The last of the lords had departed.
The throne room now stood silent, the Iron Throne looming in cold stillness behind them, casting long, jagged shadows across the stone floor. Outside, the city of King's Landing murmured and buzzed with the news that the realm had chosen a king — Aegon the Unlikely, as some would soon begin to whisper.
In a small solar above the Tower of the Hand, Brynden Rivers poured two cups of arbor red. He offered one to the man across from him — cloaked in the gray of the Citadel, but bearing the blood of dragons all the same.
"Aemon," Brynden said, settling beside the hearth. "You could have sat that throne today."
Maester Aemon's eyes crinkled with amusement, the smile touching his lips but not quite warming them. "You're not the first to say that."
Brynden raised an eyebrow, his pale eye catching the flicker of firelight. "No doubt half a dozen lords came knocking on your door the moment Maekar drew his last breath."
Aemon sipped his wine, thoughtful. "More than half a dozen. Hightower, Tarly, even Lord Caron of Nightsong sent word, though he knew me not."
"And still you said no," Brynden said quietly, not quite a question.
"I am a maester," Aemon replied. "I took a vow. Chains and all." He held up his hand and let the light glint off the links. "What would it mean, if a man could discard his vows the moment a crown was offered? Would a knight of the Kingsguard take a wife if he found love? A man of the Night's Watch ride home if war broke out?"
Brynden snorted. "I've known men to do all that and worse."
"Yes," Aemon said softly. "And they all paid the price, in coin or blood. A vow must be worth more than gold — otherwise what power does it hold?"
Brynden swirled his wine, considering. "So you left the realm to choose between a girl who plays with dolls, a babe who still feeds at the teat, and a bookish fourth son married to a Blackwood."
"And they chose rightly," Aemon said at once. "Aegon is the best of us."
Brynden raised a silver brow. "Even better than the golden prince Daeron? The Brightflame? The crown prince who loved books more than blades?"
Aemon chuckled dryly. "Daeron's peace was fragile, and Aerion's fire burned too hot. You knew them as I did. Neither would have lasted long upon the Iron Throne."
"And you?" Brynden asked, voice low. "Would you?"
A moment of silence passed.
"I would have tried," Aemon said at last. "But trying isn't ruling. And I have no wish to be another Baelor, praying while my council tears the realm apart." His gaze drifted toward the window, where the faint outline of the Tower of the Hand loomed above the city. "Aegon… Aegon is a man grown now. A king. He has sons of his own. But the boy I once knew — who fed stray cats behind the rookery and cried when his sparrow died — some part of that boy still lives in him."
"Innocence is not armor," Brynden murmured.
"No," Aemon agreed, "but it is a shield all the same — if he can keep it."
They sat together in silence for a time, watching the fire burn lower in the grate.
"Do you regret it?" Aemon asked suddenly. "Not reaching for it yourself? Not putting your name forward?"
Brynden didn't answer at once. He stared into the flames, his single red eye flickering like an ember.
"I swore my life to the realm," he said at last. "To keep it whole, to keep it safe. The Iron Throne… was never my destiny. But keeping it upright? That, perhaps, is my curse."
Aemon nodded solemnly. "And you bear it well. Better than most."
Brynden drained the last of his wine and stood. "Then may the gods help us both… and may they help him, most of all."
He walked to the window, gazing out into the dark. Somewhere below, King Aegon V Targaryen was being fitted for his crown.