Chapter 57: The Brightflame, Extinguished

The Red Keep, 232 AC

The corridor was quiet at this hour, only the distant whisper of wind echoing through the stone. A shaft of pale morning light filtered through the tall windows, painting the hall in silver and shadow. King Maekar I Targaryen stood alone beneath one of the narrow windows, his back straight, his hands clenched behind him. His brooding form was still clad in black and crimson, but there was more grey in his hair than ever before, and something heavy settled behind his violet eyes.

Brynden Rivers found him there.

He approached without a word, his pale face unreadable beneath his silver hair and wine-red eye. The other—patched in black—had not changed in decades, yet there was something more hollow in his expression now. He came to stand beside the King, gazing out at the rooftops of the Red Keep, the mists curling over the city below.

"It was wildfire," Maekar said without turning his head, his voice low and hoarse. "He drank it near a candle. He'd done it before, you know. Said it made the dragon inside him burn brighter. But this time… this time the gods answered."

Brynden said nothing, letting the silence linger like mourning silk.

"Aerion was a madman," Maekar continued. "A madman who thought himself a dragon. Now he's ash. Burnt and broken. And his son is a babe, barely old enough to crawl. That leaves Aegon. Just Aegon."

He turned to look at Brynden fully now. "The realm trembles, Bloodraven. My sons die one by one. Daeron by folly, Aerion by madness. Aemon cloaked himself in chains. What happens if Aegon—?"

His voice caught, though he was not a man prone to faltering.

Brynden finally spoke, his tone steady. "Then we shall do as Jaehaerys did, when his sons predeceased him. As the realm did, when Rhaenyra and Aegon the Elder perished in their folly. There is always another Targaryen. There must be. Fire cannot die."

Maekar grunted, unconvinced. "Jaehaerys had time. Advisors. A realm at peace. We have enemies at our door and fire in our halls. Do you think the people will follow a barefoot prince who once squired for hedge knights?"

Brynden's single red eye fixed on the King, unflinching. "If he proves himself worthy, they will. Or we'll make sure they do."

Their conversation was broken by the hurried echo of footsteps. A young royal courier, pale-faced and panting, ran through the corridor and dropped to one knee before the King.

"Your Grace—Lord Hand," he gasped. "A raven has come from the Reach. Starpike has risen in rebellion. Lord Peake has seized control of lesser marcher houses. He flies no banner but his own."

A heavy pause fell over the corridor.

Maekar's eyes hardened, as if the grief that hung upon him like chains was burned away in a flash of anger. "So it begins," he muttered. "I should have listened to your warnings about the Peakes, Brynden."

Brynden simply nodded, his jaw tight. "We must hold council. This rebellion must be crushed before it finds wings."

Without another word, the King turned, his boots striking the stone with renewed purpose. Brynden followed close behind, his cloak billowing like shadow. Together, they descended toward the Tower of the Hand, where war would be planned once more.