A solemn air hung thick in the wide hall where the Gold Cloaks gathered. At the center, upon a long table, lay the body of Lord Commander Dickon. His face was ghostly pale, his lips tinged with deep blue, and his eyes still frozen wide with pain and misery.
A maester bent over him, prying open his mouth, then leaning close to study the glazed irises. Around them stood the Gold Cloaks—some staring in silence, their expressions hard and indifferent, while others shifted uneasily, their eyes reddened from grief.
At last, the maester straightened, his tone grave as he addressed Maekar.
"My prince… the Lord Commander appears to have been poisoned."
Maekar tilted his head, his voice low but cutting.
"What do you mean—appears to have been poisoned?"
The maester coughed softly, as though to mask his unease, before continuing.
"I mean, my prince, that the Lord Commander's body shows the common signs of poisoning… yet not entirely. The symptoms do not match any of the poisons we know."
Low murmurs of anger pass through the gathered crowd of gold cloaks, but Maekar silences them with a raised hand.
Maekar hummed once, asking. "Are you saying someone invented a new poison just to kill the Lord Commander? "
The maester shifted, uncertain. "It could be, my prince—but that's nigh impossible. Creating a new poison requires deep knowledge of herbs and their effects. More likely, he ingested some unfamiliar poisonous herb or breathed in a foul substance. Truthfully, my real answer is… I do not know." He paused, throat working. "I will send the symptoms to the Citadel. Give me time—and tell me what the Lord Commander ate in the last two days, my prince."
Maekar inclined his head. "I see. Thank you for your insight, maester. I will have men bring you whatever you need."
Turning, Maekar let his gaze fall slowly across the ranks of Gold Cloaks. He looked at each man in turn, measuring them with those hollow eyes. "If this were a natural death, or some misfortune that befell our Lord Commander, then all we could do is pray for him."
His voice tightened until it carried a Valyrian sword edge. "But if this was the work of someone, then I will find him, and I will make him wish he were dead."
For a long beat, the hall held its breath. Then boots stamped the floor, and a chorus rose:
"Prince Maekar!"
"Prince Maekar!"
"Prince Maekar!"
Maekar did not linger. He moved out of the barracks at once and headed for the Red Keep.
He had been at the barracks that very morning, tending business with the Lord Commander, and then left for the Red Keep for the wedding preparation; however, only a few hours later, a Gold Cloak had burst in with worse news—the Lord Commander was dead.
Maekar sat with one leg crossed over the other on the low couch in the Tower of the Hand. His grandsire—Otto Hightower—was behind his desk, stamping papers with the slow, careful motions of a man who never rushed grief or duty. Maekar had been silent for ten minutes, a goblet of apple juice resting in his hand, his face the same placid mask it had worn throughout the years.
"How can I help, grandson?" Otto asked at last.
Maekar set the goblet down with a small, deliberate sound. "The Lord Commander is dead, Grandsire," he said slowly. "As I'm sure you already know. I wanted to know what you plan to do."
Otto nodded, folding his hands over the papers. "We will send his body to his kin in the Reach with a letter—our sorrow, our praise for his service. He earned that, at least." He fell silent, eyes dropping back to his work.
Maekar pressed. "And then?"
The Hand sighed. "And then we find a new Lord Commander. End of matter."
Maekar inclined his head. "I have no quarrel with the first part—Lord Dickon was a good man and deserves proper honor. But the new commander will be…me.... Grandsire."
Otto barked a short, incredulous laugh. "Hah... Who decided that?"
"I decided that," Maekar answered simply. "Naturally. With your support."
"Why would I do that?" Otto asked, folding his fingers together like a man trying to hide his calculation.
Maekar's eyes drifted around the chamber, then slid back to Otto with a cold steadiness that had begun to unsettle even the Hand.
"We both aim for the same end, grandfather. We would rather not see a whore and then a bastard on the Iron Throne. To achieve that, you need me..... and my dragon, which is counted among the largest and is still growing. You cannot do without me."
Otto's face changed; the mask of amusement fell away, and a grave look took its place. "What are you saying, Maekar?"
"I'm saying," Maekar replied, "if you want my support—my help, which I should let you know will not be unconditional—then you will give me something in return. The Lord Commander of the City Watch is a start."
For a moment, Otto's fingers tapped the table, a rapid, controlled impatience. He tried to find the boy behind the prince—the child he had once known—but the hollow, unfocused look in Maekar's eyes unnerved him. He glanced away. "You are not even ten-and-six, Maekar. I ca—"
"In six days' time I will be a man grown," Maekar cut in, voice steady. "It's not like I am untested. I have served for two years. I've fought gangs, organized and administered the City Watch's operations. I have earned the right."
Otto was silent for a long moment. Then the stern mask on his face cracked; a reluctant smile creased his mouth, and a low laugh escaped him. "You have grown, Maekar," he said at last. "Fine. The Lord Commander's post is yours."
A colder thought slid through Maekar as he listened to the Hand's concession,
'You think this is about titles, Otto? You are sorely mistaken.'
In his mind, he already tasted the advantages Dickon's 'untimely' death afforded him—the perfect pretext to butcher the gangs, seize control of the black markets, and quietly purge any Gold Cloaks still loyal to Otto and, more importantly, Daemon.
Maekar inclined his head once, a small, formal motion. "Very well, Grandfather. It was a… productive conversation."
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