Drayden
He ignores the saucer eyes and the slack jaws as he tosses back the bourbon. He's been dry for more than ten years, and that flighty little girl ruined it less than ten minutes when she ran off and got herself killed.
The more rational side of Drayden's mind muses that it's not really his fault. Iris made her choices. She chose to mingle with dragons, to take on the responsibility of being his apprentice and successor, to run off and get herself killed by the monster who eviscerated the League and his pet dragon.
It doesn't make the hurt go away.
So he tries to drown it in a bottle.
The people, his people, look to The Spartan Mayor with mounting shock, fear and maybe even a little disgust. That's fine. He deserves it. He got too old, too lazy to bother with Gym leadership anymore. And that bothers him.
Maybe it was just a vanity that saw him pawning off his gym on a girl that played with dolls and dragons in equal measure.
When Lenora (who is dead dead dead along with Iris, Clay and all the others) asked him what he was thinking, appointing a girl that young, he gave her a load of bull about the next generation rising up to replace the old. In a deep, dark part of his mind drenched in blood and cloaked in ego (and soon to drown in bourbon if he's lucky), Drayden realizes he was treating her as an object: The crowning feather in his cap.
For all his accomplishments, Drayden was not so unique. Others had mastered dragons, gyms and everything between. But how many could say they whipped a precocious little girl of less than ten into the strongest Gym Leader in Unova? Drayden could say that.
And now he had all her precocious little blood on his hands.
Plasma would come to his city, his Opelucid, with fire and brimstone. They would come with their dragon, the hulking brute that was an accomplice in a little girl's murder.
An accomplice. Because Drayden knows it never would have happened if Drayden hadn't put her there.
Iris. His little pet project. When had he started to see her as a daughter?
He doesn't know. He doesn't know much of anything anymore. But he does know the bottle is almost empty. He orders another. The bartender has sense enough not to argue the point. Drayden is falling like an empire, but he is still this city's emperor.
The lonely lord sits in the little bar and waits for the world to end.