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Howard Stark's funeral was held in Richford, a small town in upstate New York. It was where he was born, and where his parents were buried—in the modest cemetery behind the town's church.
The Starks were never really a dynasty. They weren't Rockefellers or Carnegies. The line was thin, one son per generation, and now, with Howard gone, all that remained was his only child. Tony Stark might be a certified prodigy in engineering, but in business? He had yet to prove himself.
Official invitations were scarce, but the uninvited showed up in droves.
People clustered in groups—each clique a mirror of Howard's life. You could tell who he'd kept company with just by scanning the crowd.
The largest and most orderly contingent was the military. Rows of uniforms, chestfuls of medals, brass from every branch—Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines. The sheer number of stars on display was staggering. If someone dropped a bomb on that cemetery, the U.S. military would be crippled overnight.
Then there were the Hollywood types—actors, directors, and the pack of reporters who trailed after them. Some had genuinely known Howard. Others were here to bask in the moment, but even the press behaved themselves. Cameras lowered, voices hushed, they looked more like nervous schoolkids than scavengers.
They had good reason. The first reporter who tried to get too aggressive had been quietly snatched by a pair of soldiers and dragged off. No explanations needed—just the magic words: "national security." Nobody wanted to find out how long you stayed missing after hearing those words.
Henry saw it happen himself. A British tabloid man had barely gotten a question out before a hand clamped around his throat. He collapsed unconscious, hauled away like a sack of laundry. Whether he ever made it back across the Atlantic was anyone's guess.
After that, everyone behaved.
Henry stuck close to the two Hepburns—Audrey and Katharine—keeping to the cluster of Hollywood mourners near the front. Katharine's friendship with Howard was well known; nobody dared shove her aside, no matter how many big names showed up. Audrey and Henry, by extension, got to share the spotlight she commanded.
Elsewhere, the business and financial elite moved like bees—buzzing, clustering, breaking apart, whispering in ears. Deals were being seeded even here, among headstones and hymns.
And then there was the most unsettling group: the Howling Commandos.
No one stood too close. People gave them a wide berth, as if wary of catching something dangerous. Leading them was an older woman with a silver bob, posture stiff and commanding—Peggy Carter, the widow of Captain America. Next to her, a gaunt old man with thinning white hair. Behind them, shapes wrapped in bandages, faces hidden under coats, silhouettes that weren't entirely human. A furred tail swished once. A lupine jaw caught the light.
Henry knew the stories. Monsters, war heroes, legends—the Commandos.
But one figure gripped him most: a broad-shouldered man in a black trench coat, hair brown but streaked with gray, and a single eye blazing from behind the other, long scarred shut.
Nick Fury. Except… he was white.
Henry's gaze lingered too long, and Fury caught it. One sharp glance back, sharp as a knife.
Henry snapped his head away, fidgeting like a clueless young man caught staring at the wrong person. He made sure to look harmless, awkward, almost sheepish. Just a kid too curious for his own good.
It was an act, of course. But with people like Fury—or the Commandos—better to play the fool than invite suspicion.
The funeral itself was simple, presided over by the local priest, who seemed overwhelmed by the weight of the moment. The prayers and rites stumbled once or twice, but no one cared.
The real authority in the proceedings wasn't Tony Stark—who kept himself hidden behind sunglasses and silence—but Edwin Jarvis, the Stark family's butler.
Jarvis didn't just manage the ceremony; he commanded it. When he moved through the crowd, people parted instinctively, as if Moses himself had walked into the room. Even Obadiah Stane, Howard's longtime business partner and the second-largest shareholder in Stark Industries, deferred to him.
Henry recognized Jarvis not by sight, but by the way he greeted Katharine Hepburn personally, speaking to her with genuine respect. No other Hollywood star received such courtesy. It confirmed what everyone already knew: her connection to Howard was deeper than most.
The service moved on to the burial.
Howard's casket was carried by six generals—men from every branch, ranked by the stars on their shoulders. For Maria Stark's casket, Tony finally stepped forward, hands steady as he bore the weight. Beside him: Jarvis, Obadiah Stane, two unidentified family friends… and the one-eyed man in the trench coat.
The crowd watched in silence. No outbursts, no scandals. Not here. Not with the military looming and the Commandos watching.
Still, beneath the quiet, everyone's thoughts churned the same way:
Howard Stark's death wasn't just a tragedy. It was an opportunity.
Like a fallen whale feeding countless creatures in the deep, the passing of one titan meant life for dozens of smaller ones. Wealth, contracts, influence—someone would get it. Someone always did.
And for everyone except his son, his widow's friends, and the butler who stood like a wall of iron, Howard Stark's death was—if not good news—at least useful.
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