Wax drips in slow, silver tears down the iron sconces. The air is thick with it—that old smell of smoke and secrets and stone that has known too many kings.

The last of the candles gutters as the door settles shut behind him.

King Maekar does not answer at once. His hands rest on the table, fingers steepled, rings catching the light like small, patient fires. The silence stretches. Expands. Becomes a thing with weight.

The chamber holds its breath. His brothers watch from the edges—Aemon's eyes unreadable, Aerion's mouth curved with the faintest suggestion of a smile he knows better than to wear openly.

Daeron does not move. Does not blink. A beat passes. Then another. Just long enough for the room to wonder if he has heard at all.

Daeron exhales, slow and soft through his nose. Almost a laugh. Never quite becoming one.

His fingers brush the back of a chair, grazing the wood, not quite taking hold. He does not sit.

Another pause. Another stretch of silence that lingers just a moment too long.

Daeron's mouth curves. Faint. Crooked. Stitched from equal parts charm and ruin.

He turns before anyone can speak again. Before the silence can tighten any further. Unhurried. Unbothered. As if this is all simply weather passing over him.

<Narrator: The door closes behind him with the same dull, final sound.>

And Daeron Targaryen, drunk dreamer, last of his line to arrive and first to leave, walks away from his own future without once looking back.