Title: The Last Son

Title: The Last Son

Year and Month: 101 AC, 5th Moon

The silence that followed Baelon's death was a different kind of silence than the one that had followed Aemon's. Aemon's passing had been a tragedy; Baelon's was a cataclysm. Aemon was the heir, but Baelon had been the Hand, the shield, the active, vibrant force at the center of the court. With his death, coming on the heels of the Great Spring Sickness he had so heroically fought, the heart of the realm seemed to stop beating. The grief was sharp and immediate, but beneath it was a current of deep, unnerving dread.

The question of succession, which my 'Unwritten Treaty' had so elegantly solved, was now violently torn open once more. That treaty had been built on a foundation of living princes and their children. Now, one half of that foundation was gone. The carefully constructed bridge to the future had collapsed into the abyss.

In the Small Council chamber, the mood was one of restrained panic. Lord Corlys Velaryon, his ambition now untethered, argued passionately for the rights of his son, Laenor, through his wife Rhaenys, Aemon's daughter. He spoke of the agreement, the betrothal between Laena and Viserys, Baelon's now-fatherless son. "The principle stands!" he'd thundered. "The line of the eldest must be honored!" Others argued for Viserys, Baelon's eldest, citing the Andal precedent of male primogeniture. The very debate I had sought to prevent was now happening, a fire smoldering, threatening to reignite.

Through all this, my father remained secluded, a prisoner of his own grief. The realm was rudderless, adrift in a sea of sorrow and uncertainty. The lords of the great houses began to whisper, to posture, to align themselves with one claimant or the other. They believed the Old King was too broken to decide, that a Great Council was now inevitable.

They were wrong. They underestimated the last, flickering embers of the dragon inside the frail old man. And they had utterly failed to account for me.

I did not participate in the debates. I did not champion a claimant. I remained where I had always been: in the library, in the training yard, and at my father's side. I was a constant, quiet presence, the dutiful son. I managed the realm's affairs by proxy, issuing orders and directives through my father's seal, a process he was now too weary to even question. I ensured the city's recovery from the plague continued, that the grain shipments arrived, that the Gold Cloaks maintained order. I was running the company while the board of directors argued over who the next CEO should be.

The summons came two weeks after Baelon's funeral. My father requested my presence in the throne room. Not his solar. The throne room. He also summoned the entire Small Council. He had made a decision.

When I entered the cavernous hall, I saw the council already assembled. Lord Corlys stood with his arms crossed, his face a thunderous mask of defiance. Grand Maester Allar looked nervous. The other lords shifted uneasily. My father sat upon the Iron Throne. He looked ancient, a relic of a bygone age, the jagged black swords seeming to consume his frail form. But his eyes, when they found mine, were clear. The grief was still there, a deep, fathomless ocean of it, but beneath it was a flicker of hard, Valyrian resolve.

"My lords," he began, his voice thin but carrying in the tense silence. "You have debated the future of my throne. You have spoken of claimants, of precedents, of councils. You have forgotten one thing." He paused, his gaze sweeping over them. "You have forgotten that I am still King."

The rebuke, gentle as it was, landed with the force of a physical blow. The lords straightened, their expressions chastened.

"There is no need for a Great Council," my father continued. "The gods have made their will known. They have been cruel. They have taken my sons from me, one by one. But they have left me one. A last son."

Every eye in the room turned to me. I stood at the foot of the throne, my face a carefully constructed mask of solemn neutrality. I wore a simple black doublet, my Valyrian sword, Ledger, at my hip.

Lord Corlys stepped forward, unable to contain himself. "Your Grace," he began, his voice strained but respectful. "My son Laenor has the blood of your eldest son, Aemon. The Unwritten Treaty we all agreed upon…"

"The treaty you agreed upon was to prevent a quarrel between my living sons!" Jaehaerys's voice cracked like a whip, a sudden flash of the old dragon. "My sons are dead! The treaty died with them. There is no quarrel to prevent. There is only the law. And the law is clear. The son of the King comes before the grandson. It has always been so."

He was right. In their haste to champion their preferred candidates, they had overlooked the simplest, most absolute fact of the matter. While the King had a living son, that son's claim was paramount.

"Prince Aeryn Targaryen," my father called out, his voice regaining its strength. "Step forward."

I walked the length of the hall, my footsteps echoing in the silence. I ascended the steps of the dais and knelt before the Iron Throne, before my father.

This was the moment. The culmination of a nineteen-year-long business plan. The final, hostile takeover, achieved not with armies or subterfuge, but with patience, competence, and the brutal, remorseless march of time.

Jaehaerys rose shakily from the throne. A Kingsguard knight handed him the golden coronet of the Prince of Dragonstone, the same one Aemon and Baelon had worn. It felt heavy with the ghosts of my dead brothers.

"With this circlet," he proclaimed, his voice ringing with a final, desperate authority, "I name you Aeryn of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

He placed the coronet on my head. It was cool against my brow.

The hall was utterly silent. The lords were stunned into submission by the sheer, unshakeable logic of the King's decision. Lord Corlys looked as if he had been turned to stone, his ambitions turned to ash in a single sentence.

But my father was not finished. "The realm has lost its Hand. It has been without a true Hand since Septon Barth's passing. My son Baelon served valiantly, but his heart was a warrior's. The burdens of state are great, and my shoulders are old. The heir to the throne must learn the business of governance firsthand."

He looked down at me, his eyes locking with mine. "I name you, Prince Aeryn, Hand of the King."

This second pronouncement sent a fresh wave of shock through the council. To be named Prince of Dragonstone and Hand of the King simultaneously was an unprecedented consolidation of power in an heir. It was my father's final, absolute act of kingship. He was not merely naming me his successor; he was, in effect, beginning the transfer of power here and now. He was making me his regent in all but name.

"Your Grace," Grand Maester Allar stammered. "The prince is but nineteen…"

"The prince has saved this city from the plague with his wisdom," Jaehaerys countered, his voice firm. "He has reformed the realm's finances with his foresight. He has guided my counsel in secret for years. His mind is older and wiser than any man in this room. He has been the Hand in shadow for half a decade. I merely give him the title he has already earned."

The revelation that I had been the secret architect of his recent policies stunned the council into a deeper silence. They were finally seeing the truth that had been hidden in plain sight. They were not looking at a boy. They were looking at the true power behind the throne, a power that was now stepping into the light.

I rose to my feet, the circlet on my brow, and turned to face them. I was no longer the quiet scholar. I was the heir, the Hand, the future.

My eyes met those of Lord Corlys. I saw in them not just defeated ambition, but a dawning, fearful respect. I would have to manage him. My first act as Hand would be to reaffirm the betrothal between his daughter Laena and my nephew Viserys. It was no longer a union of competing claims, but a generous gift from the Crown to a loyal vassal, a way to bind the Velaryons to the new reality. It was a classic corporate maneuver: placate a powerful, defeated rival with a lucrative but non-threatening deal.

Later that day, in the privacy of the solar, my father and I sat alone. He was exhausted, drained by the effort of his final great act. He seemed smaller, as if the pronouncements had taken the last of his strength.

"It is done," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "The realm is yours, Aeryn. In truth, it has been for years."

"I will not fail you, Father," I said. It was the same vow Baelon had made, but we both knew the context was entirely different.

He looked at me, his old eyes filled with a universe of complex emotions. There was love, pride, and a deep, abiding weariness. But the overriding emotion was the one that had defined our relationship for years: fear. It was no longer the fear of what I was, but the fear of what I would do with the absolute power that was now mine. He had unleashed a force he knew he had never truly understood.

"Your mother…" he began, his voice cracking. "She said you were a fire that could burn the house down. Barth said you were an oracle. Baelon thought you were a genius. They were all right. And they were all wrong."

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Promise me one thing, Aeryn. Promise me you will be a good king."

It was the plea of a father, of the Conciliator, the man who had given his entire life to the peace and prosperity of the realm. He was asking me to protect his legacy.

I met his gaze without flinching. My mind, a cold ledger of assets and liabilities, calculated the utility of such a promise. A reputation for goodness was a powerful tool. It inspired loyalty, quieted dissent, and made the necessary acts of ruthlessness, when they came, all the more effective for their rarity.

"I promise," I said, my voice even and sincere.

It was, perhaps, the first and only lie I had ever told him. I had no intention of being a good king. Goodness was a liability. I intended to be an effective one. A profitable one. The Seven Kingdoms were now my company, and I, Prince Aeryn Targaryen, the Last Son, the Hand of the King, was finally, officially, the Chief Executive Officer. The long-term investment had matured. The waiting was over. The work could now truly begin.