The year is 286 AC. King Jaehaerys II has just passed, leaving the throne without a rightful ruler. While his three children fight for the crown, Winter creeps closer, and unimaginable darkness looms.
Not all alliances will be so typical this time. In fact, many people have a crucial effect on the way this story is told. As for the ending, we only hope there are enough people left alive to tell it after its passed.
Events
Join us for our first event, the wake of recently deceased King Jaehaerys II.
Updates
AUG. 19: So we are now officially open to the public. We have a mini-event flashback thread going on, and our main event just began. Feel free to make a second canon if you can keep both of them active enough.
Don't hesitate in pestering staff with questions; it's what we're here for! Let's raise a glass and make a cheer toward a successful launch of Winds of Winter.
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Aug 28, 2017 3:41:14 GMT
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[attr="class","likedotitle2"]AN OATH
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]King's Landing.
A day after the funeral.
Arkas waited in the King's private audience room. The throne room was only a door away. Not sitting on the Iron Throne for this meeting would convey the purpose better, wouldn't it? He was no King. He was a Hand. A dead King's hand.
He would not crown any of the heirs.
He would give this pleasure to the realm.
Until that time, he acted Lord Regent and Lord Protector of the Realm.
The chamber that usually housed the Small Council meetings had been outfitted to accomodate more than the half a dozen masters-of-something that ran the country from the capital. Every Lord Paramount, every Warden, every Lord of station and importance had been invited to the slightly larger than Small Council meeting.
Given the King's popularity, they had flocked to the kingdom's heart in order to witness the of another dragon ruler. Alas, there were three vying for the throne. They all had been invited as well, since their fate was that of the kingdom. Not just one. But all seven of them.
He stood by the side, the hearth giving useless light to a summer day. The sun would meet its apex in another hour or so. Prefering to meet his enemies head on, he stood, waiting for all of them to arrive and then sit in the chairs that had been assorted around a large enough table.
If they were all intent on keeping the peace, he would not have to face enemies. Alas. The Iron Throne was only a thick, oaken door away. And they were all players of the game, weren't they? Or they would become players. Either way. He had gathered them in order to spread the news that those whom played could very well die.
And he wasn't wearing the silver hand on his black Baratheon robes in order to lose. But what gleamed more was the steel in his eyes, cold fury ready to glare. Jaehaerys II had been a King of peace. And he had chosen the right Hand to defend it.
[attr="class","textieno"] The Small Council.. [break][break] Of course, Marcus expected the summons although he loathed this kind of gatherings where the noble ones tended to blabber about whose right was this and whose right was that. What he liked the most was action! More action, and less talking; this was the only way to get things done. Otherwise, words were known to be wind. "The realm bled so many times," The Lord of the Vale thought to himself as he trod the hallways of the Red Keep. A short lord he was, and he was aware of it. Marcus had a bulky frame and broad shoulders; his arms were stout, and his hands were rough. This man knew no comfort, and he desired not the relief of fancy beds. The field was his home, and he wanted to go home. "Now, it is going to bleed again!" The history repeated itself; it was another dance of dragons, sans the dragons. "And certainly, it won't be the last time." One hundred years from now, all those who were going to attend this meeting would be buried six feet under or cremated to cinders. Certainly, another calamity would ensue; another war. "Against the Stranger, there are no victors!" At last, the Lord of House Arryn reached his destination. Perhaps, he was the first to arrive. Such an entertaining thought, since he wasn't the punctual type. [break][break] "Ay, Arkas!" Marus said the name slithering like a snake pronouncing the 'S' of Arkas. "Your mood is always sullen and foreboding!" He raised his chin to meet the Baratheon's gaze. Marcus had vibrant blue eyes; he had inherited them from his mother. They said the seed was strong, the Seed of House Baratheon. "You should visit a brothel, and have a good romp with one of the Lassies." Marcus chuckled; he didn't have the same concerns of Lord Arkas. Marcus was no Lord Hand, and he didn't aspire to become one even; Marcus wished not for power or ambition. Still, he wondered why Arkas cared so much about the realm. After all, he was recently appointed a hand of the king; such was a short time, indeed. Perhaps, it was Honor that fueled Lord Baratheon. Marcus smiled entertaining another thought; Arkas should have been the Arryn, while he was supposed to be the Baratheon. He stood beside his Baratheon relative for a small while waiting for the other Lords to arrive. Eventually, Marcus took his seat. [break][break] The Small Council.. [break][break] So boring!
His father had yet to arrive at King's Landing. This worried the firstborn Tyrell mightily; it also placed a great deal of responsibility onto him.
The pretty-faced son to the Lord Tyrell had been invited to the Small Council meeting to replace his father. It was an honor he respected, and maybe enjoyed deep down. Being raised to become the next Lord of his house surely readied him for events like this and now was the time to prove it.
I should prepare myself for everything He thought to himself as he covered his garb with a dark satin cloak embroidered with the Golden Rose of House Tyrell.
Quiet, but fast steps carried him to the King's private audience room located inside the Red Keep. A place he had just finished concluding business within. My, times like this surely did not allow for much relaxation.
The Throne room was merely a door away—being this close was surreal to the Tyrell. He had made his way inside just in time to hear Lord Arryn's proposition to visit a brothel; something Lukas wished he had missed. Approaching the Hand of the King also the acting Lord Regent of the Realm, he locked eyes with him almost immediately. There was an air around the man that filled Lukas with a sense of security. Not in terms of personal security, but the fact that maybe the future of the realm was in good hands.
"Lord Hand. I shall be replacing my father, Lord Tyrell. It seems he still has yet to arrive in King's Landing. It is a pleasure to meet you." A simple bow with one hand tucked to his chest would be produced towards the Lord Hand. Acknowledging the presence of Lord Arryn as well with a nod.
If nothing else was asked of the young Tyrell, he'd proceed to make his way towards the table. The best part about arriving early was choosing your seat. He choose to sit at the middle of the table, situated on the left side of the table and between many other chairs. His blue eyes would peer around the room, observing the carpentry as well as the decorations to pass the time till the other participants arrived.
Last Edit: Aug 29, 2017 7:45:40 GMT by LUKAS TYRELL
The last daughter to the late lord of House Tyrell, Morella knows nothing below luxuriant wealth. As the third golden rose of her group of sisters, she was raised to be cunning and politically savvy. Her new role as She-Lion of House Lannister bestowed upon her an ample opportunity to insert herself into the great game of thrones.
Post by MORELLA LANNISTER on Aug 30, 2017 1:30:36 GMT
The day seemed to drag on forever when experienced within these foreign walls. Only one sunrise separated the realm from the wake and already the turbulence in the air seemed almost tangible.
Within her assigned quarters, she busied herself with mundane tasks as ladies were wont to do. Brushing her hair, smoothing the red silk of her robes, powdering the lines of her aged face into matte. Several mistresses came calling in the morning at the behest of her secret lover, Morella knew.
She only caught a glimpse of him at the wake, having chosen to stay outside of the circles of conversation that populated the central space of the room. He seemed mournful, rightfully so, but also quick to play the role of counselor. Nothing betrayed his genuine sorrow, nothing at all.
That was the first and only time she laid eyes upon him since arriving in King’s Landing. Morella was wise to keep her distance from him initially though she yearned to lay beside him once more. He was wise too.
Soon, she thought. Once all is sorted out, we may share the company of one another once again.
Morella rose from where she sat, eyeing herself in the great mirror that occupied the easternmost wall of her quarters. Not a lock of hair was out of place, not a flaw was left uncovered. As beautiful as the moniker she’d become famous for, the Golden Rose left her reflection and headed to her summons.
Tybalt Lannister’s preoccupations abroad meant Morella was to act in his stead. As was the plan all along. She anticipated a meeting like this was to follow the events of the previous afternoon and did not falter when Arkas came calling.
Upon entering the great conference room, she was met with only three attendees. Gazing at them all, she let her sights linger upon her oldest nephew, Lukas Tyrell. A sense of relief washed over her when she realized what his presence meant.
Morella wondered where her dreaded brother could be, though she was glad to see him absent.
”Good to see you, Lords. I suppose this meeting was not called for us to mingle with one another, hm.”
She walked over to where Lukas sat, smiling warmly at him as she moved.
”My dearest nephew. What a pleasure to see you here. How handsome you’ve become! A Tyrell through and through!”
Morella’s warm laughter filled the walls of the conference hall. If the stern presence of Arkas were to be ignored, such a meeting would seem more so like a highly anticipated reunion.
Discretely, she would look to the door. Pining for another glimpse of the great dragon she came to see.
Alysanne is one of the three Targaryen children who purport they have claim to the throne. The now-dead King decreed Alysanne be Queen, and the unorthodox mother of three plans to become one.
Post by ALYSANNE TARGARYEN on Aug 30, 2017 1:59:41 GMT
Everything was speeding up now, time unforgiving and never flinching. Alysanne had not slept in two days, but she looked remarkably refreshed for reasons beyond her. She met with so many Lords and Ladies, some attempting to scheme, some offering condolences, and some staking their enigmatic role in her bid for the throne. Now, an ultimately important event was occurring. She would not be late -- not that she ever was.
Alysanne was open about her claim to the throne being the weakest, but she would not cease. Not only would it shame her father's name, but she could not trust the Realm to be handled adequately by anyone other than herself. And with the emergence of many powerful female figures around Westeros, she wondered if being female truly hurt her as much as she initially imagined.
"My Lords, my Lady." It seemed as if only Arkas, Marcus, Lukas, and Morella were in attendance thus far. Her lips did not curve into a smile, but her eyes were soft enough to offer an amicable air toward the highborns before her. It seemed as if two people would be filling in for the heads of their houses, and Alysanne was not quite sure if that was a good thing. Only time would tell, and she would remain fairly quiet until the meeting actually began, though not before offering an apology. "Please accept my apology for letting my emotions get the best of me yesterday."
Post by EDRIC HIGHTOWER on Aug 30, 2017 2:37:01 GMT
Lord Edric Hightower would not be present for the former king's wake, his ship slowed by uneasy tides around the southern tip of Dorne. Had he not been subject to taking a galley, he'd have been there with days to spare; yet his own ailing father insisted through a fleeting mind that he were to be there for his old friend. Another mistake made by Edric to attempt to appease his waning memory. Halfway through the ride, he was spitting conspiracies of myth and magic, proclaiming a march of the Yi Ti empire through the streets with the stone men as their disposal. Another peak of his increasing lunacy. They'd have to pay their respects another time.
Howver, Edric did intend on doing some amount of right within the territory of King's Landing, and that was adding his own hand to the solution of the political woes that typically sprout from a king's death. The succession of power was never smooth, and he would provide vital details on the production of Oldtown to ease the burden of a shifting system. The unfortunate news was that whispers spoke of a more convoluted situation this time around: something he had hoped was just momentary tensions. One realistic "prophecy" that he wanted his father to be wrong on was the necessity for the army and navy that he has established a few years prior.
"Optimism, Edric. Everyone favors theatricality; it's all just rumors," he continued to try and convince himself that everything would be alright.
Edric entered the chamber, arms pushing back the ivory cloak over a deep blue military coat. The look was broken up with scraps of gold trim and knotted threads, and for once he appreciated looking his best as his audience already didn't bode well. He was to represent the Hightower house in the best way possible, and it seemed a necessity after he realized that Lord Lukas came in the stead of his father. Something was amiss. Or was it his own suspicions again. "Just quiet your mind."
"Lords -- Ladies." he greeted to a rather sparse room that would undoubtedly fill up in time. After his half-bow, he took a seat next to the acting lord for House Tyrell. It was necessary with Hightower being a vassal house, albeit a powerful one. While he desired more answers about the missing Tyrell, he settled with a simple hushed acknowledgment, "Lord Lukas, pleasant to see you again. How's your brother?" Meanwhile his eyes scanned the other patrons, gauging the situation.
William is a fair individual, neither particularly headstrong nor explosive, but simultaneously this leaves him isolated from many of his peers. He is somewhat silent, preferring to listen and to observe, rather than to place his opinions before he understands the situation.
This was going to be a messy day. Wars will be fought, peasant blood will run rife, fields of grain will burn, livestock slaughtered, and it will be because of this meeting. Should the wrong words be said, the interests ignored, or a slight whether imaginary or perceived, was going to be imprinted into the history of this kingdom's future based on what was spoken today.
William did not forget this position as he had arrived, early, to sit on the meeting. What transpired in this event was the beginning, and will predict the end of history. The Master of Laws was a superficial title in peace, but in war or political conflict, perhaps there laid some merit. But he had read every detail in De Jure Claims, Politics, and Warfare Management in a Land Ruled by Barbarians by Archmaester Horace to prepare for this moment. It did not enlighten much, except that people were usually morons.
Elsewise, he hoped, the lord Hand had not removed the prior Master of Laws for no reason. Whatever conflicts that may occur, or be spoken of, or forgotten, will be judged, case by case, issue by issue, as best as he could, with a discerning eye.
Post by YULIYA LANNISTER on Aug 30, 2017 22:20:44 GMT
✦ ✦ ✦
She was expected to be in attendance of the small council meeting opened up to any nobility that held a prestigious title. The Lord Hand’s intentions were clear enough to the Lannister woman, but that was solely because she was not partaking in the talks based on her birthright. Yuliya would be present acting as Master of Coin, a duty she had garnished for the the past five years. But this meeting would be unlike any other she had attended before. It had been called to address the passing of King Jaehaerys and Arkas Baratheon would be acting as the Hand of the king.
A dead king.
It would not be a cleanly executed endeavor, with differing voices present and the tension of the oncoming war driving all into a sense of panic. Everyone desired to be secure, desired to be protected, and desired their own claim to the currently uninhabited Iron Throne. No, she would not enjoy this small council meeting. But it was necessary for her to sit at the grand table, entertain the raucous thoughts of entitled individuals, and offer her own input if called upon by the Lord Hand. It was her duty as Master of Coin. But would she be acting upon her duties as a member of House Lannister? She was still unsure of how to approach the wishes and intentions of her house in correlation to the passing of the king.
Dressed in the red and gold of her house, she finally left her chambers once her lady-in-waiting had secured her braid back with ornate golden pins. A woman of small stature, she would have been easily overlooked if not for her assured demeanor that commanded respect. She made her way into the room, making no fuss of announcing herself as her cerulean stare observed the lords and ladies currently present. For the time being, Yuliya was content to linger by the entryway until the Lord Hand called for the beginning of the meeting.
Post by ROBERT BARATHEON on Aug 31, 2017 0:47:25 GMT
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
A knight bound to his little lion, serving the realm by protecting the blonde master of coin. Today he would serve as her sword and shield upon a council meeting. As acting lord of House Reyne the boy had every right to sit among the council but he desired to be there for her than himself.
Outfitted with pride and confidence Lyon followed after Yuliya. Chasing at the heels of the decorated lioness. Entering the chamber prepared for the lords and ladies of the realm. Soon enough seven kingdoms would sit upon the council of the Hand of the King. Noticing the presence of his beloved mother in an instant. Bowing his head before the nobles
Keeping quiet next to the entry with his partner. Reyne knew the realm that involved his sword not politics.
Post by DAERON TARGARYEN on Aug 31, 2017 4:33:07 GMT
Alysanne.
Daeron had only glimpsed his sister at the wake. Their father's death hurt her the most, he knew. In his final years, Jaeherys had largely ignored his sons for the company of his daughter.
The girl looked tired as Daeron took his seat. The Crown Prince reclined in his father's place at the head of the table, pleased his sister had chosen a subordinate position. The rumor was their father had tried at the last hour to give away Daeron's crown to her, but perhaps she now understood her place. Alysanne must know if there was to be a rivalry for the throne it would be between the male heirs, he resolved.
The others at the table waited meekly for the final claimant. Daeron picked at the arm of his chair in boredom.
"Where is my brother?" he finally proclaimed to no one in particular.
Just why would any of these stuffed up cunts want to hold a meeting after the wake, having drank enough ale to drown a dragon in the name of Jaehaerys. Perhaps the old fuck would be proud of him while staring down with the father and the warrior from the beyond. Even in death however the old bastard had his hand following him with one foot in the grave. Entering the quarters Edmund had been summoned too, prepared to be bored with countless affairs of the realm. Knowing the finger would be pointed upon himself soon enough by that old crippled hand.
Marching upon the display of the Seven Kingdoms, draped in shades of azure and ivory the young lord would greet those closest to him. A simple sharing of words with the little lion, not entirely surprised the cub had taken the seat of Master of Coin. The gilded lions had a knack for getting into coin purses, and dragon sacks. Shifting his attention to Morella who was in the middle of adoring her nephew. Flower boy had grown up since the last time he could remember encountering the little shit. Taking after father in all points save his face, the boy was blessed with his mothers beauty.
" Not the only pleasure to see, Lady Morella."
Golden orbs resting upon those who demanded his respect, turning his attention to Lord Arryn. Bless his soul with all of the seven, one of the few who could appreciate a good fucking wake. Perhaps on his return to the Riverlands he could find a tavern worthy of the twos coin. Though this room stank of the Westerlands and the Reach, where was the influence of the North? The Warden of the North notably late to this meeting. Perhaps a different matter had attracted Cassius attention. Taking a seat next to the Lord of the Eerie, Edmund prepared himself for #Rivers Roast ft. Arkas Baratheon.
Post by ASHARA MARTELL on Sept 1, 2017 0:24:56 GMT
Not far behind the cocksure entrance of the russet-haired Tully did a shadow in black silk enter the audience room. While she may be of appearances and demeanor stony rather than salty, one could not say that Ashara Martell did not enjoy the soft and flowing fabrics of Dorne and the lands east. Nor could they say that her presence here was any surprise. Her husband's reputation far preceded him, and not in the kindly way. Dorne was Princess ruled.
She let Edmund say his piece while she glided over towards Alysanne, using one flourish to arrange her dress neatly before taking a seat.
"My Lords, ladies," came the soft greeting as she arranged her hands in her lap.
With a calm, measured gaze she took stock of the room; the representatives of the Great Houses, and in some cases their sons where they could not be present. And then some of the lords of lesser houses, for seemingly this were to be a large and no doubt debated council. Among some of those were the true council in their respective duties. And then for some reason there was Morella.
"I apologize for not being present at the wake," she spoke to the other princess. "Though his passing was not unexpected, the realm remains greatly unprepared for the coming days."
Alysanne is one of the three Targaryen children who purport they have claim to the throne. The now-dead King decreed Alysanne be Queen, and the unorthodox mother of three plans to become one.
Post by ALYSANNE TARGARYEN on Sept 1, 2017 1:33:37 GMT
More people trickled in, but the one who caught Alysanne's attention was her elder brother, Daeron. He strode in like he owned the place and pointedly say in their father's seat. A light smirk graced the Princess's lips. "Quite the overcompensation." Daeron could etch 'I AM THE KING' all over the walls of the Red Keep if he wanted, but it meant nothing. She would let him have his fancy little seat if it soothed his ego, however.
When Ashara entered and moseyed closer to Alysanne, the Targaryen woman raised her eyebrows in slight surprise, though her smile was amicable. "Please, you missed nothing other than men gossiping like women and women fighting like men." Alysanne had always admired the Martells, although maybe not as much as her twin brother. His absence was duly noted. "That it does," she added. "I am sorry you had to attend without the company of your husband."
Cassius was no stranger to late arrivals. The meeting of the small council was one that, in retrospect, should have been held with higher significance within his mind, but it was not. Politics had never been his thing, and though he knew his personal invitation to the meeting stemmed far deeper than that, he could not help but think it would be simply another opportunity for the other lords and the Targaryen children to flex their egos. The eldest Stark cared little for all the unnecessary bull shit and even less for the other Kingdoms in general.
If he his own way the North would be on its own.
Still, he had his duties. He arrived shortly after his son-in-law, though late enough that he did not notice his theatrics. Unlike the previous day he bore no over-sized mink and his famed greatsword was noticeably missing, but in place of his norm northern necessities was an attire more fitting for the climate of Kingslanding. Upon entering the room the first thing he saw was Daeron situated at the center of the table, no doubt staking his claim through the only means he can. It rubbed him in the wrong way, much like he was sure it did to Alysanne and the noticeably absent Rhaegar, but for a different reason.
Respect was not something that could be generated by picking a seat at the center of a table. He had the most right to the throne, but that did not mean he was the most capable.
"Lord Baratheon." A curt head nod was offered in his direction. He moved to sit next to Morella and the young Tyrell boy, electing to sit next to his wife's sister as opposed to making another scene by taking a seat to the side of his friend, Alysanne. Nevertheless, he was curious to see her reaction to the proceedings and his eyes were not far from gazing at her from across the table.
Last Edit: Sept 1, 2017 5:13:54 GMT by CASSIUS STARK
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Sept 1, 2017 15:01:47 GMT
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[attr="class","likedotitle2"]AN OATH
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Prince Daeron wasn't the only one with wordless messages, but in the end only the weak-minded were impressed by theatrics. Arkas wasn't an entertainer, and although there were fools among them, the gathered hadn't come to entertain or be entertained either.
Out of comments that had been thrown across the room, Arkas picked only one up. The first words of Princess Alysanne. "We should all be sorry," he reasoned, diplomatically. But what should they be sorry for? The passing of the King? The decisions that had to be made? They could all figure that out on their own. He summarized, not without chiding tone. "Us all. For one reason or another."
Surrounding the table on the long way to the other end, Arkas had due time to regard everyone with his gaze, a stern look here, an approving look there. But he wasn't here to pick sides. Even though the Lord of Riverrun got the longest look of them all.
Lord Arryn and Lord Tully wanted to turn this into their unkept debauchery. The Lord of the Vale had Baratheon blood in him, Arkas could only wonder if that was true. They were cousins, but they had never been close. Edmund had not been calmed down by even a second wife. Princess Alysanne seemed ready for consolation, until she couldn't sit silently and joined the fray. Her brother was being himself. He wouldn't have expected it differently. But all these comments were just that; drool running out of mouths.
"Princess Alysanne. Prince Daeron. My Lords. My Ladies. We have gathered here - Lords Paramount, Wardens and the lords of influential houses - to face the realities that will impact the realm. Let us start with formalities," he began, looking toward the Master of Coin. Her blood belonged to Morella, her office belonged to the Hand. Where was her allegiance? The chiding look that she received for her sitting so close to Lord Reyne would not escape anyone. The gardens were for love. But he didn't say anything.
"Lord Tyrell has been delayed, I'm told. I've called Ser Lukas to represent the Reach. Lord Hightower should give prudent council as his family has done for generations. Old Town being the seat of the Citadel and the Starry Sept, this connection should bless us with the wisdom of the Maesters and the spiritual insight of the Faith."
While not yet the Lord of Highgarden, Lukas would be, eventually. Lord Hightower was young as well. But if word of mouth was to be believed, he was the preferred choice to his late father. A man that had become a rambling fool, seeing shadows and betrayal around every corner.
"Lord Lannister is dealings with the finances of his house abroad. His heir is in the city, but the Lady of House Lannister has a reputation of being accustomed with the policies of her house. I would expect nothing less. And with Lord Reyne at his table, I would think the Westerlands are are properly represented."
Which left the other special choice to be addressed. It was no secret that Ashara was the ruler of Dorne, her husband being like the wind. Arkas wouldn't compliment the Dornish on anything, if anything, he would share the sentiment of the Prince of Dorne being someone he disliked. But this wasn't about appearances. This was a gathering of the shot-callers in the realm.
"There is nothing to be forgiven, Princess," Arkas stated diplomatically, looking over those that he had not addressed. Did he need to? Lord Arryn was the Lord Paramount of the Vale, Warden of the East. Lord Stark was Paramount and Warden of the North. Lord Tully sat at Riverrun, Paramount of the Trident. They were the established rulers of their regions. Had been for years. There wasn't an explanation needed why they were attending.
"Lord Greyjoy has left the city yesterday. Prince Rhaegar returned to Dragonstone."
Did that mean Rhaegar planned his strike, or did he consider remaining on the run? Who knew. He had been invited. Arkas had done duty justice. The rest did not concern him - yet. "The Grand Maester is drafting the raven scrolls as we speak. There are three claimants to the Iron Throne. I will not place the crown on any head. I'm the Hand of a dead King, but as it is, I sit as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm."
He hadn't asked for the questionable duty, but after twenty years of personal happiness that had been gifted to him by one of Jaehaerys' decisions, perhaps it was time to repay the duty. Arkas didn't think that they would all take it in stride. They would return to their homes and begin plotting. But official business was official business.
"After the conclusion of this meeting, I will gather the court and sit on the Iron Throne, dispensing a royal decree. I will call for a Grand Council of all the Lords and Ladies of Westeros to gather within three months' time. Before the gathered nobility, the heirs can make their claim to the throne. The council will decide and it will be your duty as Lords Paramount to see to the completion of this task."
The gathering wasn't about them making suggestions to the official process. Arkas had made up his mind. He wasn't a ruler. The future of the realm would be best served if the powerful had a say about who governed them, would it not? Of course. Some of the heirs might have believed in their claim being superior, but by the end of the day, the law would be written and signed. Opposing the success of the Grand Council meant breaking the King's peace.
It meant treason.
And while Arkas wasn't a ruler, he was a soldier.
"The small council and I will receive your questions."
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