The throne room of the Red Keep had never known stillness. Its very stones seemed to echo with old wars, courtly intrigues, triumphs, and treasons. The high, narrow windows spilled pale light onto the black and red banners above, and the Iron Throne itself loomed tall, jagged, merciless—a throne of one thousand swords, twisted and cruel.
Yet on this day, the throne stood empty.
The king could no longer climb its steps.
Aegon IV Targaryen—once known as Aegon the Unworthy, though never to his face—was borne into the hall on a palanquin swathed in black silk and gold thread. It took twelve servants to carry him, their faces red with strain. The king's body had grown monstrous in his final years, his skin mottled and sagging, the folds of his face like melting wax. He reeked of sweet perfumes and decay. The air stank of rot and roses.
Daenerys stood to one side of the hall, draped in Targaryen crimson, her face composed. Daemon stood not far behind her, hands clasped at his back, unreadable. Queen Naerys had not come. Her health, or her faith, had spared her.
Before the Iron Throne stood Prince Daeron, composed in black and silver, with the crown prince's sash at his shoulder and his wife's sun-and-spear sigil pinned at his chest. Crown Princess Myriah stood behind him, with their sons close at hand—Baelor, Maekar, and little Aerys, all dressed in courtly finery, their eyes wide.
The king's voice rasped like parchment dragged over gravel.
"We speak of Essos today," Aegon began, wheezing. "The Free Cities grow bold and fat. Their riches spill like goldwine into the laps of lesser men. Westeros must reach eastward, as it was always meant to. The Dragon's will must be felt beyond the Narrow Sea."
A murmur passed through the gathered lords and knights. Lord Peake's eyes gleamed. Lord Tyrell stood stiff as a pike, uncertain. Even the ever-proud Redwyne twins shifted uneasily.
Prince Daeron bowed his head politely, then raised his voice. "My father speaks of strength—and yet, we do not command the peace of our own shores. Piracy grows in the Stepstones. The Stormlands still chafe from your levies. The Reach has seen two harvests fail."
"Let them eat each other," Aegon snapped. "The realm is mine. My will is law."
Daeron did not flinch. "And the Martells, father? Shall we risk Dorne again, with the Free Cities at our back?"
The king's face darkened, though it was hard to tell under the bloated folds. His eyes rolled toward his daughter.
"No man speaks more of Dorne than your brother," he sneered. "Perhaps you think your mother's blood makes you wiser than your king."
"I think prudence is not rebellion," Daeron said calmly. "And folly is not courage. Let us repair our realm before we claim another."
Aegon's hand jerked upward, fat fingers quivering. "You would deny your king his right to conquest?"
"I would remind my king that his own court grows restless," Daeron replied. "The people cry out for bread, not battles. And your ships rot in harbor, Your Grace. You would send wooden dragons across the sea again?"
That struck home. A hush fell.
Daenerys felt her stomach twist. She had seen that look before—the rage that bloomed and boiled behind her father's sunken eyes. But now it was shadowed with something else. Fear. The king was not what he had been, and he knew it. The throne loomed above him, untouched, unclaimed. The jagged blades behind Daeron's calm face cut deeper than any forged steel.
At last, Aegon slumped back against the cushions of his palanquin, sweat soaking the fur at his shoulders. His breath came in wheezes.
"The matter is adjourned," he muttered. "For now. We will speak again… when my strength returns."
It never would.
The lords bowed, though some reluctantly. Others, like Peake and Bracken, did not hide their scowls. Daeron inclined his head, then turned and walked away, his family in tow.
Daenerys remained a moment longer, eyes on her father—this grotesque shadow of a king, too bloated to wear his crown or sit the Throne forged by conquest. Her heart ached not with pity, but with something colder.
Daemon moved beside her. "He grows weaker by the day."
Daenerys did not answer.
And in her silence, she heard the shifting of swords—steel, not yet drawn, but soon.