The Godswood of the Red Keep – 228 AC
It was early evening in the godswood, and the sky above King's Landing burned with the soft light of a dying sun. The wind whispered through the pale limbs of the weirwood tree, its red leaves trembling in the hush. Beneath its ancient boughs sat King Maekar I Targaryen upon a stone bench, brooding in silence, his face as hard as chiseled granite.
His sons flanked him on either side—Maester Aemon on the left, wrapped in the robes and chains of the Citadel, and Prince Aegon on the right, a lean young man with violet eyes deep as dusk and a scowl that did not suit his still-youthful face. There were no guards. No courtiers. Just blood and bone beneath the eyes of the old gods.
They had come to grieve.
Prince Daeron, once heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, was three moons dead. The pox had taken him—scourged him with fever and sores until he shriveled to a husk and expired in a brothel bed in Dragonstone's shadow, clutching the hand of his maester brother who could do no more.
"Your brother died with wine on his breath and whores in his bed," Maekar muttered. "And they called him Prince."
Aemon looked down, hands folded. "I failed him, Father."
"You did not," the king said, though his voice carried little warmth. "The gods took him, not you."
Prince Aegon shifted where he sat, jaw tight, staring at the weirwood's face as though it might offer clarity. "He lied to you at Ashford. Remember? Said he'd been chasing after Ser Duncan and me across the Reach when in truth he was drinking with the Fossoways. He blamed us to avoid your wrath."
Maekar snorted. "I knew it was a lie."
That drew a glance from both sons.
"I saw the truth in your eyes, Aegon, when you returned to me. Daeron... he never bore the burden of his name well. A crown would've crushed him as surely as a cask of Arbor gold."
The silence that followed hung heavy. A crow cawed somewhere high in the branches, and the sound echoed like a death knell.
"And Aerion," Maekar continued, voice lower. "My second son now. Gods spare us."
Aemon spoke softly. "His dreams grow darker. The madness in him... it festers. He speaks of fire as a lover speaks of his bride. He believes himself to be a dragon."
"Aye. And dragons burn," Maekar muttered. "He will bring ruin upon himself if not others."
He leaned forward then, eyes burning brighter beneath his thick brow. "You are all that's left to me now. You, Aemon, with your vows. And you, Egg... who would rather read books with Dunk than sit in court. But you are mine, and I would not trade either of you."
The king exhaled long through his nose, and the wind stirred again, lifting his silver-blond hair around his fur-lined cloak.
"Tell me now," he said, gaze fixed on the face carved into the weirwood. "What do you make of Brynden Rivers?"
Both sons turned to look at him.
Aegon blinked, his lips parting, then closing again. Aemon tilted his head and furrowed his brow. They looked at each other, unspoken thoughts dancing between them like flames in a brazier.
The silence said more than words ever could.