The Throne Room of the Red Keep had never been so quiet. The flames in the braziers flickered low, their light casting long shadows across the cold stone. Even the Iron Throne seemed subdued, its jagged spires cloaked in the gloom of mourning.
At the foot of the throne, on a bier of blackened oak, lay the body of King Maekar I Targaryen, draped in his personal sigil: the three-headed red dragon of Targaryen, quartered.
He wore no crown. His face, stern even in death, bore the scars of battle. His hands, folded upon his chest with his infamous iron mace, were wrapped in black gloves. The Silent Sisters did well in reforming his broken body.
The lords and ladies of the realm came to pay their last respects. House Velaryon, House Baratheon, the Lords of the Crownlands, and even a raven from Casterly Rock had come bearing the Lannisters' regrets for not arriving in time.
Prince Aegon Targaryen, now heir to the Iron Throne, stood beside his father's bier clad in black and crimson, his eyes hollow from sleepless nights and the weight of war. At his side was Maester Aemon, his elder brother, robed in the grey of the Citadel but no less a son grieving a fallen father.
Together, they stepped forward to speak.
"My father was not a man of soft words," Aegon began, his voice calm though it wavered. "Nor was he a man who sought the comforts of courtly life. He was a man of stone and steel, a dragon forged in war. He loved fiercely, though he spoke little of it. And in the end, he gave his life defending the realm—as he swore he would."
Aemon's voice followed, clear despite his grief. "He was not without fault. But he was just. A warrior king, yes—but also a father, and a brother, and a son of Daeron The Good. He bore the weight of kingship as he bore his sword—honestly and with strength."
Their words echoed through the hall, stirring hearts and wetting eyes.
Among the mourners, Princess Daella wept openly, her veil soaked through. Beside her, Princess Rhae, always the more timid of the two sisters, clutched her sister's hand and trembled in silence.
Lord Brynden Rivers, tall and pale beneath his black cloak of the Night's Watch and the red eye of the Raven's Teeth, stood solemnly to one side of the dais. His hair, silver as ghostflame, was tied back from his face. He neither wept nor bowed his head. But in his unmoving gaze, there was a pain colder than ice.
Shiera Seastar stood beside him, her hand locked tightly in his. For once, her beauty was subdued—no gemstones, no silks, only a simple dark gown. Her painted nails trembled as she clutched him, but her face, like his, was still.
The eulogy ended, and with it the ceremony. One by one, the lords and ladies departed, leaving only silence and the scent of smoke and rosewater in the air.
At last, only three remained.
Prince Aegon, Maester Aemon, and Lord Brynden Rivers stood together before the fallen king.
For a time, none spoke.
Then Brynden broke the silence.
"He was the hardest man I ever knew," he said, his voice like gravel. "But I failed him. I should have seen it. I should have known."
"You could not have," Aemon replied gently. "We all thought we had the advantage."
"But the game was never meant to be played fairly," Aegon added bitterly. "Not when Bittersteel and his ilk are behind the board."
Brynden's crimson eye fixed on the covered corpse of Maekar Targaryen.
"I swore to your grandsire that I would keep his sons safe. I have broken that vow now. And Daeron's line suffers for it."
Aegon placed a hand on Brynden's shoulder.
"You have not broken anything, Lord Rivers. Not yet."
Brynden did not respond. He only looked down at the king, his brother's son, lying still beneath the dragon banner.
And in the stillness of that great hall, beneath the Iron Throne and the weight of seven kingdoms, three men stood in grief—and in the shadows behind them, the future waited.