A New Order

Maekar stood on the balcony of his chambers in Highgarden, overlooking the famed gardens that sprawled below. The rising sun bathed the scene in hues of pink and orange, casting shadows across the perfectly manicured hedges and fountains that seemed to stretch endlessly. Highgarden truly was a marvel—a testament to the wealth and grandeur of the Reach. In his mind, it was the most beautiful castle in all of Westeros, rivaling even Casterly Rock in sheer elegance. But now, it bore the banners of his house. The golden rose of House Tyrell had been replaced with the red and black dragon of House Targaryen.

Maekar breathed deeply, savoring the scent of blooming roses carried on the breeze. Victory, he reflected, came with rewards such as this. Yet his satisfaction was tempered by the monumental task of reordering the Seven Kingdoms. His Reordering of the Seven Kingdoms had shattered ancient traditions and borders, and not everyone was pleased. The Reach was no exception, though now it was firmly under his control after a month here. Today also marked the end of his stay in this land; he would soon depart for the capital, leaving the Florents and Hightowers to consolidate their rule in their new kingdoms.

He stepped back into his chambers, the opulence of the room greeting him once again. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting scenes of chivalry and courtly love, illuminated by the golden glow of chandeliers. The floor was a polished marble mosaic, reflecting the grandeur of the room. Maekar dressed quickly, donning the black and red garments befitting a king, and made his way out.

The halls of Highgarden were a marvel in themselves. The ceilings soared above him, painted with pastoral scenes of knights and maidens, lords and harvests. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, casting multicolored patterns across the walls and floors. The air was fragrant, filled with the scent of fresh blooms from the gardens. Servants moved silently through the corridors, their heads bowed deeply as Maekar passed, their expressions a mixture of awe and fear.

The Tyrell guards who had once patrolled these halls were gone, replaced by his Varangian Guard, their imposing forms clad in black armor, White dragon sigils glinting on their chests. 

He had sent Lyonel ahead a week ago to the capital to prepare for his arrival. There, his true work would begin.

As Maekar turned a corner, he caught sight of Elinor and Megga Tyrell standing quietly against a wall. Their heads were bowed, their faces pale with a mixture of shame and fear. He recalled the previous night, when they had come to his chambers, their intent clear: to spend the night with him, perhaps sent to curry favor for their diminished house. He had turned them away, though not without difficulty. There was a time when such a gesture would have tempted him, but now he thought of Rhaenys and Daenerys. He needed to stop somewhere. He was now a king. He did not plan to follow the path of Aegon the Unworthy.

He suspected Olenna had sent them—a final desperate gambit to win back some favor for her house. Olenna herself remained in the castle, though her time here was short. The Tyrells would soon be evicted, their remaining influence reduced to scraps.

He entered the grand throne room, a space that rivaled the Great Hall of the Red Keep in its magnificence. Ornate columns lined the chamber, and sunlight streamed through tall windows draped in velvet curtains. In the center of the room was a table, where Olenna Tyrell sat alone.

She was dressed in mourning black, her sharp features weathered by grief and humiliation. Her once-piercing gaze was dull, her posture slumped. This was not the Queen of Thorns who had once been a fearsome presence at any council. This was a broken woman. Her son was dead, her grandchildren maimed and burned or imprisoned. Her own house, the Redwynes, had betrayed her.

Maekar approached slowly, his boots echoing against the marble floor. Olenna looked up, her expression void of the sharp wit that had once defined her. For a moment, there was only silence between them.

"Your Grace," Olenna began, her tone measured but heavy.

"Lady Olenna," Maekar said.

There was more silence until she broke it again.

"The Tyrells have served the Iron Throne faithfully for generations. To strip us of Highgarden—of our home—and reduce us to a minor house is…"

"It is done, Lady Tyrell," Maekar interrupted, his voice calm but unyielding.

"…unthinkable. An insult," Olenna finished, her voice rising slightly over his. Her hands tightened into fists, resting on the table before her.

Maekar moved to sit next to her, his gaze sweeping over the room before landing on the single goblet before her. He noticed her trembling hands but said nothing, his own expression unreadable. His calm demeanor only seemed to further infuriate the woman seated before him.

"You chose the wrong side. You lost," Maekar said bluntly, his tone devoid of malice but firm in its finality.

Olenna's lips pressed into a thin line. "We are a great house," she countered, her voice a mixture of anger and pleading. "You cannot erase centuries of loyalty with a single stroke."

"Then why aren't more lords making a fuss about it?" Maekar retorted, leaning back slightly. "If you were truly indispensable, the Reach would have risen in outrage at your downfall. Instead, they moved on. Quickly, too."

He paused, his tone sharpening. "I've had more trouble in the Stormlands because of my annexation than I've had here. The Tyrell name, it seems, does not inspire the loyalty you believe it does."

Olenna's face reddened, her composure cracking. "That's because you sent most of the lords to the Wall!" she almost screamed, her voice echoing in the grand chamber. "You gutted the Reach of its true leaders, its strongest families."

Her voice broke slightly as she continued. "My son is dead. My sweet granddaughter—alone with child—now lies in your grasp. And houses we once considered family betrayed us."

"They made the right choice," Maekar said coldly. "They chose to survive. To serve the realm under a strong king rather than cling to a weak one."

"Aegon was the Crown Prince," Olenna shot back, her voice trembling with fury. "He was the rightful heir. You took the throne that was his."

Maekar's eyes hardened. "Aegon was a poor Crown Prince," he said, his voice lowering. "Westeros needs a strong king, especially now."

Maekar added, "House Tyrell is not left with nothing. You still have lands, Olenna. I have shown you mercy."

Olenna's hands tightened on the armrests of her chair, her knuckles pale against the dark wood. Her voice was a low, bitter hiss. "You think this mercy? A parcel of land by the coast, far from the power and influence we once held? A shadow of what we once were?"

Maekar's lips curled into the faintest smile, his composure unshaken. "Yet you still have lands. You are not left with nothing. I could have made things much worse."

"There are still lords who whisper that your family is no more than upjumped stewards."

Olenna's breath caught, her composure faltering for the briefest moment. The sting of Maekar's words cut deeper than she cared to admit.

"Lords care for their lands, their wealth, and their power," Maekar continued, his voice carrying the weight of cold pragmatism. "If those things remain secure, most care little for whose sigil flies above Highgarden."

"Spoken like a conqueror," Olenna said bitterly, though there was a flicker of resignation in her voice. She straightened in her chair, trying to regain some measure of authority. "And what of those who will not bend? Who see the Tyrells as the rightful lords of the Reach?"

"They will bend. They have already bent," Maekar said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"The Reach is no more, Olenna, and it will never rise again."

Olenna's defiance returned, her eyes blazing with unspent fury. "You are wrong. One day, you will answer for this tyranny. The true and loyal sons of the Reach will avenge this humiliation."

Her hand moved toward the goblet before her, trembling slightly as she lifted it. Maekar's sharp gaze caught the motion, and with lightning speed, his hand shot out to stop her, gripping her wrist firmly.

"Unhand me!" Olenna hissed, her voice trembling with indignation.

Maekar ignored her protest, his expression cold and calculating as he took the goblet from her hand. He raised it to his nose, sniffing the contents. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Poison. Lysene, of all things. How unoriginal."

Olenna's eyes widened, a flicker of shock crossing her face before she regained her composure. "What now, Your Grace? Will you add my head to your growing collection of trophies?"

Maekar set the goblet down carefully, his expression softening slightly. "I will forget this. Whatever this attempt was—martyrdom, or a final act of defiance—I will overlook it. I have no desire to see the Tyrells erased."

"Your grandchildren…" Maekar began.

Olenna interrupted, her lips trembling as she fought to hold back tears. "Scarred and burned," she whispered, her voice breaking.

"Yet they live," Maekar replied, his tone firm but not unkind. "Willas lives. Garlan lives. Loras and Margaery live. Your house still stands, Olenna."

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a gentler tone. "Your house words are 'Growing Strong.' Go to your new lands. Grow strong. Your family needs you now more than ever."

Olenna looked away, tears slipping silently down her face. Maekar stood and adjusted his cloak, turning toward the large door. Without another word, he left the throne room, his boots echoing against the marble floors.

It was time to leave for King's Landing.

=====

Neferion loomed over the fields surrounding Highgarden, a living shadow against the vibrant greens and golds of the Reach. His black scales shimmered like polished obsidian in the sunlight, faint streaks of emerald etched across their surface, as if the dragon carried the very essence of fire within. His vast and imposing wings stretched wide, casting a darkness that swallowed the bright hues below.

Maekar stood at the dragon's base, his dark hair catching the sunlight. He ran a gloved hand along Neferion's side, feeling the searing heat that radiated from the dragon's body—a warmth that seemed to pulse with life and power. The beast shifted slightly, massive claws raking the ground beneath him, leaving deep furrows in the earth.

A massive saddle rested securely between Neferion's shoulders, reinforced with steel and leather. Maekar meticulously checked the straps and harnesses himself, ensuring everything was secure.

With practiced ease, Maekar placed his boot into the small, steel-reinforced footholds embedded into Neferion's side and began his climb. Each step was careful, his hand gripping the leather straps as he ascended the dragon's immense flank. The climb was arduous, the sheer size of Neferion making it a task even for someone as fit and capable as Maekar. The wind tugged at his cloak as he ascended, the vibrant red-and-black fabric rippling like flames.

Finally reaching the saddle, Maekar settled into the seat, leaning back to catch his breath. The climb, arduous even under normal circumstances, was especially grueling in full armor. Neferion was, after all, nearly as large as Vhagar—perhaps even larger. Maekar made a mental note to take measurements someday, though he was confident Neferion rivaled Vhagar in size. He was, however, far from the scale of the Black Dread. Still, Maekar harbored a hope that Neferion would live long enough to one day surpass even Balerion.

He looked out across the fields, the splendor of the Reach spread out before him. Neferion shifted, the movement so powerful that it felt as though the earth itself quaked. Maekar reached for the reins, his gloved hand brushing against the cool leather. With a silent command, he urged Neferion to take flight. The great dragon responded with an earth-shaking roar that echoed across the fields, reverberating in the hearts of those below.

Neferion leapt into the sky, his powerful wings snapping open with a sound like thunder. The gust of wind that followed sent men and horses below stumbling, their eyes wide with awe and terror as they watched the beast ascend. The dragon climbed higher and higher, his wings beating with the force of a storm.

Maekar held the reins lightly, his bond with Neferion rendering words unnecessary. The dragon climbed further, piercing through the clouds. For a moment, they were surrounded by mist, but then they broke free into the golden sunlight above. The sun bathed them both in warm, radiant light, and the vast expanse of the world stretched out before them—rolling fields, winding rivers, and distant mountains, all rendered insignificant beneath the dragon's shadow.

Maekar sent a silent command to Neferion, directing him north. The dragon roared in acknowledgment, the sound carrying over the wind. His wings shifted, angling their flight, and with a powerful beat, Neferion surged forward toward King's Landing.

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The sound of Neferion's wings was like a tempest as the great dragon descended into the wide clearing of the Kingswood, just outside the city walls. The black scales of the dragon shimmered faintly in the dim, cloudy afternoon light, each one catching the scant sunlight and reflecting it like polished obsidian.

Maekar dismounted with practiced ease, climbing down from Neferion's flank. As if sensing his rider's thoughts, the dragon let out a thunderous roar—a sound that echoed across the woods and carried a warning to any who might doubt the authority of the Targaryen king. Satisfied, the great beast folded its wings and settled into the clearing, its glowing green eyes watchful as it kept a silent vigil.

At the edge of the clearing stood a contingent of gold cloaks, city officials, and the remaining Kingsguard. Lyonel, now clad in the pristine armor of the Kingsguard, approached swiftly, leading a horse by the reins. The young knight's expression was resolute, and the admiration in his eyes was unmistakable.

"Your Grace," Lyonel said, offering a slight bow and holding the reins steady for Maekar.

Maekar mounted quickly, his movements fluid despite the weight of his armor. The others followed suit, their steeds forming an imposing procession behind the king. Behind them, Neferion let out another roar, lifting his head high as he surveyed the gathering. The dragon's presence was a constant reminder of Maekar's power, and even the bravest among the crowd flinched at its sound.

The company began their ride toward the city. The road to the gates of King's Landing was lined with common folk who had come to glimpse their king. Peasants, merchants, knights, and artisans stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces a mixture of awe and joy. As Maekar's procession approached, the crowd erupted into cheers, their voices rising in a joyful cacophony.

"Long live the true king!"

 "Good King Maekar!"

 "Dragon King!"

Maekar's face remained composed, his eyes scanning the crowd with steady calm. He gave a subtle nod in acknowledgment. Despite his outward stoicism, a surge of satisfaction welled within him. The city was his, the realm was his, and the Iron Throne awaited his return. He had claimed victory in blood and fire, and now he returned as the undisputed ruler of Westeros. The cheers followed him through the gates, where the city watch saluted him fervently.

Riding beside him were Lyonel, Jaime Lannister, and Oswell Whent. Jaime's usual confidence seemed muted, his expression shadowed by something resembling sorrow. Maekar noticed and turned to him.

"What troubles you, Ser Jaime?" Maekar asked, his tone firm but curious.

Jaime hesitated before answering, his golden hair catching the afternoon light. "Gerold Hightower has passed, Your Grace. The White Bull is no more."

Maekar inclined his head solemnly. "A great loss. He shall be given proper rites, fitting of his station." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan's bones have already been returned to their respective houses."

Both Jaime and Oswell nodded, their faces touched with gratitude. "Thank you, my king," Oswell said quietly.

The main road leading to the Red Keep was packed with throngs of people. The cheering grew louder, an unbroken wave of sound echoing off the stone walls. Banners bearing the red-and-black sigil of House Targaryen draped from windows and hung along the thoroughfare, their colors vibrant against the gray stone. Flower petals rained down from balconies—a riot of red, yellow, and white.

Children darted between the legs of the crowd, waving makeshift banners, while older folk bowed deeply as the procession passed. The city had welcomed him back with open arms, their devotion filling the air. This outpouring of love was a victory unto itself.

The imposing gates of the Red Keep groaned open, revealing a grand courtyard bustling with lords and retainers. Courtiers, both old and new, regarded him expectantly. A new race to favor had begun with his coronation.

At the head of the receiving party stood Rhaenys and Daenerys Targaryen. Rhaenys, poised and regal, wore a gown of deep crimson embroidered with gold thread, her dark hair intricately braided in a Dornish style. She stood at the forefront, exuding queenly authority, her expression warm but composed. Beside her, Daenerys—dressed in a gown Maekar recognized as one he had gifted her on Dragonstone—stood slightly apart, her silver-gold hair gleaming in the faint sunlight. Her face held a mixture of restrained excitement and lingering anger, though when her violet eyes met Maekar's, a flicker of joy softened her features before she masked it again with cool composure.

Viserys stood to Daenerys's right, his wife Allyria beside him. Allyria's pregnancy was unmistakable, her hands resting protectively over her belly. Viserys's expression combined reluctant duty and unease, though he maintained a dignified stance.

As Maekar dismounted from his horse, the lords and retainers in the courtyard fell to their knees—all except for Rhaenys, Daenerys, and Viserys, who remained standing. Maekar surveyed them before addressing the kneeling crowd.

"Rise," he commanded, his voice steady yet resonant.

The gathered nobles stood.

"My king," Rhaenys greeted him, her tone steady but warm.

"Rhaenys," he said, his voice touched with affection, before his gaze shifted to Daenerys. "Daenerys," he added, more gently still.

Daenerys hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward, her lips curving into a brief smile. "You've taken your time," she said teasingly, though a hint of reproach lingered beneath her words.

"Important work had to be done," Maekar replied evenly.

Rhaenys's voice broke the moment. "Let us not linger in the courtyard," she said, gesturing toward Maegor's Holdfast.

Viserys, visibly impatient, added, "Yes, we've been standing here long enough."

The group began their walk toward Maegor's Holdfast, the Kingsguard flanking them. As they moved, Maekar addressed Viserys.

"Uncle, you are now the Hand of the King."

Viserys's eyes widened. "What?" he asked, his voice edged with disbelief.

"I know you don't like it," Maekar said calmly, "but it's temporary."

Viserys sighed, shaking his head. "Fine," he said reluctantly.

Allyria smirked. "You must be the most reluctant man to ever take the title, husband."

Rhaenys's lips curved into a sly smile. "Well, there were those who served Maegor," she said.

Daenerys frowned, her tone sharp. "Are you insinuating something, niece?"

Sensing the tension rising, Maekar intervened swiftly. "Uncle," he said to Viserys, "I need you to gather Lord Stark, Lord Arryn, Lord Velaryon, Kevan Lannister, and the new Grand Maester." He paused. "Has the maester arrived yet?"

Viserys nodded. "Yes, though he's… peculiar."

"This will be my first Small Council meeting," Maekar said.

He then turned to Ser Jaime. "You are the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime."

Jaime's brows lifted in surprise. "It's an honor, Your Grace."

Oswell Whent, standing nearby, looked pleased, giving Jaime a subtle nod of approval.

Maekar dismissed them all, allowing only Rhaenys and Daenerys to follow him into his chambers.

They entered a grand space adorned with rich tapestries and dark wooden furnishings. A faint scent of incense lingered in the air. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

Rhaenys glanced around critically before turning to Maekar. "Are you not going to use the king's chambers?" she asked, her tone laced with curiosity and subtle disapproval.

"Not yet," Maekar replied evenly, removing his gloves and setting them on the table. His mind flashed with images of the night he killed his father, and he decided to wait before moving in.

Before Rhaenys could respond, Daenerys stepped forward. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around Maekar and kissed him. The embrace was brief but filled with genuine warmth. Maekar leaned into it, relieved that her anger seemed to have passed.

Rhaenys, standing to the side, crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, we all missed him," she said pointedly, her voice cutting through the moment.

Daenerys turned and glared at Rhaenys. "I'm sure you did," she replied sharply, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Rhaenys's lips twitched into a sly smile as she folded her arms tighter. "Now, Maekar, you promised us you would tell us everything. No more secrets."

Daenerys turned back to Maekar, frowning slightly. "What is there to tell?" she asked softly, looking up at him.

"A lot of things," Rhaenys interjected.

Maekar sighed inwardly. "I will tell you," he said, his voice calm but tinged with weariness. He intended to tell them about the Others; it would be easier if they knew, though he planned to share nothing more than that.

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. "Well, we're waiting."

Maekar met her gaze evenly. "That is not a conversation for these walls," he said, his tone final. "Meet me in the gardens tonight."

"The gardens?" Rhaenys repeated, frowning in confusion.

"Yes," Maekar said, his voice softening slightly. "I have planted a weirwood tree there."

Daenerys's eyes lit up at the mention of the tree, recalling the day Maekar had planted it. "Near the heart tree," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.

Maekar nodded. "We will speak there. Tonight."

Rhaenys's expression shifted to one of reluctant agreement. "Very well," she said coolly. "We will meet you there."

"Thank you," Maekar replied, inclining his head slightly. Rhaenys turned on her heel and left the chamber.

Daenerys lingered a moment longer. "I have to host some ladies," she said to Maekar before following Rhaenys.

Rhaenys paused beside the table, glancing back at Maekar. "Arianne arrived two days ago," she said, her voice measured. Her hand rested on a large box that Maekar hadn't noticed before. "She asked that this be given to you."

Maekar's gaze shifted to the box, curiosity piqued. "What is it?" he asked, glancing between Rhaenys and Daenerys.

Daenerys smiled faintly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Open it and see," she said, before sweeping out of the room and leaving Maekar alone.

He approached the table, his fingers brushing against the box's smooth surface. With a flick of his wrist, he undid the latch and opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, lay a circlet of Valyrian steel etched with intricate designs and studded with rubies that gleamed like drops of blood.

Maekar smiled. It seemed that all that had once been lost to his family was now returned.

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Maekar walked into the throne room, where a table had been set in the center in the shadow of the Iron Throne. It was his first Small Council meeting as king.

He took a moment to survey his Small Council members. Both his uncles were present: Viserys, newly appointed Hand of the King, and Brandon Stark, who had been invited both as family and as one of the three great lords who had supported his claim. Jon Arryn, steadfast and experienced, remained as Master of Laws, his demeanor calm and collected as always. Kevan Lannister, steady and reliable, retained his position as Master of Coin. Monford Velaryon now served as Master of Ships; the transition had been smooth, with Paxter Redwyne graciously stepping aside after Maekar assured him of the rewards House Redwyne would receive for switching sides.

Then there was Grand Maester Marwyn. He stood out starkly from the others, his unkempt beard and piercing eyes setting him apart from the serene, scholarly image most associated with the Citadel. He had an air of defiance, but beneath that rough exterior lay an undeniable sharpness. Maekar knew Marwyn would be indispensable in the war he believed loomed on the horizon.

Still, one position remained conspicuously vacant. Maekar's thoughts drifted briefly to Basil, wondering if he should ask him to serve as Master of Whispers. For now, that seat remained empty.

He walked to his seat at the head of the table.

"Sit," he commanded as he lowered himself into the grand chair. Jaime Lannister, standing as the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, took his place to Maekar's right, while Lyonel and Oswell stood a respectful distance behind.

"Welcome," Maekar began, his voice warm and carrying a touch of levity. "To the first of many Small Council meetings of my reign."

A murmur of polite laughter rippled through the room.

"Today, I plan to finalize the reordering of the Seven Kingdoms," Maekar continued, his tone growing more serious. "I want it done quickly, decisively, and without unnecessary delay. We have the means, and I will use them."

His gaze fell on Viserys, who inclined his head slightly. "Prince Viserys has agreed to serve as my Hand of the King—for now," Maekar announced.

Jon Arryn furrowed his brows. "For now?" he asked.

Viserys leaned forward, his tone measured but firm. "Yes, for now. I have no desire to make this a permanent arrangement."

"Grand Maester Marwyn," Maekar said, shifting his tone as he locked eyes with the unusual figure in the room, "your appointment must have come as a shock to many in the Citadel."

Marwyn laughed, a deep, throaty sound that echoed through the chamber. "I thank you, Your Grace. To see those idiots' faces when they announced it at the Citadel…" He chuckled again, shaking his head. "Worth every cursed moment of their disdain."

Maekar's lips curled faintly. "Your knowledge and unorthodox methods are precisely why I've called you to court, Marwyn. I believe you will prove invaluable in the days to come."

Marwyn's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Not something I expected to hear from a king. Most would prefer to ignore knowledge that cuts too deep."

Ignoring the jab, Maekar turned his attention elsewhere. "Lord Velaryon," he addressed Monford next, "your house has served as Master of Ships for centuries. I trust you will continue this exemplary tradition?"

Monford inclined his head respectfully. "I will, Your Grace. The Narrow Sea will bow to our power once more."

Maekar looked at Kevan Lannister. "Lord Kevan, you have been the best Master of Coin since Florence Fossoway once oversaw the Crown's finances," he paused, "how is Lord Tywin? Has there been any improvement?"

"Sadly, Your Grace, my brother remains in a deep sleep," Kevan answered.

Maekar nodded, feigning sadness. His gaze swept over the council before resting on the empty seat at the table. "The Master of Whispers remains unfilled," he said. "For now, I will oversee matters of intelligence myself. When I find someone both capable and trustworthy, they will take the position."

He leaned back in his chair, his expression hardening as he surveyed the gathered councilors. "I am aware that some here oppose the drastic changes I have made to the realm. Let me make this clear: I do not plan to change my mind. The Riverlands and the Stormlands will be annexed into the Crownlands, forming the new Kingdom of the Heartlands. King's Landing, Storm's End, Riverrun, and Highgarden will all be directly ruled by the Crown. This decision is final."

Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "Your Grace, with all respect, this reordering—this 'Heartlands'—is unprecedented. Lords whose families have ruled their lands for centuries are now stripped of their ancestral homes. This will breed resentment, if not outright rebellion."

Brandon Stark's icy tone followed. "You've taken Riverrun, the ancestral seat of House Tully, and Storm's End from House Baratheon. You've displaced houses like the Vances, Footlys, and Meadows. Even the North fears what this might mean for them. Will we too face this wrath if we displease you?"

Maekar's gaze sharpened, his calm demeanor hardening. "I anticipated resistance. I respect your concerns, but this is not a punishment. It is a necessity. The Heartlands will be the foundation of a united and stable realm. These changes are required to ensure the strength and survival of the Iron Throne."

Brandon's eyes narrowed. "And Riverrun? You've stripped the Tullys of their lands and sent Edmure to the Night's Watch. Who will hold it?"

Both the Starks and Arryns had a claim, as Brynden Tully had rejected it.

Maekar's lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cold. "Your youngest son," he said evenly. "When he comes of age, Riverrun will be his."

Brandon's brows furrowed, suspicion flickering in his gaze. "But you said Riverrun is part of these new royal Crownlands. How can he be a lord?"

Maekar's voice was calm but firm. "A new title will be created for those within the Crownlands," he revealed. "A Count. The castle will remain under the Crown's direct authority. The ruler of Riverrun will be beholden to the Iron Throne for only significant decisions. They will hold their position with the Crown's approval."

The room erupted into murmurs, the council's unease evident. Jon Arryn's expression darkened, and Brandon leaned back in his chair, his jaw tightening.

Kevan Lannister's voice cut through the tension. "This is a significant departure from tradition."

"Tradition has kept the realm fractured," Maekar retorted, his tone clipped. "The lords will adjust. They must."

Jon Arryn spoke again, his voice laced with disapproval. "This is unprecedented—stripping ancient houses of their autonomy and creating this…'count' title. This is too much."

Maekar's response was steely. "That is the point, my lord. The realm is changing. It must. The Heartlands will become the core of the realm. It is my decision, one I have made for the future of my family and the Crown."

"What will you give to those who stood by you and bled for you, Maekar?" Brandon asked, his tone steady but laced with reproach. "So far, we have not felt like victors. These changes you've made make us feel threatened, nephew—like pawns in a game where the rules shift without warning."

Maekar's tone softened slightly, though his resolve remained unyielding. "Do you think I would neglect those who stood with me? The North, the Vale, and the Westerlands have my utmost and eternal gratitude, and they will have more than that. You, my lords," he said, looking directly at Brandon, Jon Arryn, and Kevan Lannister, "will receive the highest of honors."

Viserys, sitting to Maekar's right, finally spoke up, his voice cautious. "What honors?"

The three lords exchanged glances. Even Jaime, standing silently near the edge of the room, seemed intrigued.

"I will name you, Lord Stark, Lord Arryn," Maekar said, pausing as his gaze landed on Kevan, "and Lady Lannister, who I'm sure will arrive shortly, as High Lords."

The room fell into stunned silence. Brandon, Jon, and Kevan stared at him, their previous fears and protests fading in the face of this unexpected honor.

"Similar to the Prince of Dorne," Maekar explained. "You will have more autonomy and less taxation…."

Brandon's face split into a grin. "High Lord Brandon Stark. It sounds grand."

Jon Arryn exhaled slowly. "This reward pleases me, Your Grace."

Kevan nodded, his expression thoughtful. "My niece will find this agreeable as well."

Maekar smiled inwardly. It had worked.

For a moment, silence reigned. Jon finally broke it, his tone cautious but conciliatory. "I can support your reforms, Your Grace. But you must tread carefully with the lords in the Riverlands and Stormlands."

Maekar nodded, his expression unreadable. "Your concerns are noted. But my decision stands."

They reluctantly acquiesced, their murmurs of dissent fading. Maekar allowed himself a triumphant smile. These new titles—High Lord, with promises of autonomy and reduced taxes—were concessions, certainly, but hollow ones. They were a temporary salve to soothe egos and quiet fears, a means to secure loyalty while he focused on the larger picture: the Heartlands.

The Heartlands was his grand design—a centralized domain so potent it would eclipse the rest of Westeros in influence and strength. While his uncle, Jon Arryn, and Cersei Lannister would savor their hollow titles, they failed to see the larger game at play. The Heartlands would grow into what its name suggested: the very heart of the continent. A kingdom within a kingdom, its power unassailable.

In time, the Heartlands would thrive as a hub of commerce, culture, and military might. By the time Maekar's grandchildren ascended the Iron Throne, the other regions—the North, the Vale, and the Westerlands—would have no choice but to follow. They would be bound not by treaties or alliances, but by dependency. Their autonomy would wither away, leaving little more than ceremonial titles.

For now, however, Maekar needed their cooperation, as the looming doom from beyond the Wall demanded his and everyone else's full attention.

The Small Council meeting dragged on into the night. Maekar listened, debated, and commanded as his reforms were examined and his plans for the Heartlands refined. Hours passed, and as the candles burned low, he sensed the weariness in his councilors. When he deemed the time right, Maekar dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

"Enough for tonight," he said. "We've accomplished much, but there is more to be done. Rest, my lords. We will convene again soon."

They rose, bowing as they filed out one by one. Maekar lingered, his gaze fixed on the map spread across the table—a map of a realm reshaped by his vision. He traced a finger along the Heartlands and smirked. Finally, Aegon's folly had been corrected.

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Maekar stood beside the weirwood tree he had planted months ago, its pale bark shimmering faintly under the silvery glow of the moonlight. The garden around him was silent, save for the soft rustle of leaves in the gentle night breeze. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers, and the stars above twinkled against the velvety black sky.

The tree had grown astonishingly fast, its crimson leaves almost glowing in the moonlight. He reached out and brushed his fingers against its smooth surface.

"It's growing fast," came Daenerys's voice, soft yet filled with wonder.

Maekar turned to see her approaching, her silver hair glinting like spun moonlight. She wore a simple gown, yet her presence radiated quiet majesty.

"Yes," Maekar replied, his voice low. "Too fast."

Another figure emerged from the shadows: Rhaenys, moving with regal poise. Her sharp eyes took in the tree, her expression a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

"Why here?" Rhaenys asked, her tone edged with doubt.

Maekar turned back to the weirwood. "Put your hands on the tree," he said simply.

"Why?" Rhaenys asked.

Daenerys glanced at Maekar. Without hesitation, she stepped forward and placed her hands on the smooth bark.

Maekar looked at Rhaenys. "You'll understand once you do."

Rhaenys sighed, clearly unconvinced. After a moment of hesitation, she stepped forward as well. Muttering about how strange all this was, she placed her hands on the tree.

Maekar took a deep breath and placed his own hands on the tree.

Daenerys and Rhaenys gasped, their knees buckling as they fell to the ground. Maekar soon followed, his mind plunging into a swirling vortex of light and shadow.

The garden was silent once more, save for the rustle of leaves and the three figures lying still beneath the weirwood.

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Map of Westeros after the Autumn War or The Second Dance of Dragons

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Read up to chapter 107 here :

p.a.t.r.eon.com/Illusiveone (check the chapter summary i have it there as well)

Read Extra NSFW Chapters and a Dance of Dragons Era Spin off of this story