The hall of the Red Keep was colder than expected for a summer's eve, yet the chill that lingered in the air had nothing to do with weather. It was the weight of madness, heavy and smothering. The Iron Throne, forged of the swords of a thousand fallen enemies, loomed at the far end of the hall like a crown of blades, a reminder of power won and held through fire.
King Aerys II Targaryen sat upon that throne, more shadow than man, his once regal frame now gaunt, his silver hair tangled like a nest, his purple eyes wild and unfocused. The Mad King was not what he had once been. His descent had been slow at first, then sharp—like a candle that burns twice as bright and half as long.
He twitched as a servant adjusted the torches lining the walls, the flame reflecting in his pupils with fevered obsession. The King's court was small these days. Those who had dared to question him had vanished—burned, imprisoned, or sent on doomed errands from which none returned.
"Bring him to me," Aerys hissed, his voice cracking like dried parchment. "This... Edward Grafton. He grows fat from war and treason, feeds on the bones of dragons. He must be punished. He must burn."
The court stood silent.
Only the scrape of boot leather echoed through the chamber as Lord Jon Connington, Hand of the King, stepped forward. His young face was drawn, pale from stress. He glanced once toward Prince Rhaegar, who stood still and silent near a column, shrouded in a heavy cloak of violet and black.
"Your Grace," Connington began carefully, "Edward Grafton holds Gulltown and commands the trade routes to Essos. He arms your soldiers. He feeds the eastern coast."
"He trades with rebels!" Aerys screamed, rising partway from his throne. "I know it. He trades with the dogs who call Robert king. He sends steel to the Stormlands!"
Rhaegar stepped forward, calm but firm. "We have no proof of that, Father. Gulltown remains loyal. Grafton's ships fight against the Ironborn in the Bite and resupply our holdings."
Aerys turned sharply to his son. "You defend him? You! You who lost Lyanna Stark to a pack of northern wolves!"
A stir rippled through the room. Rhaegar's face did not change.
"Edward Grafton is a careful man. His loyalty may be measured in coin rather than blood, but for now it flows in our direction. If we accuse him falsely or make an enemy of him, the Vale might fully rise with the rebels. We would lose White Harbor. We would lose the Narrow Sea."
Aerys sat down hard upon the throne, his breathing shallow.
"He builds a kingdom inside mine," Aerys whispered. "He speaks to Essos. He whispers to the Dornish. He corrupts merchants. What king allows another to grow so fat on his own lands?"
"He acts independently," Connington offered. "But his interests align with yours."
Aerys rubbed his face with shaking hands, leaving faint red lines. He had not slept well in weeks.
"Perhaps... perhaps we summon him. Bring him here. Let me see his eyes when I ask him. Let me smell his fear."
Varys, the eunuch Master of Whisperers, stepped from the shadows. His voice was soft and airy. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but that may not be wise. Lord Grafton is surrounded by loyal men. His guards are seasoned. Were he to think himself accused or trapped, he might sail straight into the arms of Lord Arryn or Lord Baratheon."
Aerys looked around the room, his eyes jumping from face to face.
"Then how do we control him? He grows too bold. Too powerful."
It was Rhaegar who answered. "We give him nothing to fear. Not yet. We let him believe he walks freely. Let him deepen his roots. And when the time comes—"
"Burn them all," Aerys muttered, half to himself.
"When the time comes," Rhaegar continued calmly, "we will see where his true loyalty lies."
The conversation turned then, toward supply lines and battles. The Riverlands had become a graveyard, blackened fields and scorched villages left in the wake of the rebel hosts. The Reach pressed north, the Lannisters fought in two directions, and every day the war consumed more.
Edward Grafton's name hung in the room like smoke, not spoken again, but not forgotten.
Back in Gulltown, Edward stood on the terrace of his newly rebuilt sea fortress, wind rippling his cloak. He stared out over the harbor, watching the new longships being launched, the sails catching air like wings.
Behind him, his most trusted captain stepped forward. "A merchant from Myr arrived today. He brings word from Pentos and Tyrosh. They've agreed to your terms for shipyard expansion."
Edward nodded. "Good. Let them believe they're investing in gold and trade. They're building my empire."
He turned slightly, his expression cold and focused. "And the ships bound for the Targaryens?"
"Sailing tomorrow. Empty hulls. Their manifests say full stores."
Edward smiled faintly. "Let them bleed slower. Not faster."
He thought of the madness in King's Landing. He had heard of Aerys' latest fits of rage. The king was unpredictable now—raving, suspicious, dangerous. That made him weak.
From behind, Edmure, his father, approached.
"I hear whispers from King's Landing," Edmure said. "They consider summoning you."
Edward's gaze remained on the ships. "Let them. I will not go. Not until they beg."
He crossed his arms.
"The Iron Throne is a dying dragon. Its fire weakens. Soon, someone else must tend the forge."
Behind him, the gulls screamed.
In the depths of the Red Keep that night, Aerys wandered the halls with a candle, muttering names under his breath. Grafton. Baratheon. Arryn. Tywin. The flames danced in his eyes as he stared into the brazier.
He was sure the walls were watching him. Spying. Whispering. He would find them all. He would burn them all. But not yet. Not while they still served a purpose.
The Iron Throne sat empty in the moonlight. Silent. Patient.
Waiting.