The stone halls of Maegor's Holdfast were quieter now, as if the Red Keep itself held its breath in the aftermath of war. Victory had been won, but not without scars.
Brynden Rivers stood before the great oaken doors of the King's study, his black cloak hanging heavy around him, the fresh leathers beneath still marked with dried blood and travel dust. His face bore a dark, swelling bruise along his jaw, remnants of Bittersteel's wrath, and his left eye—forever lost—was hidden beneath a black patch, the flesh around it still raw and healing.
He did not knock.
He did not need to.
The guards opened the door wordlessly. The King awaited him.
Inside, the chamber was dim. Heavy curtains muffled the light. Quills and maps lay untouched on the desk. King Daeron II Targaryen stood with his back turned to the door, staring out the narrow window slit toward the distant Blackwater Rush.
Brynden entered quietly and knelt, his voice even and composed. "Your Grace. You summoned me."
Daeron did not turn.
He said nothing for a long moment, only the sound of his breath, measured and taut, filled the silence. Then, with a voice cold as the bite of winter steel, he finally spoke:
"I told you to spare him."
Brynden rose, but did not approach. "You did."
Now the King turned.
Gone was the gentle warmth Daeron the Good had once been known for. In its place stood a man hard with sorrow, and worse—disappointment. There was no joy in the King's eyes, only a cold fury, as bitter as the winds on Dragonstone.
"Then why," Daeron asked, stepping forward, "did you give me his corpse?"
Brynden held his gaze, though it burned.
"And his sons?" the King added, his voice rising. "His boys, Brynden. Did they wear crowns on their heads? Were they seated on a throne? Or did you simply deem them guilty by blood?"
"They were warriors," Brynden replied evenly, though his jaw clenched. "They bore swords. They led men to slaughter mine. They would have killed you, Daeron. Killed your sons. Burned your realm for a throne."
Daeron's fist moved faster than thought.
It struck with the weight of fury long restrained.
Brynden staggered and fell to one knee, blood welling anew at the corner of his mouth. He did not rise.
"Still our kin!" Daeron shouted, his voice echoing through the stone. "You killed them. You defied your king. You dishonored your house. Did you forget the sin of kinslaying? Or do you believe yourself above even the gods?"
Brynden touched his split lip, then wiped the blood away slowly with the back of his glove. He looked up, his one red eye smoldering.
"I remember the sin," he said softly. "And I know the price. But I chose loyalty… to you, to the realm. Not to traitors, even if they shared my blood."
Daeron scoffed bitterly, stepping back from him. "Loyalty," he repeated, scornful. "You always say that word, Brynden, like it absolves you. You think men won't wonder if I had you loose those arrows? That I sent my bastard to do the killing while I wore the mask of peace? You've damned me in their eyes."
"They will not," Brynden replied. "Not while I breathe. I will take the blame. I will be your sword in the dark, your shadow. They'll never know you grieve for him still."
The King's lip curled in disdain. "Do you know what it is you've done? What we've lost?"
"I do," Brynden whispered. "And I ask no pardon. Only your judgment."
Daeron stared at him for a long while, the silence heavy with anger, with pain, with a lifetime of broken bonds.
Then he turned away.
"I've heard enough."
Brynden stood slowly, straightening despite the ache in his bones, and bowed low, his white hair falling like a curtain over his face.
"I await your punishment, Your Grace," he said quietly. "And I will bear it… whatever it may be."
He left without another word, the heavy doors closing behind him.
And Daeron the Good, once a prince of peace, once the smiling boy who had called Daemon brother and Brynden kin, stood alone in the dark, the ghosts of war crowding close around him.