The Red Keep rose before him, black towers cutting into the sky, a mountain of stone alive with shadow. Even from the carriage, Maekar noted every detail: banners snapping, the twisting alleys, the scent of salt and smoke from the bay below. He pressed his small hands against the seat, silver hair brushing his shoulders, lilac eyes drinking in every motion. Five years old, and yet he cataloged everything—every glance, every footstep—a symphony of power and folly that he alone could hear.
Rhaenyra sat beside him, holding Syrax. The hatchling was nearly the height of a young horse, broad-shouldered and golden-scaled, wings folded but massive, tail sweeping the floor. Her head was large, eyes bright molten brass, and she hissed at anyone who came too close. Courtiers leaned back as the dragon's voice rose, a hiss sharp and commanding, the smoke curling from her nostrils like mist over a mountain.
"She's mine," Rhaenyra said, fearless, stroking the dragon's snout. "She listens only to me."
Maekar watched quietly. The dragon's size alone made his sister a figure of awe, and he noted how people instinctively stepped aside or lowered their gaze. There was power in that, raw and unearned, and he smiled faintly at the lesson it offered.
He turned his attention to the other egg, resting against the hearth. Vaerath remained dormant, green-veined and still. Maekar touched it gently, thumb tracing the seams of the shell. "Sleep well," he murmured. "Soon you will learn."
---
Below, the courtyard hummed with movement. Viserys, now king, rode beside Daemon, each accompanied by dragons that stretched and roared above the city. Caraxes lifted, wings cutting the wind, his presence unmistakable. Viserys's boyish grin was tempered by the weight of a crown newly assumed, while Daemon laughed, clapping a man on the shoulder, sowing both charm and discomfort. Maekar observed, noting every subtle flicker of fear, respect, and attention.
Rhaenyra waved from her perch beside Syrax, the dragon's massive head towering above the attendants. Courtiers whispered in awe, eyes wide at the golden-scaled creature that dwarfed them. Maekar inclined his head politely, measuring how people reacted to power displayed, understanding that fear and admiration could be turned into influence.
He turned to Rhaenyra. "They do not see you as yourself," he said softly. "They see her. And through her, you can shape them."
Rhaenyra giggled, unconcerned. "And I do not care?"
"You care," he replied. "But only for the reasons I will teach you."
---
Inside the Keep, servants bowed as the children passed, whispers following them. Maekar cataloged it all: who lingered too long, who smiled at the wrong moment, who glanced at the dragon with envy. Each movement, each expression, a thread in a pattern he would someday manipulate.
Rhaenyra, fearless and radiant beside her horse-sized dragon, naturally drew attention. Maekar walked quietly, observing, learning, noting which lords and ladies might be swayed, which might resent, and how small words or gestures could tip the balance.
"Mother?" Rhaenyra asked, her hand brushing Syrax's scaled neck.
"Yes, my light," Aemma said softly, watching from behind. "Careful, she is still young, still learning strength."
"She won't hurt me," Rhaenyra said, proud and unafraid.
Maekar studied the scene. The dragon, the awe she inspired, the fear and wonder in the eyes of courtiers—all of it was a lesson in spectacle. Power, he thought, could be wielded not only with blade or crown, but with presence.
---
The Hightowers waited in the great hall: Otto, grave and calculating, watching every interaction; Alicent, wide-eyed and delicate, observing quietly. Maekar inclined his head politely, eyes meeting hers. My little doe, he thought. Not cruelty, only amusement and calculation. She would be useful, in time.
Daemon appeared at the door, laughter spilling from his lips. He crouched to inspect a simple board game Maekar had begun arranging on the floor, scraps of cloth for pieces, painted stones for tokens.
"You are clever, little prince," Daemon said. "Cleverer than your age allows."
Maekar looked up calmly. "It is only a matter of practice, uncle."
Daemon grinned, a spark of admiration in his eyes. "Perhaps I should teach you more."
Maekar considered silently. Lessons could be useful—but only when turned to advantage.
---
The day waned. Sunlight fell through the tall windows, glinting off Syrax's scales. Courtiers whispered of the children, of the dragon's size and temper, of the boy who watched quietly, always measuring.
Maekar smiled faintly to himself. The game on the floor, the whispered observations, the awe of Syrax and Rhaenyra—all threads weaving quietly through the Red Keep. One day, these threads would form a web.
Fire and shadow, he thought, watching his sister handle the dragon with ease. And I am ready.
He turned toward Vaerath's egg, resting still on the hearth. One day soon, he would awaken it himself. But for now, he studied the court, the courtiers, the dragons, and the children's games. It was all part of the same experiment: understanding, measuring, and shaping the world.
The Red Keep hummed with intrigue, and Maekar, small yet far older in mind than anyone realized, stepped lightly into its currents, already plotting the moves others did not yet see.