The Red Keep's study was submerged in the dead silence of late night.
Outside the window, the scattered lights of King's Landing flickered; the lonely cries of night birds only served to emphasize the surrounding emptiness and quiet.
Only a single thick tallow candle burned on the heavy oak table, its warm yellow glow wavering. It cast Aegon's silhouette against the cold stone wall—solitary, tall, and as still as a standing statue, possessing a majesty as unshakeable as a mountain.
He was still wearing the black casual clothes from the day, his silver hair loosely tied back with a few stray strands falling over his forehead.
His fingertips lightly pressed against the edge of a blank sheet of paper. His gaze seemed to fall upon the void, but in reality, it had long since pierced through the paper to see the devastation and destiny of all Westeros.
The chilling slaughter and iron-fisted executions he had carried out with dragon-like might at the Red Keep plaza earlier that day had all been withdrawn now, like a sharp sword returning to its scabbard, leaving only an unfathomable coldness.
He was the chess player.
In the silent night, he looked down upon this continent, which had been entangled in old systems for a millennium and was already sick to its very marrow.
The old system of enfeoffment.
That foundation, which had supported the order of the Seven Kingdoms since the invasion of the andals, was also the source of all evil—of incessant wars and constant betrayals. Aegon had long since seen through it completely.
Those dukes, earls, and petty lords who entrenched themselves in their territories, passing them down for dozens of generations, were each a king within a kingdom.
They raised private armies, their armor and sigils shining only for their own families;
They levied private taxes, filling their vaults with wealth that should have belonged to the throne;
They established private prisons and courts, deciding life and death within their own halls.
The Soldiers within their lands ate the lord's grain and took the lord's pay; their lives and futures were entirely tied to the whim of the head of the house.
Their oaths were given only to their direct liege lords. As for the King on the iron throne? He was merely a distant symbol in songs and chronicles.
That old saying, held as an absolute truth: 'The vassal of my vassal is not my vassal.'
It was the most biting mockery of royal power, the root of the royal family's weakness, and the breeding ground for lords to carve up territories, for heroes to vie for dominance, and even for those who coveted the iron throne.
From petty lords drawing swords over a small patch of fertile soil to the War of the Usurper nearly uprooting the Targaryen line—which war did not originate from this?
The fact that royal decrees did not leave The Crownlands was the root of all chaos.
Aegon slowly raised his hand and grasped the slender quill at the corner of the table.
The barrel of the pen was cold. He dipped it into the ink bottle, soaking it in thick ink. The tip hovered over the paper, a drop of ink hanging without falling, much like the crucial move already decided in his heart, merely waiting to be played.
Breaking the old was necessary.
Smashing these shackles that nurtured rebellion and imprisoned the Seven Kingdoms was imperative.
His fingertips tightened slightly, his knuckles showing a cold white under the candlelight. The measure in his heart was already set.
Titles could remain.
Glory could remain.
That final shred of dignity belonging to ancient bloodlines and heritage—he could consider allowing that to be preserved as well.
This was not mercy, nor was it weakness; it was a calculation born of extreme composure.
Preserving hereditary titles was a visible way out for those old nobles who had not raised arms in rebellion during this change of dynasties and who still possessed a shred of caution or loyalty.
Moreover, old bottles could hold new wine.
The generals, strategists, and common warriors who followed him in battle and performed meritorious deeds needed rewards, status, and glory. Reforming the old peerage system was precisely to pave the way for the new nobility.
By using the lands and goods of the old nobility to nurture the loyal forces of the new dynasty, the iron throne could truly become stable as one side waxed and the other waned.
Old titles would be used to soothe people's hearts, stabilize the overall situation, and grant rewards.
New nobility would be used to secure the realm, wield power, and execute swift justice.
Applying both grace and might, managing both the new and the old—this was the strategy for long-term stability.
At this thought, the pen tip that had been hovering for a long time finally descended steadily.
The ink spread, the handwriting sharp and steady, the force of it penetrating the paper.
He personally outlined a new foundation aimed at eradicating war... the Crownlands Garrison System.
A drastic measure to strike at the root.
It would strip away the basis for old nobles to maintain private armies and claim kingship over their lands.
With every hundred miles as a region, Garrison Offices would be established in key locations to serve as the royal family's lowest-level feelers and fortresses in the provinces.
All fields, manors, forests, and mines confiscated from rebel nobles would no longer be granted to any hereditary lords. They would all fall under the direct jurisdiction of the royal family, to be distributed to landless refugees, bankrupt tenants, and war orphans.
Giving land to the people was giving them a way to live.
Commoners would no longer have to live at the mercy of lords or die in private wars for nobles. Their hearts would naturally turn toward the throne rather than the local lords who exploited them.
Where the people's hearts lie, there the royal power is established.
Five Garrison Offices would form one Garrison Fort, headed by a Commander-in-Chief.
The Commander-in-Chief would only hold the power to train troops, maintain defenses, and keep the peace. They would have no authority to move troops out of the territory, no authority to start a war, and no authority to exceed their jurisdiction.
Any assembly, expedition, or combat operation by the army must be authorized by a decree personally signed by the King or the Small Council and stamped with the royal seal.
Without orders, they would remain in the fort for training. The sharp sword would always be in its scabbard, and the hilt would be held only in King's Landing.
Three Garrison Forts would form one Domain, headed by a Warden.
Warden of the West, Warden of the Reach, Warden of the North... the titles remained the same, sounding as though they commanded vast regions, but inside, everything had changed drastically.
Now, a Warden was no longer a great noble with hereditary autonomy who acted like a king, but a general personally selected and directly appointed by the iron throne, loyal only to the King.
They would not handle civil administration; that would belong to royal Governors.
They would not handle finances or taxes; those would belong to royal officials.
The position was not hereditary; promotions, demotions, and dismissals were entirely at the King's command.
Their sole responsibility was to guard the borders upon the King's command, command the troops within the domain, and stabilize the kingdom's territory.
They were the sword and shield of the throne, not rebellious regional lords.
Military power was reclaimed by the royal family.
Generalships were appointed by the King.
The army followed only the King's orders.
From then on, there would be no more private noble armies in the Seven Kingdoms, and no more lords who dared to raise troops for war based on their own whims.
The root of war was being completely gouged out from deep within the soil.
His pen did not stop, his thoughts flowing like a tide.
Finances, taxes, and the judiciary were also settled.
Unification of finances and taxes.
Abolishing the right of lords to levy taxes privately.
National tax laws would originate uniformly from King's Landing; tax rates, types, and collection methods would all be determined by the throne.
Royal tax collectors would go directly to various regions, and money and grain would go directly into the national treasury, with no more layers of exploitation by lords. Old nobles would only receive a fixed stipend from the royal family according to their rank to maintain their dignity, leaving them with no capital to levy heavy taxes or raise armies to eye the throne.
Unification of the judiciary.
Abolishing private punishments, private courts, and private trials by lords.
Throughout the country, only one royal code of law would be followed. Judicial officers would be selected, assessed, and appointed or dismissed by King's Landing, judging cases independently without interference from local nobles.
If a prince breaks the law, he shall be punished like a commoner.
The light of the King's law would cover every inch of land and every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
Military, administrative, financial, and judicial—all four powers returned to the throne.
Old nobles would retain only empty titles and glory, becoming an honorary class dependent on the royal family and supported by stipends.
The chaos of the old era, where the realm fell apart and royal power was marginalized, would be completely ended and swept into the dust of history under his will and system.
Aegon lightly set down his pen.
He leaned back slightly, his calm gaze scanning the clearly outlined new policy on the paper. Deep within his violet eyes, a flash of certain and cold light passed, like a solitary star in a winter night.
The Grand Council was imminent.
At this grand gathering where the old and new forces of the Seven Kingdoms would meet, the core three matters were already clear as a mirror to him.
First, setting the tone.
Announcing to the world that military purges against those who stubbornly resisted would never stop. Peace had arrived, but the blade was still cold; the Conqueror's might was not to be questioned.
Second, establishing the new.
Publicly promulgating the outline of the new policy centered on centralization, declaring the death of the old feudal system and the arrival of a new order with the iron throne as the absolute core. This was not a reshuffling of power, but a transformation that would rewrite the continent.
Third, rewards.
Rewarding based on merit, granting titles to those who performed well, and pushing loyal and capable people into key positions of the new system... Garrison Commanders-in-Chief and Governors, paired with confiscated lands and new titles.
At the same time, appeasing the submissive old nobles, recognizing their titles, and ensuring their dignity to complete a smooth transition between old and new power.
The candlelight was flickered by the night wind, and light and shadow played across his profile.
Silence returned to the study, save for the occasional soft crackle of the wick.
Knock, knock, knock.
Three soft and respectful knocks on the door broke the silence that was nurturing a monstrous storm.
The guard's voice came through the thick oak door, cautious and careful:
"Your Highness, there is an envoy from outside the city seeking an audience. He claims to be from Whispers on Claw Isle, the head of House Crabb, Baron William Crab, who has come specifically to bow and pledge his loyalty."
Crab.
Whispers.
Aegon's fingertips on the arm of the chair paused for a very brief moment.
A ripple of heavy bitterness rose in his heart—no excitement, no joy, only a past event stained with blood and dust quietly surged up.
The Ruby Ford.
That crushing defeat that almost buried the last glory of the Targaryens.
Rhaegar died in battle, the royal army scattered, and the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms followed the wind, turning to the rebels one after another, fearing they would be too late to get a share of the new dynasty's scraps.
The fickleness of the world and the coldness of human hearts were fully revealed at that moment.
But not everyone chose to seek profit and avoid harm in such a way.
The distant, impoverished, rugged, and fierce Claw Isle.
A group of petty lords who were insignificant in the genealogy of the powerful—half-savages—made the most foolish and most noble choice.
When the dynasty was about to fall and everyone had deserted, they chose to hold fast to their oaths.
Led by House Crabb, the various lords of Claw Isle gathered all their able-bodied men to follow Rhaegar into a certain death trap.
Almost all of them died in battle.
Their sigils sank into the mud and blood of the Ruby Ford along with their masters.
The Crab clan suffered the most; their direct male line was almost entirely killed or wounded, nearly ending their lineage.
These were truly old subjects who had never betrayed them.
A family that still fulfilled their oaths with blood during the dynasty's darkest hour.
In this world of schemes and chaos, they were loyalists who were almost foolishly direct, yet incredibly tragic and heroic.
Deep beneath the year-round icy coldness in Aegon's eyes, a trace of almost imperceptible emotion passed.
It was not pity, but recognition, remembrance, and a solemnity that a blood debt must be repaid.
He was silent for a moment, making the guard outside the door slightly uneasy.
Then, a calm but weighty voice pierced through the door:
"Settle them properly and treat them with the etiquette due to honored guests; there must be no neglect."
Aegon's expression remained calm, showing neither surprise nor joy, as he slowly looked up, his voice deep and majestic:
"Go and investigate immediately. The remaining members of House Crabb, the current state of their lands, the reality of their assets, as well as William Crab's character, temperament, and talent—report everything to me in detail and with speed."
"Issue an order: set a special seat for Baron William Crab at tomorrow's Grand Council."
He paused slightly, his voice not loud, but every word carried the weight of a thousand pounds:
"I will personally receive his loyalty in the hall."
To loyal subjects, supreme dignity shall be granted.
To rebels, swift destruction shall be dealt.
This was his way.
Cold and distinct, just like the new policy on the paper.
The guard outside responded solemnly, and his footsteps quickly faded away.
Aegon's gaze fell back onto the parchment on the desk.
Under the candlelight, the ink seemed to come alive, merging with the heavy night outside the window.
The crescent moon climbed over the hills on the other side of The Blackwater Rush, its clear light spilling over the high towers and walls of the Red Keep. All of King's Landing was silent in the exhaustion following the great war, with undercurrents surging.
And in this silent study, a transformation capable of overturning a thousand years of Westerosi tradition and reshaping the destiny of the continent for centuries to come had already been set.
Only waiting for tomorrow's sunrise and the ringing of the Grand Council's bell,
he would personally push open that heavy and glorious door leading to a brand new era.
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