The chamber was still. Only the occasional crackle of the hearthfire stirred the silence, casting long flickers of light across the vaulted stone walls. The heavy curtains had been drawn, and the sickly warmth of spring air mingled with the sour reek of deathwatch.
Prince Maekar Targaryen entered alone.
He looked more like a warlord than a prince. His thick, broad frame was sheathed in steel-stitched black and crimson, though he had left his sword at the door. His long pale blond hair, tinged with silver and gold, swept past his shoulders, and the square-cut beard of matching color framed a strong chin and grim mouth. Pox scars marred the high bones of his cheeks, but his violet eyes—piercing, cold, and sharp—carried the nobility of Old Valyria still.
He knelt at the bedside of the dying king.
"Father."
Daeron II Targaryen, once Daeron the Good, was barely more than a husk. His lips were blue, his skin translucent and clammy, and yet, when he looked upon Maekar, his eyes sparked with clarity.
"Maekar," he murmured. "Last of my sons."
Maekar bowed his head. "I came as you summoned, Your Grace."
The King chuckled weakly. "Still so formal. Even now." A pause. "Tell me, do you carry the weight of it? Your brother's death?"
A long silence followed. Maekar's face twitched, the corner of his scarred jaw tightening.
"Yes," he finally said. "Every day. The mace was meant for Aerion. I was too slow. Too blind in my rage. And now the Crown Prince is dead."
"And nothing will bring him back," Daeron whispered, smiling faintly. "It was not your fault, Maekar. You were always the anvil… Baelor the hammer. When one breaks, the forge must rely on what remains."
Maekar looked up at his father. "Then what is to be forged now?"
The King did not answer at once. Instead, he studied his son as if committing him to memory.
"Aerys will wear the crown. He is no warrior. No knight. He will need you at his side."
Maekar nodded once. "I will not fail him."
"You will need strength… and restraint. Both." The King coughed, deep and ragged. "You must not quarrel with Brynden."
Maekar's eyes narrowed slightly. "Brynden Rivers?"
"He will serve as Hand. I have charged him with guarding the realm. You are its bulwark. He, its eyes. Two sides of the same sword."
Maekar's expression was unreadable. "I will honor your will."
"Good." The King's voice grew faint, a breath more than a whisper. "But beware him. Even the most loyal sword may one day seek to rule the hand that wields it. Brynden has ambition… and secrets. He sees more than most, but says little of what he sees."
Maekar inclined his head. "I will watch him."
King Daeron gave a weary sigh, satisfied. "Then go, my son. Let an old man rest…"
Maekar hesitated for only a heartbeat, then rose to his feet, bowed low, and turned away.
The door shut softly behind him.
Within the chamber, the King of the Seven Kingdoms drifted into sleep, a deep and final one. He would not wake again.
King Daeron II Targaryen passed from the world not long after, in the Year 209 After the Conquest. He had ruled for five-and-twenty years, and through wisdom, marriages, and mercy, he had reunited a realm broken by his father's lust and folly. His peace endured through rebellion and sickness. He was mourned by many across the Seven Kingdoms, and remembered fondly by those who loved order, wisdom, and unity. Yet others cursed his name in quiet, for the dragon he tamed was one of fire and shadow—and the embers still smoldered.