and stood up obediently.

To the king's right lay the Grand Secretary, Yaral, who had been holding a heavy volume of the "History of the Seven Kingdoms" this morning, with parchment scrolls piled up like a small mountain beside him.

His presence was so weak that he was even less noticeable than the "the Dragonless" Vaegon Targaryen sitting next to him.

Clearly, our Grand Maester, who has never been particularly outstanding, is now ranked first to the right of the King, largely because of Vaegon, the King and Queen's son, who is sitting beside him.

However, this doctor, who came from a royal family, was wearing a gray academic robe today, with his Citadel chain pinned to the collar. He was clutching a corner of an astrological chart in his hand, his fingertips still stained with ink – clearly, he had just arrived from the astrological observatory where he had stayed the previous night.

Behind Vaegon, his assistant, Maester Bernard, carried a wooden box containing an astrolabe. The box bore the mark left by Larys Strong a few days earlier after he had borrowed it.

Mr. Longlegs's (Larys's gray donkey) fur wasn't cleaned properly, causing him to bend down and brush it from time to time, but he dared not let his teacher Vaegon, notice.

On the other side stood Sir Leonno Strong, the Master of Ships and a close friend of His Highness Viserys, dressed in a striking black outfit. His bald head gleamed in the light, and a silver chain, a symbol of his status Master of Ships, hung from his waist.

He would occasionally glance behind him—his eldest son Harwin Strong, stood there, clad in white armor, his hands on the hilt of his sword, his face bearing the sharpness of youth, which he immediately concealed when his father looked over;

Leonno's gaze kept wandering to the empty corner, clearly searching for his second son, Larys.

Beside Leonno sat the former Master of Ships, Lord Taimond Lannister, in the golden lion-patterned chair that had once belonged to him. His gold ring spun rapidly on his finger, and his gaze swept over the documents in the hall with his characteristic pragmatism.

His squire Lancel Lannister, dressed in silver armor and clutching the family crest of honor as if to bolster his confidence, was still so nervous that his fingertips turned white.

This was his first time attending a meeting of this caliber as the Small Council, and he even held his breath a little lower.

Opposite Duke Taimond, our former Master of Ships and current Governor of the Provisional Governor's Office of the Stepstones, Earl Corlys House Velaryon, the "Sea Snake," was dressed in silver armor, with a silver-white seahorse-patterned cloak hanging over the back of his chair. He was toying with the barrel of his brass telescope, which was, after all, a token of his voyages across the seven seas.

Standing behind him was his nephew, Vaemond House Velaryon, who stood ramrod straight, holding the House Velaryon's latest nautical chart, his face radiating admiration for his uncle Corlys.

From time to time, Corlys would tap the table lightly with the telescope tube, a habit he had developed while issuing orders on the "Sea Snake." Now, in the council chamber, it carried a hint of intimidation.

As another friend of Viserys, our Master of Laws, Sir Otto Hightower, wore a dark green velvet robe with the Master of Laws's badge pinned to his chest. His gaze swept over the attendees with his usual prudence.

Behind him, his nephew Mund Hightower, dressed in a dark green robe and holding a scroll of law, was secretly observing Daemon Targaryen's movements. Otto had specifically instructed him early that morning to keep an eye on the "Rogue Prince" to prevent him from causing trouble again.

Otto's fingertips lightly traced the edge of the scroll, his gaze occasionally lingering on the two empty chairs at the end of the long table, a calculating glint in his eyes.

That was reserved for the stag of the Stormlands and that Black Dragon prince, two of whom he needed to keep a close eye on today.

Earl Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, sat in his honeycomb-patterned chair, flipping through account books and muttering to the Duke of Taimond beside him about topics such as "post-war investment in the Stepstones," "the wine tax on Arbor," and "the gold mining in Lannisport."

Behind him stood the two children of his uncle, the Duke of Mathos, former Master of Coin, Sir Martyn Tyrell, and Lady Florence Fossoway.

Their second Leo Tyrell, and their youngest son Bertrand Tyrell, are both now servants of Lord Lyman.

Today, Leo Tyrell wore a robe with a variant rose pattern, a symbol of his family's status, and held their latest trade list from the Reach, occasionally adding a few words of advice for Lyman;

As for Bertrand Tyrell, he was just a boy, dressed in a light green jacket and clutching a piece of honey cake in his hand. But when Lyman glared at him, he immediately hid the honey cake behind his back, which made his older brother Leo secretly smile.

On either side of the king, Lyan Redwyne, captain of the Kingsguard, and his friend Clymont Crabb, dressed in white robes and holding longswords, stood on either side of him.

Lyan would occasionally cast a concerned glance at Prince Baelon, who was returning from the Stepstones.

They were comrades-in-arms for many years, fighting side by side with the King and the late Prince Aemon in numerous battles.

As for Clymont, he adopted the cautious habits of his captain and friend Lyan, and scanned his surroundings and the hall door with vigilance. After all, there were too many people in the council hall today, and even the young scions of various families were standing behind him, making the responsibility of guarding him heavier than usual.

Two empty chairs at the end of the long table stood out conspicuously, their wooden backs engraved with emblems symbolizing the owner's status. Although empty, they had already attracted everyone's attention.

Leonno Strong's gaze was still searching for Larys, while Otto Hightower's finger traced famous circles on the scroll, and even King Jaehaerys occasionally glanced in that direction.

Almost everyone knew that the owner of these two chairs would be arriving soon.

Just then, a series of steady footsteps came from outside the hall, accompanied by the crisp sound of armor clashing.

First, Borros Baratheon's booming voice echoed down the corridor, "Lorent! If you yawn again, I'll throw your sweet pie out!"

Before he finished speaking, Borros strode into the hall.

He was dressed in a dark green outfit, and although the bandage on his left shoulder had been removed, a faint scar remained. He held the hilt of a broadsword in his hand, and the scabbard seemed to still be covered with the dust of Tyrosh.

Behind him followed the young nobles of the Stormlands:

Earl Roland Clinton, the young Earl of Griffin's Roost, wore a red robe, his red hair gleaming in the light, and his clothes bore the griffin emblem of Griffin's Roost.

Lorent Grandson, the heir to the Grandview, yawned, the hem of his yellow robe with black lion patterns sweeping across the ground. But when he saw King Jaehaerys's watchful gaze, he instantly sobered up and quickly straightened up.

Jasper Will, heir to Rain House, and Michael Metaling, heir to Mistwood, followed behind. As Duke Boremund, who was stationed far away on the Dornish Marches, commanding the combined forces of Stormlands and Reach, and confronting Dorne, and thus unable to attend, they were personally entrusted by Boros to assist Borros in attending the meeting. Naturally, they were filled with some tension and anticipation.

Borros walked to the empty chair behind him, which was carved with Crowned Stag, and sat down without any hesitation, the scabbard at his waist clanging against the table leg.

This caused Otto, the Master of Laws was not far away, to frown, but he was completely oblivious and even grinned at Daemon Targaryen behind Baelon on the other side.

As soon as Borros sat down, the footsteps outside the hall changed. They were no longer the cheerful sounds of the Stormlands Rash Stag, but rather the deep, resonant sounds of dragon scale armor, along with the soft rustling of the Blackfyre's scabbard against the stone slabs.

Everyone turned to look, since Borros, representing Duke Boremund, had already arrived, leaving only the Black Dragon behind.

Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen naturally walked at the front, his black dragonscale armor gleaming with a dark gold hue in the light. Each dragon scale on it came from the Glutton ' lair on Dragonstone, and the three-headed Black Dragon pattern on his breastplate, adorned with rubies, seemed to echo the three-headed Black Dragon brand on his right shoulder beneath his clothing that everyone knew.

His Blackfyre was slung across his waist, the ruby on the hilt polished to a shine, and today the silver thread wrapped around the scabbard, embroidered with the Targaryen coat of arms, swayed gently with his steps.

His followers followed in neat rows:

Larys Strong, leaning on his cane, the chair with its lumpy legs scraping softly against the stone slabs, held the intelligence scroll steadily in his hands, a sly glint in his eyes;

Rayford Rosby was dressed in simple gray clothes today, holding a stack of logistical documents, each volume neatly arranged by date;

Jarman Waters was dressed in black armor, and his face was covered with the eagle-clawed eye patch given to him by Miss Ala from the Oldstones when he traveled with Daemon. The short sword at his waist gleamed coldly.

When his other eye swept over those in the hall who were secretly watching Daemon, it carried with it a chilling aura that had been building up since he had been appointed captain of the Dark Blade Guard Shadow Guards Daemon's command.

Budimir Tarth, Daemon's personal bodyguard, stood beside Jarman, his hand on the hilt of his sword, the hem of his white robe sweeping the ground, just like his sister Brienne when she guarded Gael;

Next was Rupert Crabb, who was in charge of protecting Daemon today. He was wearing a blue robe and white armor, with the House Crabb's swamp marigold on his breastplate, and he was holding the steel sword at his waist in Whisper.

Beside him stood Lyonel Corbray, who, like him, was responsible for protecting Daemon today, clad in silver armor, also holding the Lady Forlorn at his waist.

Both men carried the sharp edge of someone returning from the battlefield, but when they noticed Jaehaerys and Baelon's concerned gazes as they looked at Daemon, they immediately softened their sharpness.

Daemon's pace was slow, yet it carried an invisible sense of pressure.

His fingertips would occasionally brush against the Blackfyre at his waist, the dragon pattern on the scabbard swirling in the light, as if it had come to life.

The Grey Ghost had followed him in at some point. A small, light gray dragon was curled up at his feet, a seashell it had brought back from Tyrosh dangling from its mouth. It would occasionally rub its head against the sole of his boot, but it didn't dare make its usual "purring" sound—clearly, it was aware of the solemnity of the place.

Walking to the empty chair, Daemon didn't sit down immediately. Instead, he raised his hand to brush the dust off the back of the chair, his movements slow but carrying an undeniable aura.

His gaze swept across the entire area: from King Jaehaerys's golden crown to Baelon's armor, then to Otto's green robe, finally landing on Borros, and he gave him a slight nod.

Borros immediately grinned and raised his invisible glass at him, causing Daemon and Daemon Targaryen on the other side to exchange helpless glances and awkwardly smirk.

"Your Highness, here is your scroll." Larys handed over the intelligence scroll at the opportune moment, his voice not loud but clearly carrying throughout the hall.

Daemon took it and casually placed it on the table, but his gaze sharpened instantly when his fingertips touched the scroll. It was intelligence on the remnants of the Triarchy that Larys had compiled overnight, and it was marked with red warning symbols.

Only when Daemon sat down, with the Grey Ghost curled up at his feet, did the entire audience seem to breathe a sigh of relief.

King Jaehaerys looked at him, a hint of satisfaction flashing in his eyes;

Baelon nodded, and the tightness in his shoulder armor eased somewhat;

Even Otto Hightower withdrew his calculating gaze, his finger pausing on the blank space of the scroll—

He knew, of course, that with the arrival of this "Black Dragon," the council chamber would finally be a true gathering of the core members of the Seven Kingdoms.

The morning mist outside the hall gradually dissipated, and sunlight streamed through the high windows, making the emblems on the long table even clearer.

The cold gleam of armor, the scent of ink from documents, the dark gold of dragon scales, and the occasional soft "snoring" from the Grey Ghost intertwined to form the most solemn yet vibrant prelude to the Small Council.

Everyone knows that every word and every decision they make from now on will affect the future of Westeros —and they are standing at the starting point of that future.