The lofty dome of the Red Keep's Throne Room rose in solemn grandeur. Massive blackstone pillars stood like silent giants, supporting the hall that housed the supreme power of the Seven Kingdoms.
The chill wind of early winter seeped through gaps in the high windows, carrying the damp cold of the Blackwater Rush. It swept over the Iron Throne, forged from hundreds upon hundreds of swords, with a low, mournful whistle.
Aegon sat upright on the Iron Throne, dressed in well-tailored black everyday clothes. Only the three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen, embroidered in dark gold thread on his chest, gleamed with a restrained luster in the daylight.
His silver hair was tied back, his face stern. His violet eyes surveyed the room calmly, his unseen authority weighing upon everyone present.
Two Valyrian steel swords leaned beside the throne: Dark Sister, slender and elegant, its blade patterned with shadowy ripples, and Blackfyre, broad and heavy, its keen edge faintly glinting. Together, they silently proclaimed his bloodline and his might.
Standing solemnly below the Iron Throne were the core followers he had brought across the Narrow Sea: officers of the Golden Company, knights of the Blood Oath Band, and commanders of the Narrow Sea Fleet. Apart from the Ashen Company, which was fighting elsewhere, all his principal military officers were present.
Margaery Tyrell sat alone in the seats to one side. Attending this inner council as Highgarden's special envoy, she occupied a unique position apart from the others.
She wore a lake-green gown, her bearing graceful, her expression gentle and composed, and a perfectly measured smile upon her lips. She appeared merely to be observing, but her eyes were keen. Without betraying a thing, she committed everyone's reactions and the deeper implications of each command to memory, carefully dissecting them.
Oberyn