| Author's Note: A rewrite in the making.
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They named him Maegor, though some whispered that such a name should never again grace a son of House Targaryen. Yet the Mad King, Aerys the Second of his name, had always taken a perverse delight in ill omens.
Born in 261 AC, Prince Maegor Targaryen entered the world as a storm raged beyond the walls of Maegor's Holdfast, a sign many at court deemed fitting. He was two years younger than his brother Rhaegar, and possessed of a sharper, prouder temper.
Where Rhaegar was silver light and quiet melancholy, Maegor burned like a forge.
By the time of the Tourney at Harrenhal, he had seen twenty namedays. He stood tall and broad-shouldered, a warrior of six feet and three inches, his body honed by years of training under the finest swordsmen in the realm. The scars across his back and chest told a story of both defiance and devotion, some earned in battle, others under his father's hand.
His hair was platinum white, streaked faintly with ash-gray, a rare inheritance many took as an ill-omened blessing from some darker strain of Valyrian blood. His eyes, deep amethyst, betrayed a temper that simmered beneath the surface, slow to rise, but violent when finally loosed.
Prince Maegor was seldom seen without his armor, dark silver steel chased with light silver dragons, stark and solemn when set beside the ornate gilded plate his brother favored. His breastplate bore the sigil of House Targaryen in red enamel, its three heads gleaming like banked coals. Beneath his left pauldron ran a thin, curved scar, the mark of his father's madness, earned when he had once stood between Aerys and Queen Rhaella to shield his mother from her husband's wrath.
At his side he carried Darkflame, a lean steel longsword with a crossguard shaped like a dragon's wings. Its edge held a smoke-dark sheen, and in torchlight it seemed to drink the fire rather than reflect it.
Those who knew him spoke of a prince both daring and dangerous, capable of easy charm when it suited him, and cold detachment when it did not.
He laughed with soldiers and dined with knights, yet his silences were heavy things, and more than one courtier had learned to fear his stillness.
To the smallfolk, he was the Daring Prince, a title spoken with equal parts admiration and warning. To his father, he was the son who still obeyed, and to Rhaegar, though neither would ever speak it aloud, he was the shadow that walked beside the sun.
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A/N: I feel like Maegor and the music 'A Little Death' by Neighbourhood go hand in hand, lmao.