Lyonel stepped into the Tower of the Hand for the first time, flanked by his own men-at-arms. Household guards placed there by the Prince, or maybe the last Hand, would be dismissed. Indeed, the changing of the guard was gratifying to watch. Soon the black-and-red was washed out with gold-and-black, the dragons that had once guarded Aenar Targaryen replaced by the stags who would right the realm he had let slide to the precipice of chaos.

There was already correspondence here, mailed to the Hand of the King. Letters from the Riverlands, the West. His work would start immediately.

Upstairs were many of Aenar Targaryen’s effects, left where the man himself had dropped them a moon ago before his fateful journey. The bedding he ordered disposed of, replaced with clean sheets and comforter. The desk emptied, the documents within inventoried, new parchment delivered. He wondered if Aenar had packed his seal-- interesting it would be to hold on to that.

Lastly, he lamented that Ser Alyn accompanied his son to Willow Wood. His most reliable runner was gone, replaced with the captain of his guard, Ser Guyard Errol. Ser Guyard was a stout man, as many Stormlanders were, with sandy brown hair cut close to the scalp and dark brown eyes.

“Ser Guyard,” Lyonel called, running a hand across the oaken desk. “Find the Small Council, summon them to the Tower of the Hand by evenfall tonight. Make it clear that this meeting is not optional to attend.”

Ser Guyard, standing by the door, advanced, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Aye, my lord. It’ll be done.”

“See to it personally,” Lord Baratheon replied. He stepped around the desk as the door closed, and broke the seal on the first message. It was time to begin.