The air at Summerhall was clean and dry, touched with the faint scent of pine and the ever-burning sun. A wind whispered through the open arches of the high stone balcony where Prince Maekar Targaryen stood alone, arms folded behind his back. His violet eyes watched the hills in the distance, but they saw further than that—backward, into memory.
He did not turn as Lord Brynden Rivers approached, his black cloak shifting behind him like a shadow unmoored.
"You came," Maekar said without ceremony.
"You were expecting me," Brynden replied.
Maekar grunted, neither a welcome nor a dismissal.
They stood in silence for a long moment. Then, with slow steps, Brynden moved beside him, standing just short of shoulder to shoulder. He said, "It has been some years since you left court, my prince."
"I do not miss it."
"No. I imagine you wouldn't."
Again, silence. The warm breeze stirred Brynden's pale white hair, and the empty socket of his left eye was turned toward Maekar now, uncovered. It made Maekar's jaw tense, though he gave no sign.
"I came not for courtesies," Brynden said finally, "but for the realm. For the promise made to our brother, King Daeron. You were his strength, and I his eye. He hoped we might guard the realm together—hammer and shadow."
"I am not deaf, Bloodraven," Maekar said. "I recall his words."
"Then let us set aside what lies between us. Let us do our duty, as he wished."
Maekar's face was unreadable. His square-cut silver beard barely moved as he said, "Some divides are not so easily crossed. Some things once broken stay broken."
"You mean your pride."
"I mean trust," Maekar snapped.
Brynden's lone red eye narrowed. "You thought the crown would name you Hand."
Maekar scoffed. "Does it matter now? You were his choice. The king's last breath carried your name. That is truth. That is history."
Brynden offered no reply. The weight of Maekar's words settled between them like an iron anvil.
"I find peace here," Maekar said at length, softer now. "Court is full of whispers and games. Summerhall has none of that."
"You do not rule from peace. You rule from presence."
"I am no ruler," Maekar said, looking out over the hills. "I am a sword. The kingdom does not lack for swords. And you have enough knives in the dark."
Brynden studied him a moment, then changed the subject.
"I hear your youngest son rides with a hedge knight."
"Ser Duncan the Tall," Maekar said with a nod. "A man of honor, by all reports."
"And Aegon? Still calling himself 'Egg'?"
Maekar allowed himself a faint smirk. "Let him taste the real world. A crown is heavier than most think. If he ever wears one, I would have him ready for its weight."
Brynden tilted his head. "And Aerion? Do you truly believe exile will change him?"
Maekar's face hardened. "He will either break, or he will be reforged. I cast him into the fire to see which."
Brynden looked at him a moment longer. "You speak like a smith."
"I am a warrior. It is not far off."
Another silence. Then Maekar turned to go.
"You'll have my eldest, Prince Daeron, for company," he said without looking back. "He drinks too much and reads too little, but he's a better host than I'll ever be."
Brynden inclined his head. "And where will you be?"
Maekar paused at the archway. "Where I always am. Doing what must be done."
And then he was gone.
Brynden stood alone on the stone balcony, listening to the wind and the distant sounds of horses from the stables below. Summerhall was quiet, but it held its ghosts, just like every Targaryen hall. The blood of the dragon ran strong in Maekar, and stronger still in his children—for better or worse.