"Who gave His Grace that wine?" Jon Flowers wheeled around at the king's grouped servants. Shock and disbelief painted their faces, some of his chambermaids held their hands over their mouths but the look in their eyes was all the same. Utter surprise. Jon growled and turned back around to look down at the king, he held a fist to the front of his helm. Ser Gyles Belgrave entered the room and put a firm hand on his shoulder, "Jon, come with me. We have to fetch His Grace from the cells." "His Grace?" "Aegon." Ser Jon closed his eyes and nodded solemnly. He dropped his arms to his side and turned about, marching purposefully beside Ser Gyles. They reached the cells in no time, Ser Gyles unlocked the door and torchlight flooded into the otherwise dank dark cell. Chained to a pillar was Aegon the younger. he jumped and his chains rattled, startled by the knights' barging in. "Wh- what do you want?" "Come with us, Your Grace," Ser Gyles crossed behind Aegon's pillar, unlocking his chains. They fell to the floor with a [i]rattle.[/i] Aegon smiled briefly and rubbed his wrists before the sound of boots marching and the clanking of armor echoed through the hallway. Ser Gyles drew his sword with a distinct [i]shashing[/i]. Ser Jon turned his head to look at Ser Gyles and furrowed his brow. The sound of blades being drawn - [i]shashingshingshing[/i] - radiated off the walls and Ser Jon followed suit. "There the traitors are!" A bold voice screamed out in the hall, turning the corner the Lord Commander and a helmet knight of the Kingsguard approached. The torchlight gleamed off their pristine white armor. Their blades shone as they charged the door of the cells. The Kingsguard's unblazoned shield was raised to chest-height. The Lord Commander gripped his greatsword with both hands its point led in-front of him. The knight charged at Ser Gyles, he swung his sword at him. Ser Gyles parried; the blade missed his head by mere inches. He lunged at the man, but his sword stuck shield. The man swung his shield arm and Ser Gyles reeled back. They both regained their stances. They circled around each other, neither man gave quarter. Ser Gyles leapt at him, bringing his sword to the man's shield-side. The man blocked. Ser Gyles rolled the attack off and crossed behind him and swung the sword at the man's head using the momentum of his lunge. The sword made contact with the man's helm - [i]clank[/i] - the man stumbled and Ser Gyles kicked him down. The man dropped his sword and fell face down. He rolled around, bringing up his shield in both hands just in time to deflect Ser Gyle's stab. He swung his shield arm and Ser Gyle's arm flung back. Ser Gyles stomped down the man's shield arm and plunged his sword under the man's helm and into his throat. The Lord Commander attacked Ser Jon, swinging his greatsword at him, once, twice, three times. Ser Jon tried to keep up with the blows, however each got closer and closer to making contact until one collided with his breastplate. Jon grunted and stumbled back. He gripped his sword tightly and returned with a series of blows. From the right, from the left, from the right, stab. The Lord Commander deflected Ser Jon's blows with powerful swings of his sword. Jon and the commander reached a standstill. The first knight fell to Ser Gyle. Ser Jon's eyes shot to the side as the the knight gargled in his own blood. The Lord Commander smirked and took his misdirection to begin his assault anew. The sword came down hard on Ser Jon's left arm. Ser Jon collapsed under the blades weight and fell on his back. The Lord Commander began his triumphant walk to finish him of when a blade punched through the back of his head. The Lord Commander collapsed beside Ser Jon. Ser Gyle put his boot on the Commander's head and pulled his sword out from the base of his skull and sheathed it. He held his hand out to Ser Jon and pulled him up to his feet. The two looked at each other and both breathed a sigh of relief. Ser Gyle put his hand on Ser Jon's shoulder. Ser Jon nodded and turned around with him, escorting the boy king out of the cells. ... “Long may he reign.” Ser Jon Flowers repeated the benediction with the gathered nobles, septons and septa and fellow knights of the Kingsguard. He folded his hands in his lap and faced out towards the gathered crowd of nobility. It was a relatively small crowd, given the exceptionally short notice between the death of their king and the coronation of the next. Not even time enough time to wash the previous king’s blood out of his once-white cloak. He could feel the ends of his mouth curling upwards as he glanced to his right at King Aegon out of the corner of his eye. It was a smile he quickly had to hide by redirecting his focus at the far wall. [i]A new king. Not a glutton. Not a drunk. Not a whoremonger. A right proper king. A man he could serve cheerfully and with honor.[/i] He dare not say the words aloud, [i]but whomever killed this boy’s uncle may well have done the realm a service.[/i] Though he couldn't quite shake the feeling. A sickening turning of his stomach. Guilt. The guilt of being Aegon's Kingsguard - the person's whose sole job is to protect the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. To have Aegon die [i]in his presence. The blood of his Lord Commander stained his white cloak.[/i] It was reaping havoc on Ser Jon. Ser Jon glanced towards Aegon again, but what caught his attention was not the boy, but rather a man far away from him. The faintest outline of a man peeking out from behind the pillar. A blur in Ser Jon’s peripheral vision, but a man no doubt. Who this man was, however, he could not tell. Ser Jon gulped silently and quickly averted his eyes towards the front of the hall. Remaining vigilant as the long procession of nobles began. ... [i]Knock, knock, knock.[/i] "It is time for your watch, ser.” With that a young boy, no more than fourteen let himself into the chambers. He crossed the room and threw open the shutters. Outside the window, a magnificent view of the grounds of the Red Keep. Eight full hours had passed since Aegon’s assassination and his nephew’s subsequent coronation and Jon Flowers slept through none of it. The horrors of the last king’s demise still fresh on his mind, Jon rose from his bed silently, threw open his wardrobe, donned well-fitting clothing and marched quickly to the armory in the undercroft. His squire followed suit. “Are you all right, ser?” Jon held his hand up to the boy as they walked, signaling him to be quiet. The squire frowned and looked at the ground, opened his mouth and shut it again. He gulped silently. The two entered the undercroft in silence. The boy squire handled Jon’s smooth white lacquered armor and fitted it to the man himself. Cuirass and faults, cuisse and greaves, vambrace and cauldron, a fresh white cloak and finally the intimidating great helm of the Kingsguard. Jon’s squire wrapped a sword-belt around his waist and Jon fasted it in the front. Immediately afterwards he turned around and saw himself in a full-body mirror. He watched himself in the mirror and pulled each arm in front of himself to check his armor. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” And with that, Jon left his squire to guard his new king. [i]At least this one won’t need to be toted around.[/i] ... Maester Ryam’s chain-links slapped together as he walked leisurely through the halls of Highgarden Castle. [i]Clink, clink, clink, clink.[/i] He yawned and pressed his hands into his lower back. He leaned backwards; his spine creaked. [i]Crack, crack, pop.[/i] He groaned and stood back up straight. He held his arm out and twisted at the waist. [i]Crack, pop, crack.[/i] And the other way. [i]Pop, crack, crack.[/i] He sighed deeply and dug his thumbs into his neck. “I’m getting too old for these halls,” he muttered under his breath. Not that it mattered, the hall was desolate save for the lone middle-aged maester. Sunlight filtered in through narrow arrow slits in the castle's wall and shone against its polished white marble floors. The maester’s footsteps muffled by a long emerald green rug, bordered with gold, with the rose of Tyrell embroidered in the center. At the rugs end the maester was fronted by a spiraling staircase of marble slabs. The maester lifted the edges of his robes by the skirt and began his long ascent. His boots clacked against the bare marble. [i]Clap, clap, clap.[/i] One step, two step, three step, four. Et cetera, ad nauseam. His breaths drew shorter and shorter, his heart beat quicker and quicker, his calves burned, bile rose in the back of his throat and a constant pressure developed in his chest. Then, he was at the top. He threw open the door to the rookery, hobbled inside, and collapsed into a small wooden chair. He put his arms on his knees and breathed heavily through his mouth, “Definitely… too old… woo…" After several minutes he sat up in the chair and leaned his head against the marble walls of the rookery. He turned his head to the side to look at the huge ornate iron cage that housed the ravens. Each of the birds had their own cage and they were all labelled with intricately carved brass labels: HIGHTOWER, THE ARBOR, KING’S LANDING. He turned his head back around, there was a large open window on the opposite wall where the ravens would come and go. A wooden roost extended out from the windowsill. On the roost perched a pitch black raven, the bird stared down Maester Ryam with its beady black eyes. Tied to its leg, a rolled-up strip of parchment. The aging maester pulled himself to his feet with a huff and waddled over to the windowsill, he reached out with both hands and picked the raven up. He held the bird’s wings down while he untied the note from its leg then he tossed the bird out the window. The raven caught itself and flew back to its perch on instinct. Ryam unfurled the parchment and muttered under his breath, “…titles, titles… long may he reign… we expect a delegation…" The maester could feel his mouth tensing up. A lump rose in his throat; he swallowed hard. … “Dead?” Lady Leonette’s voice rung out through the great hall in with a tone that teetered between disbelief and surprise. She leaned back in her throne and let her eyes wander over the hall. Tall white pillars, marbled with shades of grey and black, flanked a massive rug that stretched across the breadth of the floor. Green and gold-bordered with a massive rose of Tyrell embroidered in the center. In the far back two knights in silvery polished steel armor stood with pikes in hand on either side of a massive oaken door. On the close end, the rug emptied out onto a stack of marble slaps three high, each continuously smaller than the last and she sat atop of the pile. “And our new king is…” Leonette began, inquisitively. “Rhaenyra’s firstborn. Aegon the younger,” Maester Ryam finished. Leonette nodded slowly, her hands tensed around the round ends of her throne and she stared down the tall oak doors at the end of the hall. [i]Both claimants are dead, then what of the war? Does it just stop like that?[/i] Maester Ryam cleared his throat and Leonette’s eyes darted directly at him. “The small council requests that we send a delegate to swear our fealty to our new king.” “Let us not keep our new King waiting then. Send for Desmera, instruct her to gather whatever she needs. We ride for King's Landing tommorrow.” "Yes, my lady."