These events took place a few moons before the tournament was announced.
The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the Red Keep, flooding the corridors with a warm glow. Nothing in these stones bore the marks of the war that had just ended, for that war had been fought far from here, beyond the Narrow Sea, in Essos. The men had returned victorious, but exhausted. The realm, untouched, needed to breathe.
Aerys II was striding quickly down a long, silent corridor, followed closely by Ser Gerold Hightower.
The Lord Commander walked two paces behind him, back straight, hands clasped, his golden aura reduced to a faint ripple. Just enough presence to assert his strength, but contained so as not to intimidate the servants.
All the other White Cloaks were elsewhere, assigned to duties even more important:
the queen, the two princes, the gardens where they rested, and the corridors leading to the royal apartments.
Aerys needed only one man at his side — and Gerold was the safest man in the realm.
The servants bowed as the king passed, but Aerys did not look at them.
His mind was elsewhere.
He had not slept.
The pain in his chest, that sudden, burning stab, had returned several times during the night.
That forbidden technique he had used long ago…That fatal mistake…
Every day reminded him a little more that he had burned his own life away to reach the gold rank too early.
He forced himself to hide his condition, to appear firm, powerful, eternal.
No one must know.
He pushed through the doors of the Small Council chamber without slowing, and the lords already seated rose at once.
In the circular room stood:
Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, straight-backed, cold, unshakable golden eyes.He radiated an authority that would have crushed any other man, but Aerys both relied on him and feared him.
Grand Maester Mellos, an old man with trembling hands but a sharp gaze, the weight of responsibility carving new lines into his forehead each month.
Lord Chelsted, Master of Laws, an honest but anxious man, who feared above all to displease and often lost himself in his own speeches.
Lord Rosby, temporary Master of Whisperers, whose dry cough regularly punctuated meetings, always nervous, always pale.
Lord Varys Grandison, Master of Ships, broad-shouldered, his face marked by months at sea.The war had cost him men and two heavy warships.
And a newcomer:
Lord Merrell Darklyn, Master of Coin.A thin, elegant man, whose eyes never stopped moving, as if he were constantly calculating the cost of each breath the realm took.
His arrival at the council was recent — but he had already made it clear to Tywin that the royal treasury survived only by miracle.
Gerold Hightower took his place behind the king, dominating the room by presence alone.
Aerys did not sit.
He studied each of the men present, then declared:
— My lords. The realm is victorious. Westeros has defeated the Ninepenny Company. And yet… no celebration has honored the birth of my sons.
Chelsted nodded vigorously, all too happy to agree with the king.
— Yes, Your Majesty. The people still speak of it. Two princes born in wartime… a blessing that has not yet been celebrated as it should.
Tywin, however, remained still.
— The victory is recent, he said. The men have only just returned home. It is natural that festivities were delayed.
Aerys brushed the argument aside with a wave of his hand.
— I want a tourney.
The words fell like a blade.
Rosby coughed, startled.Chelsted smiled, reassured.Darklyn paled.
Mellos spoke up, cautious:
— Your Grace… We have just financed an overseas campaign. The care of the soldiers, the lost ships, the compensation for the families… The coffers—
— Do not speak to me of coffers! Aerys snarled.
He had spoken too quickly, too loudly.A lance of pain shot through his chest, but he concealed it.
Darklyn, the Master of Coin, shot Mellos a worried glance.
— Your Grace, he said, the realm is not ruined, but… let us say it would be preferable to wait for the next harvest before committing to such—
— I did not ask what you would prefer, Aerys cut in.I tell you what must be done.
Darklyn fell silent, humiliated.
Tywin watched the scene without a flicker of emotion.
— A tourney is a political investment, he said calmly.The nobles will come, the merchants will follow, the ports will stir with activity.And above all, it will strengthen the image of the dynasty.It is necessary.
Aerys smiled.The Hand understood.
But Aerys had not yet given his true reason.
He took a step back.
— Ser Gerold.
The Lord Commander stepped forward.
— My lords, the Kingsguard numbers only six members. The seventh seat has been empty since the war.
Chelsted blanched.
— But that is… that is against tradition!
— It is above all dangerous, Gerold corrected, his deep voice resonating in the chamber.With only six men, our rotations are exhausting. Each of us serves nearly eighteen hours a day. And two guards must remain with the queen and princes at all times.
Mellos slowly raised his eyes to the king, worried.
— And… no candidate has yet been found?
— None meet the standard, Gerold replied.To wear white, a man must be at least Silver rank, tier two. Such men are rare.
Tywin folded his hands.
— The tourney will draw the best. We will find a knight worthy of serving.
Darklyn grimaced.
— Provided we can afford to pay him… The cost of cloaks, equipment, and—
— I AM NOT SPEAKING OF COSTS, Darklyn.I am speaking of power.
The Master of Coin shrank back slightly, intimidated.
Rosby attempted a clumsy objection:
— Your Majesty… perhaps we should consider a tourney of lesser scale?A simple, modest celebration, without attracting too much attention?
— A king does not celebrate the birth of two princes with a modest tourney, Aerys replied with contempt.I want an event worthy of their names.An event that will mark history.
Chelsted approved so vigorously that his chair creaked.
Tywin drew a breath, ready to choose his words.
— A grand tourney will give the people confidence.Westeros has won, but the war has wearied it.A tired realm must be gathered before it can be ruled.
Darklyn tried one last, softer objection:
— I understand the intention, Your Majesty, but… perhaps we should delay some expenses.Or… reduce some of the prizes.
Aerys walked toward him, slowly.
— Lord Darklyn.When I wish to reduce something… I reduce my enemies.Not my feasts.
The Master of Coin swallowed hard.
Gerold kept his eyes fixed on Darklyn, ready to act if the king decided that disobedience should be punished physically.
But Aerys stepped back.
The danger passed.
Tywin resumed, as if the tension did not exist:
— We should use this tourney to draw knights from all of Westeros.The Starks, the Baratheons, the Arryns.If a prodigy exists, he will come.And you will find your seventh White Cloak.
Aerys nodded.
— Exactly.The realm must witness the greatness of House Targaryen.And I must find the man who will complete my Guard.
Gerold lowered his head slightly in assent.
— The tourney will allow us to test the true worth of the candidates.And separate warriors from impostors.
The debates went on for another hour:
the cost of the grounds and stands, possible dates, security measures, the presence of the great houses, the rules of the jousts and the melee…
Disagreements lingered, sometimes hidden, sometimes open.
Chelsted wanted strict rules.Grandison argued for a free melee.Darklyn kept muttering calculations under his breath.Rosby fretted about the risk of spies.Tywin sought to optimize everything.
And in the midst of it all, Aerys dominated the room.
By his voice.By his fire.By his almost obsessive need to prove his strength.
It was eating him alive.Literally.
When the councillors finally bowed and left the chamber, Gerold remained behind, silent.
Aerys set a hand on the table.
The pain struck again, vicious.
Gerold stepped closer.
— Your Grace… are you injured?
— No, Aerys murmured through clenched teeth.It is… nothing.
But Gerold was no fool.
He had seen Aerys falter.He had seen his fingers tremble, just for an instant.
The king was not meant to weaken.A gold rank was never supposed to show fatigue.
Unless something was very wrong.
But Aerys straightened, mustering all the strength he had left.
— Open the door, Ser Gerold.We have a tourney to prepare.
The Lord Commander obeyed.
Aerys crossed the threshold without looking back.
In the corridors of the Red Keep, his silhouette still seemed imposing, upright, radiant.
No one saw the truth.No one saw that inside…
the king's fire had already begun to flicker.
📌 Announcement — Official Discord + Early Access on Patreon
Hello everyone!
I've just created an official Discord for the novel, as well as a Patreon for those who want to support the project and get early access to the story.
✅ Patreon — Early Access
On Patreon, you will eventually get access to more than 30 chapters in advance compared to the normal release, along with exclusive posts and behind-the-scenes information about the novel.
👉 Patreon: patreon.com/empereur300
Note: If you can't see the Patreon page yet, that's completely normal — it simply means the page hasn't been approved by Patreon yet. It will become visible as soon as the approval process is complete.
💬 Discord — Community & Discussions
I've also opened a Discord server to bring the community together:
Polls (preferences, choices, and direction of certain elements)
A place to discuss the book, the chapters, and theories
A space to talk directly with me
👉 Discord: discord.gg/T97quQvCGC
Thank you all for your support, and I'm looking forward to seeing you there 🔥🐉