Chapter 45: A United Front

King's Landing, 221 AC — The Small Council Chamber

The chamber was quiet that morning, the long table stripped of the clamor and bickering of lesser lords and sycophantic voices. Only two men remained seated across from one another—King Maekar I Targaryen, newly crowned, grim in his black and crimson doublet; and Lord Brynden Rivers, still the Hand of the King, his pallor pale as parchment and one red eye studying the king with sharp, unyielding focus.

For a time, neither spoke. Outside, the sun beat mercilessly on the stones of the Red Keep, the summer that had begun during Aerys's final year showing no signs of waning. The air hung heavy, thick with heat.

At last, Maekar broke the silence.

"Hard times ahead, Brynden. The fields bake, the harvests wither, and in the shadows of Tyrosh, the bastards of my kin still whisper treason. It would be enough to make even my father doubt the strength of the realm."

Brynden inclined his head slightly. "The realm endures, Your Grace. It always has. It always will."

Maekar gave a low chuckle, though there was little mirth in it. "Did you ever think we would come to this? You, still the Hand. And I, wearing a crown that was never meant for me. It should have been Baelor." His voice softened with rare sorrow. "And yet it was my mace that broke his helm. My hand that..."

He trailed off. The memory lingered, as it had for years—Baelor Breakspear, noble and beloved, laid low not by foes or fate, but by his own brother's hand, though not with intent.

"You've brooded over that for twenty years," said Brynden, folding his long fingers together. "And still, it changed nothing. Baelor is long gone. Rhaegel… was never meant to rule. And Aerys, for all his wisdom, spent more time with books than with men. The gods placed the crown on your head, Maekar. Perhaps they knew what they were doing."

Maekar grunted. "You've never been one for piety, Bloodraven."

"No," Brynden admitted. "But I do believe in purpose. You are a warrior king for a warrior's time. And I will stand with you, as I did with your father, and your brother. Let the past remain buried. We must face forward now."

There was silence again, but this time the weight of it was different—less heavy, more resolved. King Maekar nodded.

"Then let it be so. We put aside our past quarrels, and we act as one. The realm cannot afford division, not now. Not with the heat strangling our rivers and the Blackfyre bastards waiting across the sea."

Brynden inclined his head once more. "Then we are agreed."

King Maekar rose from his seat. "Agreed."

As the king left the chamber, Brynden Rivers remained behind, gazing down at the polished surface of the table. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stir with unseen things—plots, dangers, secrets yet to bloom.

But for now, the King and his Hand stood united.