Chapter Text
It was, the maesters would later write, all done in absentia.
It had been a great tragedy, of course, the King’s death in that terrible shipwreck during his visit to his family’s seat. King Robert died like his parents had; and the queen and their children, and the king’s brothers as well, leaving the Seven Kingdoms in an uprising.
Lord Arryn, the King’s Hand, did his best to maintain the order. The new lord of the Stormlands, some distant cousin, was already starting to think he would make a fine king, and every lord of the realm was assembling armies and scouting the Seven Kingdoms for one of Robert’s bastards to put on the throne.
So he called a council.
It was a very long, very complicated affair. The Great Lords were on it, of course, and King Robert’s council, His Holiness and three of the archmaesters of the Citadel.
In the end, it was decided that Robert’s claim had come from his grandmother, the Princess Rhaella, and that the Throne should pass to the next House with the closest blood relation to the Targaryens.
The Martells.
“This is madness,” Lord Mace spluttered, once they were alone. “How can they –”
“They have the better claim,” Jon told him, quietly. “The Council has decided.”
He was quite relieved, truth be told. Doran Martell was a sensible man by all accounts, and a good ruler. Just what the kingdom needs, he thought.
But Prince Doran declined.
Gently, of course, and as politely as one could be while refusing a crown. But his eyes were firm when he said that he had no wish to become king and no desire at all to leave Dorne for a title he couldn’t pass on to a daughter. He would be returning to Sunspear as soon as it was all settled, he said; before lightly bringing up the subject of his younger brother, who certainly had no problems with being away from Dorne.
“In fact,” Prince Doran explained. “He is in Essos right now,”
The High Septon Paled.
So did Mace Tyrell.
Archmaester Marwyn smiled instead.
“A most gifted man,” he said. “He was my acolyte once, you know.”
Jon wondered if perhaps it wasn’t too late to propose to legitimize young Edric Storm instead; but there was no turning back now.
Jon had gone to retrieve Prince Oberyn, camped with the Second Sons outside of Lys, and inform him of the Council’s decision – together with Marwyn, a few more envoys, and a messenger from his brother, telling him that he really wasn’t allowed to refuse.
Not that he tried to.
As one of the envoys explained later, Prince Oberyn had only frowned at the news. Then he had smiled, wide enough to be downright frightening.
This, Jon thought, will not end well.