King's Landing. Several moons before the Battle of Redgrass Field.
The Small Council chamber was quieter than usual when the summons went out. Only a select few had been bidden to attend—those whose loyalty was beyond question. Sunlight slanted through the high narrow windows, striping the chamber's table with gold and shadow. At the head of the table, King Daeron II Targaryen sat composed, his expression unreadable, his crown set lightly atop his dark hair, though the weight of the realm bowed his shoulders more than any gold ever could.
To his right stood Grand Maester Munciter, ancient and near-deaf, muttering to himself as he thumbed through a dusty volume bound in cracked leather. To the King's left, the chair that had once belonged to Lord Butterwell sat conspicuously empty.
The doors opened with a low groan.
"Lord Hayford," the herald called.
Ser Roland Hayford entered in plain garb, without pomp or flourish. His doublet was of dark green wool, his cloak a simple brown. His hair was peppered with grey, but his posture was firm and steady. The man bore neither lordly airs nor highborn arrogance, only the cautious humility of one who knew the weight of duty. He knelt before the King without hesitation.
"Your Grace," he said.
King Daeron rose. "Lord Hayford. You have served House Targaryen with honor, in peace and in war, across the reigns of three kings. I have need of such a man again. Rise, and serve me now as Hand of the King."
Hayford did not protest nor weep with gratitude. He only bowed his head. "I shall serve as best I can, Your Grace. With all I have."
A scribe moved to record the naming. The Grand Maester croaked something approving that no one understood. Lord Hayford took the vacant seat, folding his hands atop the table. He did not fidget.
The King wasted no time. "Then let us begin, my lord. The threat grows nearer with each passing day. Daemon Blackfyre raises his banners. He gathers swords and sellsails, and whispers of his claim blow across the Reach and the Riverlands. Tell me—what course would you take, were you seated here one fortnight past?"
Hayford answered without hesitation. "I would have secured the support of House Tully, House Arryn, and the Stormlords at once. Their oaths must be more than words. I would command the ports of Duskendale and Maidenpool be watched by ships loyal to the Crown—no vessel should pass without inspection. Trade routes from Lys and Myr must be severed. Deny the rebels coin, and they shall starve long before they march."
The King studied him. "And within the Crownlands?"
"I would have the gold cloaks double their watches. Question every hedge knight and sellsword in King's Landing. Place loyal eyes in the alleys, the brothels, and the septs. The serpent crawls closest when it is warmest near the fire."
Daeron nodded slowly. "And what of the bastard prince himself?"
"Daemon Blackfyre was crowned with a sword, not a crown," Hayford replied, his voice firm. "But steel cuts both ways. I would not chase him. I would force him to move—to commit his strength. Then we break him."
For a moment, the King said nothing. Then his lips curved upward, just slightly.
"Well said, my lord," Daeron replied. "We have been beset by flatterers and fools too long. I pray your service shall prove a welcome change."
Hayford bowed his head again, though this time the hint of pride gleamed in his weathered eyes.
Unseen by those within, beyond the stone walls of the chamber, a shadow lingered.
Brynden Rivers stood alone in a narrow passage above the chamber, listening through a carved lattice worked into the wall. The hollow, wooden dragon's eye was no mere ornament—it was a passage of secrets, one of many he had long made his own.
He had stood there the day Butterwell was named Hand, years ago. And again today, as he was dismissed.
The albino bastard, cloaked in smoke and red, watched Lord Hayford through the slitted dragon's eye. His mouth did not smile, but his scarlet eyes narrowed faintly in grim satisfaction. Hayford would serve well. Loyal. Shrewd. And no ambition of his own.
Brynden turned and slipped away down the shadowed passage, as silent as a whisper on the wind. In his mind, the game was already shifting. A piece removed. A stronger one set in place. And soon, another move would follow.
A thousand eyes saw it all.