King's Landing, the Red Keep — 226 AC
The Small Council chamber was lit with dim orange torchlight, the air thick with the chill that had seeped into the stones since the long winter began. Outside, Westeros shivered beneath snow-laden skies, villages starved, and lords grew restless. Inside the walls of the Red Keep, the dragon kings of old had faced their own trials—but now a new king faced his.
King Maekar I Targaryen, tall and austere in his black and crimson robes, sat at the head of the table, a sword across his lap, its steel dulled with age but still sharp enough to split truth from vanity. His face was stony, lined with grim determination, and his crown—wrought in iron and red gold, with sharp points like thorns—sat heavy upon his brow.
Before him stood his four sons.
Crown Prince Daeron, eldest of the brood, looked as though he'd rather be in a tavern in Flea Bottom than a royal council. His sandy hair was disheveled, his eyes slightly red with wine, though his clothing was clean and well-tailored, perhaps a gesture of effort for his father's sake. He leaned lazily on one elbow, fingers tapping the oak of the table.
Beside him stood Prince Aerion, lean and hawk-faced, his violet eyes glinting with a cruel amusement, as though the suffering of the realm was a riddle only he was clever enough to solve. His golden hair was brushed immaculately, and he wore a cloak stitched with subtle flame patterns. He said nothing yet, merely watching.
Prince Aegon, the youngest and smallest of them all, kept his head down. The lad was no more than sixteen, with dark purple eyes full of thought, and ink-stained hands that betrayed how he spent his days. He stood near Maester Aemon, who towered over him despite their closeness in age. Aemon wore the grey robes and chain of his order, his calm, solemn gaze fixed on his father.
"You are my blood," King Maekar began, his voice rough like worn steel. "And you are men now. I will not have fools and flatterers alone guiding the realm through this winter."
He looked at each of them, pausing longer on Daeron.
"Tell me. What must be done?"
For a heartbeat, no one answered.
Then Daeron shrugged. "Perhaps we should throw a feast. Raise morale. Folk are easier in their suffering when they can pretend it isn't real."
Maekar's brows darkened. "A feast will not fill empty granaries."
"Then send ravens to the lords of the Reach and the Riverlands," Daeron added hastily. "Let them supply grain. Gold we have in the treasury, I'd wager."
"Gold buys nothing if the roads are frozen and bandits claim the king's taxes," Aemon said softly. "Better we open the royal stores, offer subsidies to the septons and maesters to organize distribution, and prepare new granaries for future seasons."
"That," Aerion interjected coldly, "will only make the smallfolk more dependent. The realm should be ruled with fire and blood, not alms and pity. Hunger culls the weak."
Aegon's voice, uncertain but clear, came next. "If the realm is hungry, they will look to the throne. If we offer food and work—repairs, building granaries, keeping roads—we might win their loyalty. If not…"
He trailed off.
"They will look elsewhere," Aemon finished for him.
Maekar leaned back in silence, his gaze unreadable. For a long while, he did not speak, letting their words sink in. Then he waved a hand, signaling their dismissal.
"You have spoken. That is enough."
The four princes bowed—some with grace, others with reluctance—and left the chamber in silence.
Yet they were not the only ones who had come.
Behind the stone walls, concealed behind a hidden passage he had long known, Lord Brynden Rivers had listened in silence. The one-eyed Hand of the King, still as a shadow in the dark, heard every word—and read far more from what was left unsaid. As Maekar sat alone now, brow furrowed and crown heavy, Brynden turned and departed, vanishing into the bowels of the Red Keep like a ghost.
He had no need to speak with the King tonight. The truth had revealed itself already.
The Blackfyres wait across the sea. And Maekar's sons may well undo him before the enemy ever returns.