Maekar and the fifty Unsullied left once Morghul had fed, the night still thick with smoke and charred flesh. He led them back to the hollow where the rest of his gold lay buried. With a curt gesture, he made two dig down and haul it up.
Turning to the soldiers, his voice cut through the night.
"Unsullied. Before this night you were slaves to merchants and decrepit fools. From this moment, you are slaves to a dragon prince. Be proud—your chains now bind you to something greater. You will help me achieve great things."
He let his words hang heavy before continuing, his eyes cold.
"Which of you will speak for the rest?"
The Unsullied exchanged silent glances before shoving one forward. Taller than most, but still carved from the same steel. He dropped to his knees.
"Master."
Maekar studied him, then gave a single nod.
"You have no name. That does not need to change. But you—"
his gaze lingered on the man's coarse, ash-colored skin.
"For convenience's sake—I will call you Grey."
The Unsullied bowed lower, awaiting orders.
"I am Maekar, prince of Westeros," he said, voice flat.
"But in Westeros, slaves are forbidden. I cannot parade you openly."
He gestured to the chests of gold.
"You will guard this treasure. Use what you must to secure passage by ship across the Narrow Sea."
From his cloak, Maekar unrolled a strip of animal hide, a crude map scratched upon it. He pointed with one finger.
"This is the Kingswood, south of King's Landing. That is where you will go. To reach it, you'll sail past the Gullet, slipping between Driftmark and the Crownlands. A dangerous crossing, one you cannot make alone."
His eyes swept over grey, cold and hard.
"Find a merchant who sails from Tyrosh to King's Landing. Take his ship. Force him to ferry you across."
"The journey will take three, perhaps four weeks," Maekar said, pressing the map into Grey's hands.
Grey bowed his head. "We will do your bidding, master."
Maekar's eyes narrowed.
"And you know what must be done with the merchant once he delivers you to Westeros?"
Grey nodded.
"Do not worry, master. We will see to it."
"Good." Maekar's tone was ice.
"No one must know of your destination. When you search for a ship, you will not move as one. Split apart. Only one among you will make inquiries at the docks—and he will speak as though his master seeks passage to King's Landing. Nothing more."
The Unsullied struck their spears against the earth in unison, the sound carrying like a vow.
"When you reach the Kingswood, do not wear Unsullied armor," Maekar ordered.
"Your faces mark you foreign enough, and you speak no tongue of Westeros. You will draw eyes. I cannot allow that."
He folded the map and slid it back into Grey's hand.
"In three weeks' time, I will sweep above the Kingswood on dragonback every day. I will find you. Until then, you are unseen, unheard."
Grey and the Unsullied dropped to their knees as the earth trembled beneath the shadow of Morghul's wings. The dragon landed with a low, guttural rumble, smoke curling from his nostrils.
Maekar turned without another word, climbed into the saddle, and lashed himself in. His voice cut through the air like steel.
"Fly, Morghul."
With a thunderous beat of wings, the dragon rose, and Maekar vanished into the sky.
Soon Maekar was above the clouds, cutting through the sky toward King's Landing. He thought,
'My absence will be marked. Questions asked. No matter.'
He pressed Morghul harder, then closed his eyes, letting the world vanish as he looked instead through the dragon's own.
A day later, the Small Council chamber was cloaked in unease. The King of the Seven Kingdoms slumped upon his wooden chair, wasted and ruined by sickness. His once-golden hair hung in brittle strands, his flesh mottled and eaten as if rot worked from within. His eyes, fever-bright, raked over the council.
Beside him sat his Hand, Lyonel Strong
the Grand Maester, Mellos
and Lord Beesbury, master of coin.
With a rasp sharpened by anger, the king demanded:
"Still no word? None of you can tell me where my son has gone?"
Lyonel Strong spoke at last, for the others were struck dumb, not knowing what to say.
"Your Grace, Prince Maekar took his dragon and departed. Where, we do not know. Every servant has been questioned, even the dragonkeepers—but the prince told no one. The queen herself pressed her children, yet they knew nothing. Riders have been sent to the lords about King's Landing to report should they glimpse a black dragon overhead, but nothing has come."
He fell silent as Viserys slammed his one good hand upon the table, a mistake in a moment of anger. The pain twisted his face, and Mellos half-rose, but the king waved him down with a snarl.
"So—are you telling me we can do nothing? That is it?"
Silence again, heavy and suffocating, until Lyonel forced himself to answer.
"Your Grace, I believe the prince has flown beyond the Crownlands. The wisest course is to send word to every lord, commanding them to—"
"ROAR"
He was cut short by a roar.
It tore through the city like iron scraping stone, shrill and grating, crawling into the bones of all who heard it. Dogs howled, and the councilors froze where they sat.
Behind the throne, the dragonkeeper, who had stood in silence, head bowed in shame, lifted his eyes at once. His voice broke out in High Valyrian, urgent and certain
"Your Grace—that cry belongs to Morghul. The prince's dragon."
With a Kingsguard's help, Viserys was quickly able to stand and look out the window along with the council members, spotting a ferocious dragon circling the skies of King's Landing. The dragon roared a few more times before starting to descend.
Maekar soon landed in the Dragonpit's open area. Before he could even get down, he saw a teary-eyed Alicent, followed by Ser Criston Cole along with Aemond and Aegon hurrying toward him.
Maekar walked forward as Alicent, now close enough, shouted,
"Where had you been, Maekar?"
She held him by the shoulders, checking his body for injuries.
Maekar replied impassively,
"Nowhere. I just decided to take a stroll around the Crownlands, that is all."
Criston Cole, Aegon, and Aemond stood to the side, waiting for Alicent to finish so they could check up on Maekar, but Alicent, seemingly infuriated by his impassiveness and obvious lie, raised her hand to slap him across the face. Before she could even raise her hand fully, Maekar grabbed her wrist and said,
"Careful, Mother. I may not hit back, but someone else will."
Perhaps feeling the harmful intent toward his rider, Morghul, who hadn't left yet and was still lying on the ground, sprang to his feet and reared his head toward Maekar and Alicent. Seeing the woman's hand still raised but held, Morghul opened his maw wide and roared at Alicent, taking a short step forward.
Alicent, realizing she was dangerously close to the very thing she feared most—and that it was looking upon her with no kindness—tried to step back in terror. But Maekar held her with one hand, and with the other he waved Morghul away. The dragon's aggressive posture melted, and it quickly turned and retreated back into its pit.
Maekar patted Alicent on the shoulder.
"Don't worry, Mother. I am fine."
he said flatly, before stepping forward and leaving her behind.
"I am tired. I will need rest."
Aegon and Aemond quickly moved to his side, eager to know where he had gone, while Cole went to the rattled queen.