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The great hall still hummed with uneasy whispers when Aeron finally spoke. His voice cut clean through.
"You have my respect as well, Prince of Dorne," he said, violet eyes locked upon Doran's. "It takes courage to come to this place knowing what lurked here."
Then, almost uncharacteristically, he gave a slow nod of his head a gesture so simple yet so heavy in meaning especially from a King that wielded a power of a god.
The lords held their breath. Many had thought the sword had been meant for blood that the Shadow King had taken offense at Martell's words. Yet no strike came. Instead, Aeron turned, greatsword still in hand, cloak of shadow trailing him like living night.
The hall parted before him, silence following in his wake. Even Jon and Robb said nothing, though their eyes tracked him, sharp and concerned.
Doran exhaled quietly in his chair, though his brow furrowed. "Is he upset about something?" he murmured, half to himself, half to the guards at his side.
But no answer came.
The heavy doors of Karhold great hall groaned open, spilling firelight into the snowy courtyard beyond. Aeron walked with slow steps, boots crunching against the frost-hardened ground. Guards bowed low as he passed, murmuring,
"Your Grace."
"Your Grace."
Their eyes followed him, uncertain, as though they felt the storm brewing in his silence.
Aeron stopped in the very heart of the courtyard, where the snow still bore scars of shadow, flame and frost. He stood still as a monolith, Greatsword in hand, violet eyes burning brighter than the torches that lined the walls.
Jon and Robb emerged with him, other lords at their back, more soldiers drifting out to see what their king was doing. They whispered among themselves, breaths misting in the cold.
"What is he about?" one Karstark muttered.
"Does he sense another foe?" a knight of the Vale asked.
"Gods, look at his eyes…" a Tyrell bannerman whispered, shivering.
Aeron's voice came at last, low, spoken not to them but to himself.
"Here goes nothing…"
And before any man could stop him, he lifted Drakyrzor then turned its blackened edge inward. With one brutal motion, he drove the blade straight into his chest.
Steel pierced flesh and bone, plunging through his heart and out his back.
The courtyard froze.
The sound of the steel sliding through was sickening, sharper than any war cry.
"My king!" shouted one of the guards, rushing forward.
"Seven hells!" gasped Lord Karstark, face gone pale.
"By the gods!" cried a knight of the Vale, stumbling back.
"No…" Robb's voice broke, disbelieving, horror etched across his face.
Jon's breath misted fast in the frigid air. "What are you doing, Aeron?!"
Blood welled in Aeron's mouth and spilled in a crimson trail down his chin. His eyes widened briefly, glowing and flickering like violet fire in a storm.
He fell to his knees in the snow, blood pouring from the wound, the greatsword still buried in his chest. His hands hung limp at his sides, his breath rattled and broken. His lips parted in a ragged cough, spraying blood against the snow.
Men rushed to him, but none dared touch the blade. They knew..it was mortal, fatal. No healer's hand, no maester's salve could close such a wound.
"Why?!" shouted one of the Freefolk, gripping his hair in disbelief.
"Why would he do this?" a knight stammered, falling to his knees trying to help.
"Did he go mad…" whispered a Tyrell lord.
Jon fell to his knees beside him, his hand gripping Aeron's shoulder, voice shaking with fury and grief. "Why, Aeron?! Why would you do this?! Are you being controlled somehow, is it blood magic or some sorcery ?!"
Robb stood still, fists clenched at his sides, his wolf pacing behind him, whining low. His eyes burned with confusion, helplessness, and anger all at once.
Around them, men muttered prayers. Some turned away, unable to watch.
But Aeron… Aeron could barely hear them. Their voices were distant, muffled by the roar of blood in his ears. His vision blurred crimson, snowflakes falling like sparks in his sight.
The world was fading, his body cold, but his mind was aflame.
'The Black Heart… now or never..'
And though his body slumped, bleeding, his violet eyes flickered one last time with fire before the darkness began to swallow him.
****
KINGSLANDING – IRON THRONE
The Red Keep's throne room was silent, save for the faint creak of metal as Queen Daenerys Targaryen adjusted her seat upon the Iron Throne. The great chair loomed vast and jagged, forged of the blades of a thousand defeated foes, yet she wore it as though it were a mantle of fire and blood itself.
To her right stood Tyrion Lannister, ever-smirking though his eyes were sharp and watchful. Varys, calm and calculating, was on her left, his pale hands folded neatly before him. White-cloaked Kingsguard flanked the dais, their eyes like stone as they observed all who dared enter.
Summoned by the queen, Petyr Baelish strode into the chamber with his usual quiet grace, his mockingbird pin catching the light. He bowed, hand upon chest, lips curling with that subtle smile that always promised more than it revealed.
"Your Grace," Baelish said, voice smooth as silk. "You sent for me. May I ask, what business of mine could so swiftly trouble the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?"
Daenerys did not return the smile. Her violet eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she leaned forward. Her voice, soft but edged with steel, cut across the chamber.
"Is there something you want to tell me, Lord Baelish?"
The words lingered, heavy as the silence that followed them.
Baelish blinked, feigning confusion, his hands folded politely before him. "…I am not sure I understand your request, Your Grace. You summoned me.."
At that, Tyrion let out a sharp laugh, the sound echoing. "Oh, I like that. Very clever. But let me pose the question another way, hm?" He stepped forward, tilting his head like a cat toying with prey. "You, Lord Baelish, as our newly appointed Master of Coin, an office restored to you after your gracious pardon..know well the burdens of funding. Tell me then, how fares the crown's coffers when it comes to ships?"
Petyr's smile flickered. "…Ships, my lord?"
"Yes, ships," Tyrion went on, his voice thick with mocking sweetness. "The North starves. Winter has come. If we do not send supplies by sea, tens of thousands may perish. But what am I saying? You already knew that, didn't you?" He chuckled, shaking his head as if scolding himself. "But of course… this is not why you were summoned here."
Petyr's eyes darted, just for a moment, before he composed himself again. "Then perhaps the Queen might enlighten me as to the true purpose of this audience."
As though on cue, the heavy doors creaked open. A guardsman entered, a raven clenched carefully in his gauntleted hand. Its body was pierced clean through by an arrow.
The man approached the Iron Throne, bowing deeply before offering the blood-stained missive to Daenerys herself. She took it without a word.
But Petyr's eyes widened. Just for an instant..yet enough.
Varys's lips curled with the faintest shadow of a smile. Tyrion's smirk deepened into something sharper, crueler.
Daenerys turned her gaze from the parchment on the raven to Baelish, her expression serious, though the faint fire behind her eyes betrayed her resolve. She raised the letter, unbroken, before her.
"Before I read the words carried on this raven," she said, her voice clear and ringing across the hall, "is there something you wish to say, Lord Baelish?"
The throne room was deathly silent.
The guards who had lingered shifted uneasily, their eyes fixed upon the mockingbird who, for the first time in many years, stood with his mask slipping, he knew what was coming.
Baelish bowed his head slightly, the silence stretching long enough for the sound of the queen's breath to be heard, for the crackle of the torches in the hall to fill the void.
Then he lifted his gaze, lips curling faintly once more.
"My Queen," he murmured, "I am, as ever, your humble servant."
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