The courtyard of the Red Keep was filled with silence that morning, save for the clanking of chains and the low murmur of crows above. Prisoners stood in long, uneven lines—murderers and thieves, traitors and lowborn scoundrels, bound together by the same fate: the Wall. At the head of them stood Brynden Rivers.
Clad in black, though not yet a brother, the former Hand of the King was a gaunt shadow of the power he had once wielded. Beside him stood his sworn men—the remnants of the Raven's Teeth, black-cloaked archers who had once served as the eyes and fangs of his will. Though their numbers had dwindled, those few that remained had refused pardons, choosing to follow their lord even unto exile and death.
The gates of the keep groaned open, and all fell silent as King Aegon V Targaryen entered, golden circlet glinting upon his brow. Ser Duncan the Tall walked beside him, white cloak flowing behind him like a banner. Their presence parted the line of guards and prisoners like a blade.
Brynden stepped forward, unshackled, and gave the King a low nod—not quite a bow.
"Your Grace."
"Lord Rivers," Aegon replied, though the weight of the title sounded more as a courtesy than a truth now.
Brynden glanced at the rows of prisoners behind him. "I did not expect such company for the long road north."
Aegon's expression softened with a touch of grim satisfaction. "I've emptied the dungeons. Thieves, poachers, sellswords, and slayers. Some may yet make good men. Most will not. But they will all march with my brother to the Wall."
Brynden's brow arched. "Maester Aemon?"
Aegon nodded. "He leaves today. He would not be swayed. Not even by me."
A moment of silence passed between them, both haunted by a brother's stubbornness.
Then, Aegon reached to his side, and from the hands of Ser Duncan produced a long, narrow blade—a sword as dark as smoke, forged in Valyria and sharp as a whisper.
"Dark Sister," Aegon said.
Brynden's eye lingered on the sword, and he did not move to take it.
"You held it for decades," the King continued. "As Visenya did. As Prince Aemon the Dragonknight once did. The Conqueror's crown was lost in Dorne, and the Blackfyres stole the sword of kings. This is the last relic of our forebears still in our hands."
Brynden's voice was low. "And you would entrust it to an exile?"
"I would entrust it to the man who once held the realm together through three kings," Aegon said. "And perhaps... you'll need it. There are worse things in the north than traitors."
Brynden took the blade with quiet reverence. Dark Sister was light in his hand, a part of him as it had always been. He looked up at the boy who was now a king and nodded.
"I'll see it returned. One day."
"If you do," said Aegon with a faint smile, "you'll be very old indeed."
The two men looked at each other, understanding that this was their final meeting.
A horn sounded at the far gate.
The prisoners began to march.
As Brynden turned, he saw a lone figure waiting at the gate, wrapped in the grey robes of a maester, the chain of office heavy around his shoulders.
Aemon Targaryen.
He stood tall, though the lines of age and burden had begun to trace his face. When Brynden reached him, Aemon gave a small nod.
"I did not expect you to come," Brynden said.
"I didn't come for you," Aemon replied gently. "But I'm glad to see you nonetheless."
They fell into step beside each other, silent brothers in exile, bound not by blood but by choice.
The gates of the Red Keep swung open behind them.
Ahead stretched the long kingsroad north.
And beyond that, the Wall.