114 AC, the Red Keep
The clang of wood echoed across the training yard of the Red Keep. Two boys, now seven years of age, hammered at straw dummies under the stern gaze of Ser Criston Cole, Kingsguard sworn and their training instructor.
Prince Aegon swung half-heartedly, his face set in a strange mix of boredom and weariness. His strikes lacked weight, more play than practice. Beside him, Prince Maekar's small frame glistened with sweat, his expression calm and unreadable as he drove his wooden sword forward again and again with steady rhythm.
Criston's jaw tightened. He raised a hand, halting them both."Enough. My princes, you will learn little striking straw. You shall spar against each other. To the center—now."
Aegon groaned, dragging his feet, but Criston guided him forward with a firm hand. Maekar rolled his shoulder once, flexing the ache away, his face still placid.
Criston stepped between them, lifted his hand, and dropped it sharply."Begin."
Aegon charged at once, eager to finish quickly. But his form betrayed him—too wild, too open. Maekar slid aside with a simple step and struck him across the back. The blow toppled Aegon forward onto the dirt, cushioned only by the thick padding of his training leathers.
"Get up, brother," Maekar said flatly, taking a few steps back. "The enemy will not wait for you to rise."
Aegon's cheeks burned red as he scrambled to his feet. His humiliation curdled into fury. With a shout, he rushed again, sword raised high in a sloppy arc.
'Too easily baited,' Maekar thought, watching him come.
He pivoted away, letting the strike cut only air, then swung his wooden blade down hard like a club. The blow cracked against Aegon's helm with a thud. Aegon cried out, dropping his sword and clutching his head as he tumbled to the ground, rolling with a wail of pain.
Seeing his brother clearly not rising any time soon, Maekar let his wooden blade fall to the dirt. He strode calmly to a bench at the yard's edge, pulling a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Criston Cole bent over Aegon, but his words were sharp and unyielding."Prince Aegon, you fight like a reckless child. Fury is no weapon—it blinds you before your enemy does."
Straightening, the Kingsguard turned his gaze toward Maekar."And you, my prince—perhaps you should go easier on your brother."
Maekar looked back over his shoulder, towel still pressed to his face. His voice was quiet, almost indifferent."We are the same age. If he cannot fight me, that is his failing, not mine."
Criston's mouth tightened at the words. He watched the boy's eyes—dark, distant, hollow. There was no triumph in them, no joy of besting a rival. Only a calm detachment, as if the entire exchange meant little.
'It's not entirely his fault,' Maekar mused inwardly, finishing the sweep of the towel across his cheek. 'My past-life experiences will always outweigh anything a boy his age could hope to muster.'
Aemond, only four, came darting into the yard with a maid hurrying to keep up. The boy's face glowed with unspoiled cheer as he rushed to his elder brother and wrapped both arms tightly around Maekar's waist."You were incredible out there, Maekar! That last swing—it looked so cool!"
Maekar glanced down at the boy clinging to him. He tried—tried to feel something in return. Pride, warmth, affection. But as always, there was only emptiness. The sensation was no different than looking at a passing stranger on the street—one who brushed by and was forgotten a heartbeat later.
He gently unwrapped Aemond's arms from his torso and set him back. His words were calm, almost rehearsed."If you work hard, you'll be just as good."
Aemond nodded with wide, eager eyes."I can't wait to start training."
But Maekar had already turned away. Ignoring brother, maid, and Kingsguard alike, he walked from the yard with the same vacant composure. His path led back to his chambers—where he changed from sweat-soaked clothes, rinsed the dirt and salt from his skin, and left once more, his destination fixed.
The royal library loomed behind its heavy double doors. When Maekar slipped inside, the scent of dust and parchment washed over him, thick and dry. At the central table hunched Grand Maester Mellos, his bald head bent, his twisted back burdened by the countless links of his chain.
Hearing the door, Mellos turned. He found the young prince standing there, face as blank and unyielding as ever. A small shiver of unease touched the old man before habit tempered it. Mellos gave a brittle chuckle."The same book as last time, my prince?"
Maekar shook his head at Mellos' offer."Just focus on your work, Grand Maester. I will find what I need alone."
Without waiting for a reply, he drifted deeper into the library, past rows upon rows of tomes, his hand brushing against their spines as he walked. History of Houses, books of law, chronicles of faith—he ignored them all until at last he reached the section that recorded past wars.
His eyes scanned the shelves, searching for the title he had noticed two days prior. Soon, his fingers closed around the worn leather of the book. He pulled it free and carried it to a nearby table, the candlelight flickering across its surface. Settling down, he opened to the page he sought, his eyes gliding across the inked words:
[The attack came on the twenty-third day of the third moon of 43 AC. Above the waters of the Blackwater Rush, a league from the king's new castle, Prince Aegon came upon his uncle. The prince was mounted on Quicksilver, a slender pale grey she-dragon. Maegor rode Balerion. The Black Dread was older, larger, and far more ferocious.
Those who witnessed the battle said the dragons met in a storm of flame, the two beasts circling each other and pouring forth great gouts of fire.
The younger dragon was much quicker in the air, and Quicksilver avoided Balerion's flames again and again, all the while replying with her own. But her fire did little harm to the Black Dread, who had grown so large that his scales were like iron plate. And when at last Balerion locked his teeth around the neck of the younger dragon, Quicksilver's end was swift.
Prince Aegon leapt from his saddle at the last moment, but his cloak caught on something, or so the story goes. Instead of plunging to the river, he hung from the dragon's neck for a moment, then fell screaming to his death. Some say Balerion swallowed him whole.
Thus perished Prince Aegon, and with him the hopes of many.]
Maekar's eyes lingered on the final line, his face as expressionless as ever.
'The disparity is too great,' he thought. 'Between Balerion and Quicksilver there was no contest — in size, in experience, even in the quality of the dragonrider himself. The difference was simply too vast. Maegor needed no strategy to win; brute power was enough. And if this is the only example of dragon against dragon that Westeros can offer, then it teaches me little.'
He closed the book with quiet finality. 'Valyria must have had many such battles recorded in detail, but all those accounts vanished with their empire, consumed by flame and ash.' His mouth tightened. 'What remains here is pitiful — scraps of history, colored by bias and lacking the insight I need.'
Pushing back his chair, Maekar rose. Without sparing the tome another glance, he turned from the table and strode out of the library. His steps echoed against the stone floor as he made for the stables.
Reaching the stables, Maekar did not bother to choose carefully. His hand fell on the reins of a random steed, and with a curt gesture he summoned a stable boy to saddle it. The boy worked quickly, fingers moving with the easy rhythm of someone long accustomed to the task. Once finished, Maekar mounted, pressing his heels into the horse's flanks, and soon the prince was riding through the Red Keep's inner yard toward its gate.
At the gates, he found the guards waiting — and Ser Criston Cole beside them, mounted already with his own horse in hand. Cole's eyes met Maekar's, the faintest hint of recognition in his nod. He was long accustomed to the boy's routine: the clash of practice swords at dawn, the hours in the library at midday, and finally, as the sun lowered, the ride to the Dragonpit. Without a word, Cole swung into his saddle, signaled the guards to open the gates, and fell into step beside the prince.
For a time they rode in silence, hooves striking the stone roads in steady rhythm. At last, Criston Cole broke it.
"My prince," he said, his tone pitched low, as though explaining something plain to a stubborn child, "you are one of the most gifted I have seen with the sword. But your brother… he struggles. You should go easier on him, guide him where I cannot."
He glanced around, as though wary of unseen ears, before continuing in a quieter voice. "Aegon will be king one day, young prince. It is your duty to stand by him, to aid him."
Maekar finally turned his gaze from the road, his expression as unreadable as stone.
"Careful, Cole," he said flatly. "You tread near treason."
The words were spoken with the same hollow detachment he often displayed, as if he were defending not Aegon but Rhaenyra herself. His eyes narrowed faintly.
"These things do not need to be spoken aloud. I will support my brother's rise to the throne — naturally. But pampering him? Going easy on him? That will not strengthen him, only weaken him."
He looked forward again, tightening his grip on the reins. "Now ride in silence, or leave."
The rebuke hung in the air like a blade, leaving Criston Cole to swallow his reply as the road wound on toward the Dragonpit.
Criston Cole held his tongue, riding in silence beside the prince. Yet his eyes, against his better judgment, stole glances at the boy. 'Such a frightening child,' he thought. 'He does not laugh, nor cry, nor even sulk like others his age. Hollow. Hollow through and through.'
Most unsettling of all were Maekar's eyes. Cold, unblinking, with a depth that unnerved even a seasoned knight of the Kingsguard. They looked as if the void it self had taken root behind them.
Soon the looming dome of the Dragonpit came into view, its shadow falling long across the cobbled path. At its great arched entrance stood two dragonkeepers, their heads bowed low at the sight of the prince.
"Your dragon, Morghul, is fed and ready for flight, my prince," one of them intoned in the flowing cadence of High Valyrian.
Maekar inclined his head, his reply as smooth and flawless
"Good. Bring my dragon to me."
The words rolled from his tongue in perfect High Valyrian, the language sounding as natural in his mouth as breath itself.