King's Landing, 219 AC – Throne Room, Red Keep
The Iron Throne loomed above the hall like a jagged mountain of twisted steel, casting long shadows in the flickering torchlight. The scent of blood and smoke still lingered in the air from the battlefield beyond the walls. The last of the Golden Company captives had been processed. Only Aegor Rivers, Bittersteel, remained.
He stood bound in chains before the throne, still proud despite the bruises that colored his face and the torn state of his armor. Blood crusted his temple, his dark eyes full of quiet defiance. He stared not at the throne, but at Lord Brynden Rivers, standing with hands clasped behind his back, face cold and unreadable.
To Bittersteel's right stood Prince Maekar Targaryen, his arms crossed over his chest, the mace still strapped to his back. Beside him loomed his sons: Aerion, sullen and watchful, and Aegon, eyes averted, disturbed by the spectacle. Ser Duncan the Tall stood behind Aegon, silent as stone.
Atop the Iron Throne sat King Aerys I Targaryen, clad in flowing black robes with silver stitching, a dusty leather-bound tome resting open on one knee. He had not looked up from his reading since Bittersteel had been brought forth.
Lord Brynden broke the silence.
"My king," he began, his voice calm but edged with steel, "Aegor Rivers has risen against the Iron Throne not once, but thrice. He has crowned pretenders, spilled loyal blood, and sought to tear the realm in two. For these crimes, there is but one sentence: death."
Prince Maekar gave a firm nod. "Agreed. If the realm is to know peace, it must know justice. The traitor must die."
Even Aerion added his voice. "Let him hang beside Haegon's rotting corpse. Or better yet—let me take his head myself."
Aegor laughed at that, lips bloodied. "Try it, princeling," he sneered. "And I'll give you a scar to match your pride."
But the King held up one pale hand, and the room quieted.
Aerys did not look up from his book.
"No," he said, almost softly. "There will be no execution."
The words fell like a hammer.
Maekar took a step forward. "Your Grace—"
"I have heard enough," Aerys said without raising his voice. He finally lifted his gaze from the page. "This realm bleeds from too many wounds already. Blood calls for blood, and still the rivers run red. I will not have another martyr for the Blackfyres to rally behind. Bittersteel will not die a hero."
Brynden's crimson eye narrowed. "Then what, Your Grace? Release him to plot again?"
"No." Aerys stood slowly, closing his book with a dusty thud. "He shall take the black. He shall serve out his days at the Wall, far from thrones and crowns. Let the snows of the North bury his fire."
Prince Aerion scoffed. "The Night's Watch? That's mercy."
Aerys gave him a thin smile. "It is exile in black, not mercy. Should he flee his vows, he will be hunted and killed as a deserter. I trust Lord Brynden will see to it."
Brynden said nothing.
"I have spoken," Aerys said. "This matter is ended."
He descended the Iron Throne slowly, book in hand, and passed between his gathered kin and counselors. His footfalls echoed in the vast hall as he departed, the doors closing behind him with a heavy groan.
In the silence that followed, Bittersteel smirked.
"Seems your king has more sense than his Hand," he muttered to Brynden.
Brynden did not respond. He only stared after the king, jaw tight, hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister.
Prince Maekar turned on his heel and walked away wordlessly.
Aerion lingered, exchanging a long look with Brynden, frustration and contempt mirrored in both their faces.
And so it was done.