The main council chamber of the prince's residence had originally been the meeting place for the governor and councilors.
Today, the long council table that symbolized the heart of power had been removed.
The hall seemed unusually empty. Beneath its lofty vaulted ceiling, sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting colorful yet desolate patches of light across the floor.
The black-and-white marble floor gleamed like a mirror, reflecting the figures standing in solemn silence along either side.
The key figures who had come from across his domains had taken their assigned places. Jon Connington headed the line on the left, with Leswell Peake, the Golden Company's commander in Myr, behind him; next came Carl, Henry, the garrison captain, and the other military officers.
On the right, Luciana stood at the front, followed by the chief administrators, tax collectors, and harbor masters of the three city-states.
Dozens of people filled both sides of the hall.
On the dais, the high-backed chair that had once belonged to the Governor of Lys remained.
Aegon sat upon it.
He had changed into more formal attire, still predominantly black. Dark Sister and the Blackfyre Sword hung crossed beside the right of his chair, within easy reach.
He merely sat there, his calm gaze sweeping over those below. He made no deliberate display of authority, yet the air throughout the council chamber seemed to congeal slowly around him.
Among the solemn ranks, one figure looked especially out of place.
Viserys Targaryen.
He stood relatively near the front of the left-hand line, but not at its head.
He wore that excessively ornate brocade robe embroidered with red dragons in gold thread, with his jeweled sword hanging at his waist.
He tried hard to straighten his chest and lift his chin, striving to maintain an air of lofty detachment.