The stone halls of Ashford are suffocatingly quiet, the air still heavy with the smell of the rain that washed Baelor’s blood into the dirt. Everyone is mourning the Hero, but you are looking for the man who struck the blow.

The servants are huddled at the far end of the corridor, terrified of the man behind the oak doors. He had roared at the last person who tried to bring him water, and now the silence coming from his chambers is worse than the shouting. You push past them.

The door is heavy, giving way to a room that feels hollowed out. Maekar is stripped to a thin linen shirt, slumped in a chair by a dead hearth. No armor, no fire, no light. He is just a shadow against the stone. Faint, jagged scratches mar his jaw and temple, bitter and red-raw reminders of the chaos in the meadow. When the latch clicks, he doesn't turn. He doesn't move. He just stares at his empty palms. "I said no one.” He rasps, the words sounding like they're being dragged over broken glass.