- 15 AC -
By his third name day, Maegor Targaryen was already a source of unease within the dim, volcanic halls of Dragonstone.
He did not cry as an infant would. He observed everything like a ruler or a king who would then judge you. More startling than his quiet intensity was his physical form. At three, he was the size of a boy of six; his muscles had already started to form slightly beneath his pale skin.
He possessed an innate physical superiority that went beyond the good genes he inherited from his parents. It wasn't as profound or as visible yet, but in the years to come, someone would look back and realise that even at three, Maegor had a surprising synchronicity of mind, body, and spirit that all warriors sought for a lifetime but never achieved.
Maegor also seemed to be more intelligent than other children of the same age. He seemed more intelligent than children much older than he was. And if that had been all, it wouldn't have been that problematic just yet, but there was another cause for confusion.
Maegor's dragon.
House Targaryen possessed centuries, maybe even thousands of years, of knowledge concerning dragons, passed down from the Valyrian Freehold. They thought they knew how to handle all dragons. But the truth of the matter was that the Valyrians simply hadn't seen a true dragon yet, and therefore called the beasts they tamed using blood magic and rode dragons.
The beasts they rode were wyverns, with two great legs and two massive wings with claws that served as forelimbs. But the creature that had hatched in Maegor's cradle was an anomaly to the rule.
Smaug.
That's what Maegor named him. And it seemed to fit for some reason, despite it being such a different name from the usual ones the Targaryens used.
Unlike Balerion or Vhagar, Smaug possessed four legs, with a separate pair of wings sprouting from his spine. The maesters and dragonkeepers whispered in the shadows as they always did. They called it a mutant, a deviation of the blood magic that ran through Old Valyria.
Worse, Smaug was growing at an agonisingly slow pace. Where standard hatchlings rapidly increased in size and proximity to their rider, Smaug remained small, his scales quite sturdy but his stature stunted.
The consensus among Aegon and Visenya of House Targaryen was grim: the beast was flawed, unable to sustain its unnatural anatomy, and would likely perish before Maegor reached manhood.
It was also for this reason that Aegon chose not to do anything about Smaug, as he saw it as unthreatening. This, as it turned out, would have been a mistake on his part because there was a logical reason why this true dragon was growing at a slow pace.
Maegor cared little for their whispers. The dragon was his, and his will alone would see it survive and thrive. The bond to the dragon was a special one, as just like Maegor, Smaug was far more intelligent than any other wyvern known to the Targaryens.
Seeing her little dragon's strong build and maturity, Visenya chose that it was time that he started training early. Therefore, in 15 AC, Maegor received his first sword.
It was a wooden practice blade, standard for a princeling beginning his martial education. The moment his small hand closed around the hilt, a natural focus seemed to fill him. He used all his strength and swung the wooden blade at a practice dummy.
The swing, however, was so fast and heavy that the wood shattered upon impact, splintering into a dozen pieces.
Seeing her son break the wooden sword with his first strike, Visenya smiled with delight and nodded proudly. This was her son, her little dragon whom she was most proud of. While she didn't really love her brother Aegon like a lover, she loved Maegor like a mother... a Targaryen mother...
Wordlessly, seeing the Queen's nod, the master-at-arms handed the three-name-day-old a blunted steel blade meant for boys three times his age. But unlike what was considered 'standard' in Westeros or the rest of the world, despite the heavier weapon and unnatural length for his stature, Maegor took to swordplay instantly.
His mind unconsciously processed and memorised the movements of those around him with a frightening clarity, visualising the trajectory of a strike before his opponent even shifted their weight. What that truly meant would slowly reveal itself in the coming years.
.
- 20 AC -
Five years had passed since Maegor had received his first sword from his mother and had been allowed to start training very early. By the age of eight, Maegor had already shown he was capable of terrible and incredible things.
At 8 name days, his stature was that of a 13- or 14-name-day-old teenager. He moved with a completely silent, almost predatory grace that belied his already strong, tall frame; his senses had sharpened to an incredible point, and each of his movements seemed to use as little energy as possible.
He was a boy of immense, nearly immeasurable talent in all things that involved his body and physical labour. Be it fighting with a sword, spear, knives, a shield or even unarmed, horse riding, running, climbing, swimming and anything else, he excelled at that. He showed almost no fear about anything; not even his mother's dragoness, Vhagar, had made the lad tremble or cry.
The view of Maegor and the fact that he clearly possessed an aggressive and highly dangerous side was revealed that year.
The incident occurred in the courtyard of Dragonstone. Maegor, who had just gone through a training session that would have made grown and veteran knights fall unconscious, was making his way to the shore of Dragonstone, where he had started to swim.
The sea, in its danger and power, appealed to Maegor, who enjoyed fighting against it to see who was stronger and who would prevail. Naturally, he stood on chance, but he still got his mother to agree to let him swim as much as possible, as long as he was heavily supervised.
So he made his way to shore. As he was walking past the stables, a large palfrey, spooked by a feeling of great danger, suddenly lashed out. Its heavy hooves struck Maegor squarely in the chest with a blow that would have broken the ribs of a grown man.
"My Prince!" Ser Gwayne Bar Emmon, the Master-at-Arms, shouted.
Maegor fell to the ground; however, thanks to his senses, which had warned him of the movement and his unnatural durability, he absorbed most of the kinetic force, preventing any bones from breaking. Still, that was a direct hit, and it had hurt him and forced the air out of his lungs.
"Are you alright, Prince Maegor?!" Ser Gwayne said anxiously.
"Urgh... yes..."
"Please don't move, my Prince. I shall fetch the Maester right away!"
Maegor clenched his jaw, seeing the man leave like a headless chicken, and slowly pushed himself off the ground. It might have been unnatural to see the Master-at-Arms, one of, if not the greatest knight, apart from Maegor, react with such panic.
The reason was rather simple, as it was... peculiar.
The short answer was Maegor's mother, Visenya.
The Dragon Queen doted on her little dragon, HEAVILY. However, calling it doting was not the correct term, if one was honest. The whispers had long started, and Visenya was at fault here. Ever since she had given birth to Maegor, she had been captivated by him.
Slowly but surely, he took up more and more of her time, as she focused on him. In her eyes, he could do no wrong, and she drowned him in affection. Whatever it was, in typical Targaryen fashion, she seemed to lose herself to this. The 'allure' of a true dragon was not to be underestimated, after all.
A nearby stableboy, older and stupid by the lack of education, bad memories and cruel gossip from around the island, laughed lightly at the prince's brush with the palfrey.
Maegor was quite literally the image of perfection to most who saw him once. At the age of 8, there were some of the younger madens who already blushed when he walked by. It was ridiculous to the highest degree.
The usual fear of the ruling nobles and dragonlords, fueled by years of neglect and jealousy, turned to malice.
"Careful, my prince," the boy sneered behind his hand, his voice dripping with ridicule, which he hid badly. "Mayhap you need your mother to soothe you. Though I hear the 'loose-woman' is busy soothing half the garrison."
...
The rumours of Queen Visenya seeking 'relief' in her bed with other men had circulated for over a year. Unloved by her brother-husband, Aegon, who had favoured his lost Rhaenys, Visenya had indeed taken lovers to ease her 'urges'.
The reason for this was taboo and not something she would ever tell anyone. Simply, it was Maegor. She seemed to grow increasingly needy and tried to have her needs met by bedding men. But something like that never remained a secret, especially as the frequency seemed to increase the older Maegor grew and matured.
Hearing the stableboy, Maegor forgot the pain in his chest. His violet eyes locked onto the stableboy, and it seemed a fire burned inside them.
Very slowly, he pushed himself off the ground and walked towards the stableboy.
"Kneel," Maegor commanded.
His voice was not the high pitch of a normal eight-name-day-old, but sounded cold and dangerous. The command shook the young man greatly, but again, it was his arrogance and pride that refused to bend, even when he knew that he had fucked up badly.
So what was the reaction of someone who had no way out of the shithole he just dug himself?
"Hm, I only speak the truth of what the castle knows, princeling--"
Maegor moved faster than the young man's eye could track. Before the boy could draw his next breath, Maegor's fist slammed into the centre of his chest. A sickening crunch of bone echoed through the stone courtyard.
The force of the blow made Maegor's fist pierce the skin and superficial muscles before it folded, and lifted the older boy off his feet and sent him crashing backwards into the panicked palfrey.
The hit snapped the boy's spine and struck the horse with such momentum that the beast's legs buckled, sending it to the cobblestones. It neighed in pain and surprise at lying on the ground sideways. But it started neighing even harder as it saw Maegor approach.
He picked up the stableboy's head and then used it to smash the palfrey over and over in rage.
...
A minute later, the deed was done. Blood and brain matter were spread all over the ground and painted an absolutely gory and sickening picture of violence and cruelty. Maegor looked at his bloody knuckles, which were entirely unbroken, and walked away.
This news travelled through the castle, Dragonmont and the entire island of Dragonstone like a wildfire. The Prince had killed a stableboy and a palfrey in the most gruelling way possible. No one knew why he had done it or what had gotten him so angry.
That didn't matter to them.
When the news reached Visenya, she found her son in his chambers, quietly stroking the scales of the still small Smaug. The dragon had barely doubled in length. She looked at the blood on his tunic and hands and understood instantly what had transpired and, more importantly, why.
The rumours had reached her son.
Visenya wanted to approach him, talk to him, hear him speak and gently stroke his head. But Maegor looked at her with an expression devoid of childish love or fear. He looked at her in displeasure.
In truth, Maegor cared absolutely nothing about what his mother did in bed. He might be smarter and more mature than his peers, but he hadn't deduced that the moment he no longer wanted to sleep in his mother's bed and be showered by her affection was the moment her 'urges' started to appear and grow.
At that moment, Visenya knew her indulgences had to end. She could no longer seek 'relief', not if this was the result. Her son was now a monster in the eyes of the weak, perhaps, but to her, he was already a king. Aenys be damned.