King's Landing, 209 AC.
The corridors of Maegor's Holdfast were hushed with sickness and grief. Once filled with the clatter of courtiers, the ringing of steel, and the laughter of children, now they echoed only the coughs of the dying, and the quiet footsteps of maesters and silent sisters. The Great Spring Sickness had not spared the Red Keep. It crept through its halls like a pale, invisible specter, laying low servant and lord alike.
In the royal bedchamber, the scent of milk of the poppy and camphor clung to the thick, stale air.
King Daeron II Targaryen, once hailed as Daeron the Good, lay beneath layers of furs, shivering despite the heat. His long silver-gold hair was thin now, his once smooth cheeks sunken, his lips pale and cracked. The years had worn down the king who once mended a kingdom with quill and marriage bond, and the plague had done the rest.
At his side stood Lord Brynden Rivers, the one-eyed spymaster, his pale face shadowed beneath silver-white hair, and his left eye concealed by a black patch. No longer garbed for battle, he wore dark robes, lined with grey. Yet there remained something martial in his stance, something cold and steady that even sickness could not bend.
"You are the last of them now, Brynden," Daeron rasped, his voice little more than a breath. "Baelor… gone. Two of his sweet boys… gone. My crown… rests on the head of ghosts."
Brynden remained silent for a time. "Baelor was a prince of rare honor, Your Grace. His death was worthy of a song, though I'd trade a thousand songs to have him still."
"Aye," Daeron wheezed, coughing. "He died for honor. For a Hedge Knight. For a Dornish puppeteer. Strange justice, isn't it?"
Brynden inclined his head slightly. "Strange to some. Not to Baelor."
The King gave a faint smile, bitter and proud all at once. "He saw the same truth you always did. That strength must serve the weak, or it has no meaning. He died protecting a man falsely accused… defending an innocent girl from my own grandson's cruelty. Aerion's madness nearly undid us all… and Aegon…" The king trailed off with a rasping breath. "That boy ran off and joined the fool knight as a squire. I hear he wears boiled leather now and sleeps beneath trees."
"Aegon has a good heart," Brynden said quietly. "And a better head than most suspect."
"Still, a prince wandering with no bannermen, no ties… we live in strange times, brother."
There was a long pause before Daeron spoke again. "Tell me, Brynden… What future do you see for the realm? After I am gone?"
Brynden turned his good eye to the dying king. "I see peace, Your Grace. For a time. The Great Sickness will pass. The traitors are dead or exiled. Your rule, your legacy, it will hold. The realm is weary of war, and the Blackfyres have lost too much."
"And if they return?" Daeron's tone hardened despite the rasp. "Daemon's sons live. Aegor Rivers, your own blood, still plots in exile. The sword Blackfyre may rise again."
"Then I will rise again as well," Brynden said, his voice calm and cold. "I will don your banners, raise your armies, and hunt them to the ends of the earth if need be. While I draw breath, Your Grace, the dragon shall not fall."
The King let out a long sigh. He nodded, slowly, and for a moment, something of Daeron the Good returned to his face.
"I am glad you are still with me, Brynden. You always knew the cost of peace. You paid it in blood and exile, and worse. You have been many things… but above all, you have been loyal."
Brynden gave a curt nod, but said nothing.
Daeron reached for his hand with a trembling, liver-spotted one. "Swear to me, Brynden. Swear that you will guide Aerys. The boy is bookish, soft-spoken. He needs strength behind him. He needs someone who sees the shadows."
"I swear it," Brynden said. "I will serve Aerys, as I served you."
"Good," the King whispered. "Then let this be my last command: you shall be Hand of the King… until the realm no longer has need of your hand."
Brynden bowed his head. "As you will, Your Grace."
"Go now," Daeron murmured. "I must speak with Maekar."
Brynden stepped back in silence and turned to leave. At the door stood Ser Roland Crakehall, white cloak billowing like a shroud. The Lord Commander opened the door at the King's faint signal, and Brynden Rivers disappeared into the flickering corridor.
As the door closed behind him, a tall man in somber steel entered—Prince Maekar Targaryen, youngest son of Daeron, known for his pride and his iron will. He bowed deeply at the threshold of his father's deathbed.
And the chamber went still again, save for the rasping breath of a dying king and the flickering of shadows on stone.