Screenshots from poll winner Haifisch is ready. 🦈⚰️🪦💥👊😄 The funeral before Hell breaks lose 😂 (Notice "Marilyn Manson" as one of the guests, is it a lookalike, or perhaps Till with a mask ??🧐)
As the female heir to a queen, Maella lives beneath constant scrutiny.
Every eye is on her.
Watching. Judging. Waiting for her to fail.
But more often than not, it is the men who question her who make the mistake every time they open their mouths to criticise Rhaenyra Targaryen’s chosen heir
Maella’s bedchambers were quiet
Not silent, not truly. There were servants moving somewhere beyond the carved doors, hushed voices, the distant toll of a bell marking the passing of a lord who had once thought himself important enough to be remembered.
Maella stood before the mirror, utterly unimpressed by all of it.
“Hold still, Princess,” her maid murmured softly, hands adjusting the fall of black silk over her shoulders.
“I am holding still,” Maella replied, though her tone suggested she considered the entire process a personal inconvenience.
The gown was appropriate. Of course it was.
Black, layered, elegant without being ostentatious. The sort of thing one wore when the realm expected grief to be performed, whether it was felt or not.
Maella tilted her head slightly, examining her reflection with a critical eye.
“I don’t like this one.”
“It was selected for the occasion, Princess.”
“I am aware,” Maella said flatly. “That does not mean I have to like it.”
The maid wisely said nothing to that.
She only smoothed the sleeves once more, then stepped back to fetch the veil laid carefully across the foot of Maella’s bed. The chamber was warm despite the black clouds gathered beyond the windows, the light dim and grey where it filtered through the glass. Somewhere below, bells rang again.
For him.
Maella thought that was rather excessive.
The maid returned, lifting the veil. “If you would turn, Princess.”
Maella did so with all the enthusiasm of someone walking willingly to her own execution.
The maid adjusted one final fold near Maella’s shoulder. “Will that be all, Princess?”
Maella looked at her reflection for another long moment.
“Yes.”
The maid curtsied and left, closing the doors behind her.
Only then did the quiet in the room change.
It was not the sound that shifted. It was the feeling of it.
The air warmed.
The candle flames near the dressing table gave a faint, sudden flicker, though there was no draft.
Maella did not turn immediately.
Instead, she kept her eyes on the mirror.
“You do realise,” she said coolly, “that most fathers do not respond to funerals by making themselves the reason for them.”
A figure appeared behind her reflection as though he had always been there.
No servant had announced him. No door had opened.
Apollo stood in the centre of the room, bright in a chamber dressed for mourning, sunlight forced into human shape. His expression was calm, almost amused, which only sharpened Maella’s irritation.
“He was speaking treason,” he replied.
Maella turned then, slowly.
“You keep saying that as though it makes it less inconvenient for me.”
“It should,” Apollo said.
“It does not.”
His mouth twitched faintly.
Maella narrowed her eyes at him.
Black suited her, he thought. Not because it dimmed her. Nothing could. But because it made the silver of her hair and the cool violet of her eyes seem sharper, colder, more unmistakable. She looked young still, terribly young in some lights, but there were moments like this when the child vanished and only the future remained.
It was one of the many things that made men foolish around her.
It was one of the many reasons he had killed the lord.
“He questioned you publicly,” Apollo said. “Repeatedly.”
Maella crossed her arms. “Men question me publicly all the time.”
“Yes,” he said. “And most of them know when to stop.”
She made a soft, unimpressed sound.
“He said your claim would splinter the realm,” Apollo continued. “He said the lords would never long stomach a girl on the throne. He said your future council would guide you, overrule you, manage you.” His face hardened slightly. “He said you would be easy to move aside once the time came.”
Maella held his gaze.
Then she lifted one brow.
“And so you killed him.”
“Yes.”
There was not even a hint of apology in it.
Maella exhaled sharply through her nose and turned back toward the mirror. “You could at least pretend to feel remorse when I scold you.”
Apollo stepped nearer, stopping just behind her.
“You are not angry that he is dead.”
“No,” Maella admitted.
She reached up to straighten one of her rings.
“I am angry that now I have to stand in front of half the court while they all pretend not to know why he is dead.”
Apollo’s expression actually softened at that.
That, more than outrage or grief, sounded like her.
Practical. Annoyed. Already three steps ahead.
“They will not speak it aloud,” he said.
“They are not fools.”
“No,” Maella replied, meeting his eyes again in the mirror. “Only cautious.”
A small silence followed.
Then she sighed.
“You made a mess.”
“I removed a threat.”
“You made a mess while removing a threat.”
Apollo inclined his head slightly, as if conceding the point without remotely regretting it.
Maella studied her father’s reflection for a moment. Golden. Untouched. Entirely out of place in the blackened stillness of her chamber.
No one below would know he had stood here. No one would know who had truly placed a death sentence over the lord the moment he began speaking too boldly. They would assume politics, private vengeance, old grudges, some quiet arrangement among men who thought themselves powerful.
They would not guess a god had taken offense.
That was how it had to remain.
“Jasper is below,” Maella said after a moment. “Waiting to escort me.”
Apollo’s gaze did not leave hers. “I know.”
There was no jealousy in his voice.
Not toward Jasper.
Never that.
Jasper had known what Maella was before the rest of the realm ever understood they should fear her. He had given her his name, his loyalty, his protection, and asked for nothing she could not give. For that alone, Apollo had long ago set aside any impulse toward resentment.
Even so, Maella’s tone sharpened slightly. “Then you know I cannot walk into that hall looking like I have just had a private audience with the sun.”
That earned the smallest hint of a smile.
“You do not.”
“I do.”
“You look like yourself.”
Maella rolled her eyes. “That is not the reassurance you think it is.”
Apollo laughed softly.
It was quiet, but it filled the room all the same, warm enough to soften the shadows near the hearth.
For one brief moment, Maella’s expression eased.
Then it settled again.
“I mean it,” she said. “You cannot keep doing this every time someone says something ugly.”
His face changed at that, amusement fading into something calmer and older.
“Can’t I?”
“No.”
“He threatened my daughter.”
“He threatened your daughter’s position,” Maella corrected.
Apollo stepped closer still.
His hand lifted, not touching her at first, only hovering near the dark veil framing her face. “There is no difference to me.”
Maella went still.
That, more than the death itself, more than the bells and the mourning silks and the whispered knowledge moving through the keep below, was what made it impossible to hold on to all her annoyance.
Because he meant it.
Entirely.
Terribly.
In the way only he could.
Her voice, when it came, was quieter. “You cannot burn every man who fears me.”
Apollo’s gaze held hers.
“No,” he said. “But I can remind them they should.”
Maella looked away first, back to her reflection.
For a moment she said nothing, only adjusted the fall of one sleeve and the line of the black bodice as if the motion itself might gather her thoughts into something orderly.
When she finally spoke again, her tone was once more dry.
“You are impossible.”
“I have been told.”
“Mostly by me.”
“Almost exclusively.”
That drew the faintest twitch from the corner of her mouth.
Apollo saw it and said nothing.
Instead he reached up at last and settled the veil more neatly over her hair, his movements careful now, precise in a way no mortal would have noticed from him. He tucked one silver strand back into place.
“There,” he murmured.
Maella watched him through the mirror.
“You look like a princess in mourning.”
“I am a princess in mourning.”
His eyes met hers.
“No,” he said softly. “You are the heir. Let them remember it.”
Her chin lifted, almost by instinct.
She took a breath and let it out slowly.
Then she turned to face him properly.
“I still think you should not have killed him.”
Apollo looked entirely unconvinced.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know that too.”
“You are not listening.”
“I am,” he said. “I am simply not agreeing.”
Maella stared at him for a long moment.
Then, with all the dignity she possessed, she reached up and straightened the collar of his tunic even though it did not need straightening in the slightest.
Apollo blinked once in faint surprise.
“If you insist on behaving like a menace,” she said coolly, “you might at least try to look less pleased with yourself.”
That time, his smile was impossible to suppress.
He caught her hand before she could pull it away and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
The gesture was swift.
Reverent.
Dangerous, somehow, even in tenderness.
“My duty,” he said lightly, “is to protect you.”
Maella withdrew her hand.
“And mine,” she replied, “is apparently to clean up after you.”
Apollo’s smile deepened.
With a sigh
Maella moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the latch.
Without turning, she said quietly, “Do not kill anyone else today.”
Behind her came the faintest hint of amusement.
“No promises.”
Maella closed her eyes briefly.
“I’m serious.” She frowned.
“As am I, if any other is foolish enough to insult you or your siblings I will kill them.” Apollo responded seriously.
Maella stilled at that.
Slowly, she turned back.
For a moment, she did not look like a princess preparing to descend into a hall full of watching eyes and whispered speculation.
She looked like a daughter.
Annoyed. Tired. Entirely unconvinced.
“That,” she said flatly, “is exactly what I am telling you not to do.”
Apollo did not move.
“If they insult me,” Maella continued, stepping away from the door, “I will handle it.”
“If they insult you,” he replied just as evenly, “they have already decided you are something that can be diminished.”
“They have,” Maella agreed. “That is not new.”
His gaze sharpened slightly. “It should not be tolerated.”
“It will be managed,” she corrected.
There was a difference.
A clear one.
Maella held his eyes, unflinching.
“You cannot answer every slight with death,” she said. “That is not protection. That is escalation.”
Apollo tilted his head slightly, considering her in a way that would have unsettled anyone else in the realm.
“Fear is an effective deterrent.”
“So is control,” Maella shot back. “So is making them bend without ever giving them a martyr to gather around.”
That gave him pause.
Not because he agreed.
But because she was not wrong.
Maella stepped closer, her voice quieter now, but no less firm.
“If lords begin dropping dead every time they speak against me, they will not fear me,” she said. “They will resent me. And resentment grows far faster than fear fades.”
Apollo’s expression shifted, something more thoughtful settling beneath the surface.
Maella’s chin lifted slightly, her posture settling into something that had nothing to do with the gown and everything to do with the crown she would one day wear.
“Let them speak,” she continued. “Let them think I am something they can manage. Something they can guide. Something they can move aside.”
Her eyes flicked toward the door.
“Then prove them wrong where it matters.”
Apollo watched her in silence.
There it was again.
That moment.
The one where she stopped being a girl and became something else entirely.
Not fragile.
Not uncertain.
Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with fire.
“You would have left him alive,” he said after a moment.
“Yes.”
“He would have continued to speak against you.”
“Yes.”
“And you would have allowed that.”
“For a time.”
Apollo’s brow lifted slightly.
Maella met his gaze steadily.
“Long enough for him to say it to the wrong people,” she said. “Long enough for him to show exactly how foolish he is. Long enough for everyone else to see it.”
Understanding flickered.
Not agreement.
But recognition.
“You would have ruined him,” Apollo said.
Maella’s lips curved faintly.
“Without touching him.”
A quiet beat passed.
Then Apollo exhaled, something almost like reluctant amusement in it.
“That is slower.”
“It is cleaner.”
“That is debatable.”
“It is correct.”
He studied her for another long moment.
Then, finally, he inclined his head.
Slightly.
Not surrender.
Never that.
But acknowledgement.
“I will… consider restraint,” he said.
Maella narrowed her eyes.
“That is not the same as agreeing.”
“No,” he said. “It is not.”
She held his gaze for another second.
Then she turned back toward the door.
“Try,” she said instead.
It was not a request.
Apollo did not answer immediately.
But the air shifted again, warmer for just a breath before settling.
“I will try,” he said at last.
Maella accepted that for what it was.
Which, for him, was more than most would ever receive.
Just read Batman: Robin Lives (2024), the alternative to Jason's death at the hands of the Joker, and I noticed something in the burial scene:
Sure it's Jason's mom's funeral but around the casket you have the officiant, Bruce, Barbara Gordon, Jim Gordon, and Alfred. No Dick. Jason is in a coma in the hospital and in the next page Bruce is there and Dick comes to visit.
But in Death in the Family we get a similar funeral only with two caskets:
And in the next page, we don't see Dick. We have Alfred volunteering to call him.
I know that since they kept Jason's death a secret, no heroes came to the funeral but the fact that Barbara is there means that there's always a possibility that Dick knew about the funeral, but didn't get there in time to send off his brother.
Edit: Dick was off world with the Titans. He didn't know Jason died. When he found out he was devastated and blamed himself for giving Jason his old Robin suit.
