Chapter 86 – Conflict and the Great Game
The Grand Council had spent the entire day wrestling over one question: who held the right to vote. By the time the sun fell behind the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone, the lords finally dispersed to their assigned quarters—if they had any.
Thousands of nobles from every corner of Westeros had descended upon the island. Their bright banners and makeshift camps spread across the black beaches and hills like a riot of color after rainfall. Every chamber in Dragonstone had been claimed by the great lords long before; the inns of the fishing village were packed to suffocation. Even private homes had been requisitioned. Beds ran out by midday.
To solve the crisis, Corlys Velaryon and Prince Daemon Targaryen ordered hundreds of war galleys and merchant vessels to anchor in Dragonstone's harbor to serve as floating lodging.
The fleets from abroad only swelled the chaos.
Gavin Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands, the Lord of House Sunderland of the Three Sisters, and Lord Redwyne of the Arbor arrived with thirty great ships between them—each filled with nobles seeking rooms.
When darkness fell, Daemon played his own hand.
He sent for the prostitutes of Silk Street and Flea Bottom, ferrying them across the sea to Dragonstone with one purpose: to win favors for his brother, Prince Viserys.
Not to be outdone, Corlys Velaryon released an entire ship full of Lysene courtesans—women captured during the Stepstones War, once slaves in the pleasure houses of Lys and now working freely in his brothel on Driftmark.
With this many lords, whores, soldiers, and smallfolk crowding every path, order collapsed almost immediately.
Daemon's Kingsguard arrested pickpockets and cutpurses all day long. Those who were caught were sent in chains to Daemon's newly built Blackwater City, sentenced to labor.
But at night, the nobles became the problem.
Wine flowed, tempers rose, and blood soon followed.
A man-at-arms of House Bracken stabbed a stableboy sworn to House Blackwood. Daemon himself dragged the murderer to the courtyard outside the gate, drew Dark Sister, and struck off the man's head. The skull was hung above Dragonstone's entrance as a warning.
It did little good.
Near midnight, a sprawling riot broke out among the seaside encampments of the Ironborn. The men of House Farman of Fair Isle, House Mormont, and House Mallister clashed savagely with the Ironborn of Houses Merlyn, Harlaw, Botley, and Goodbrother.
Two hundred Kingsguard and soldiers were deployed to break them apart.
Daemon arrived as the last blows were thrown, stepping over pools of blood.
"Why in the seven hells are you killing each other on Dragonstone?" Daemon barked. "Have none of you lived long enough?"
Qidan Massey tallied the aftermath.
Two Ironborn were gravely wounded.
One Mallister crossbowman was dead—his skull split by a thrown axe.
Dozens bore cuts and bruises.
Daemon beheaded the Ironborn who threw the killing axe. The rest were sent to Blackwater City to work off their crimes.
---
The Grand Council Reconvenes
At dawn, the nobles assembled again.
The great lords and Small Council took their seats at the high table, while banners from Dorne to the Neck fluttered among the long hall of gathered nobles.
Grand Maester Runciter rose.
"Today, the Great Council shall hear the claims of all who seek the Iron Throne."
Viserys and Princess Rhaenys were the obvious contenders—but ambition had drawn forth others.
The first man to approach the platform was broad of shoulder, red-haired streaked with silver, and loud of voice despite his age.
"My name is Clinton Storm," he declared. "Born and raised in Flea Bottom."
Runciter adjusted his spectacles.
"As your name implies, you are a bastard of the Stormlands. Upon what grounds do you claim a right to the Iron Throne?"
Clinton Storm raised his chest.
"Because my father once sat upon it."
A hush.
King Jaehaerys narrowed his eyes.
"If you dare claim to be the son of King Aenys, I will not tolerate slander against my father."
Master of Laws Otto Hightower leaned forward.
"If he is Aenys's son, that would make him Your Grace's half-brother."
Clinton shook his head.
"No. My father was Maegor the Cruel."
The hall erupted—gasps, whispers, outright laughter.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Ryam Redwyne, glared.
"Maegor had six queens. All failed to give him healthy children. If you were born of one, you would not bear the bastard name 'Storm.'"
The High Septon interjected sharply.
"Only Maegor's first marriage was sanctioned by the Faith. His other 'marriages' were abominations. The gods cursed them, thus the stillbirths. This man's mother may indeed have been ravaged, but no proof ties the child to Maegor."
Clinton snarled, "My mother ran a tavern in King's Landing. Maegor forced himself upon her after drinking. I was born ten months later."
He brought out his mother, now a frail old woman, who tearfully recited the tale to the hall. Few listened.
Runciter sighed.
"Have you any proof beyond resemblance?"
Clinton pounded his chest.
"My strength, my size, my hair—silver-red like the Targaryens!"
The High Septon scoffed.
"Hardly evidence of royal seed."
Clinton turned on Jaehaerys.
"You sit the throne only because my father killed your brothers! The Iron Throne is Maegor's by blood—his line, not Aenys's, should rule!"
The hall grew tense.
Daemon signaled his men. Kingsguard stormed forward and seized Clinton and his mother.
Jaehaerys exhaled wearily.
"Let the next candidate be more sensible."
It was not.
---
The Silver Prince from Volantis
A young man next approached—silver-haired, purple-eyed, handsome as any Targaryen song prince. Murmurs rippled through the hall.
"He looks exactly like Jaehaerys in his youth…"
"Seven save us, he could be his twin!"
Even Jaehaerys stared in stunned silence.
The young man bowed gracefully.
"Your Majesty, my name is Orion. Son of Tigelles, Archon of Volantis… and Princess Saera Targaryen."
All admiration died instantly.
Princess Saera, seated among the ladies, lifted her chin with pride. The hall was aghast.
Runciter cleared his throat delicately.
"You claim to be Princess Saera's son. Have you any proof?"
Saera rose.
"I birthed him in a Lysene brothel. Every girl there can testify."
The High Septon looked ready to faint.
"Many men visited you then, Princess. How can you name the Archon as the father?"
Saera smirked.
"Tigelles had Valyrian blood and a dragon-rider's dreams. I pretended to be a lost dragon princess. He believed it. He… enjoyed the fantasy enough to leave me with a child."
The lords exchanged horrified looks.
King Jaehaerys shut his eyes.
"Saera. Spare us."
Orion bowed.
"I do not expect the Iron Throne. I came only to meet you, Grandfather."
Jaehaerys waved weakly for him to step down.
But the humiliation was not over.
A blacksmith claiming to be Prince Aemon's bastard.
A swineherd claiming descent from Prince Baelon.
Several more bastards of Saera—each more unconvincing than the last.
Jaehaerys muttered, "Is she listing every man she ever bedded?"
The Small Council looked ready to flee the hall.
Everyone knew:
Only Rhaenys or Viserys truly mattered.
---
The True Contest Begins
Lord Grover Tully finally asked, "When will the rightful claimants speak?"
Duke Tymond Lannister smirked.
"Why not have them fly dragons? The higher flier wins!"
He immediately remembered Viserys had no dragon. The smirk faded.
Corlys Velaryon showered nobles with gifts to support Rhaenys—gems, spices, crafted armor, rare woods.
But Rhaenys barely cared.
Since Queen Alysanne's death, her ambition had cooled.
Daemon, meanwhile, openly campaigned for Viserys.
Just before Viserys's turn came, Beaumont Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, suddenly rose.
"Prince Daemon Targaryen," he thundered, "is the finest man of his generation! He rebuilt the Kingsguard, founded Blackwater City, raised Flame Castle and Ice Castle, and crushed the Triarchy in the Stepstones. His genius in war and governance rivals even King Jaehaerys's golden age!"
A wave of murmurs rippled through the hall.
"When Daemon rides Caraxes, dragons as old as Bronze Fury Vermithor bow their heads. Is it not folly," Beaumont pressed on, "to deny such a prince a place among the claimants to the Iron Throne?"
The hall erupted.
And for the first time that day—
Daemon Targaryen himself smiled.
.
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