The Red Keep was alive in ways most children never noticed. Sunlight spilled across polished floors, banners of gold dragons on crimson silk catching the light. Carpets muffled footsteps, tapestries whispered of Targaryen conquests, and the scent of heated stone mingled with roasted meats. Every corner of the castle seemed designed to impress, to remind visitors that dragons had once ruled the skies—and still did, in subtle ways.
Maekar moved through it all with a practiced ease, violet eyes surveying, calculating. He was eight, but carried himself as though he had already measured the court, weighed its players, and catalogued their secrets.
Before heading to the yard for sword practice, he paused at his father's chamber. Viserys, already dressed for a council session, looked up from a stack of letters.
"Ah, Maekar. Come here, son."
Maekar bowed lightly. "Father."
"You have grown," Viserys said, voice gentle. "I hear your sparring impresses the squires. Perhaps you can teach me a few steps next time?"
The boy grinned, leaning on the doorframe. "Only if you promise to move faster than the wind, Father. Otherwise, it would be most embarrassing."
Viserys chuckled. "Embarrassment comes to all eventually, even kings." He ruffled Maekar's pale hair. "But you… you move as if the world bends for you."
"And perhaps, Father," Maekar said smoothly, "it does, for those clever enough to notice."
Viserys laughed, shaking his head. "Clever enough, you say? Careful, Maekar. One day, cleverness may get you into trouble."
"I have noted the warning," Maekar replied, bowing with mock solemnity.
Aemma called from the corridor. "Maekar! Breakfast awaits if you are done with your plotting."
Maekar inclined his head. "Good morning, Mother. Your porridge will wait until it knows it is being eaten with proper ceremony."
She laughed softly. "And who teaches you such manners? Your father?"
"Hardly. Only life itself, Mother," he said with a grin.
Breakfast passed with gentle conversation. Maekar observed carefully, noting how Viserys's kindness softened Aemma's sharpness, and how Aemma's warmth steadied Viserys's hesitation. He learned as much from them as from his games—human nature, the architecture of influence.
---
Afterward, he wandered to the yard. Five squires—sons of minor nobles and Crownland knights—stood at attention, each eager to prove himself. Maekar drew a blunt steel practice sword.
"Line up," he said, eyes glinting. "Do try not to fall over before the lesson begins."
The boys lunged, parried, stumbled. Maekar flowed around them, tapping lightly, teasing, letting small victories pass to make them try harder. Laughter and cries of frustration mingled under the sun.
"Too slow, Martin!" he said, darting past a flailing arm. "And you, Loras, swing like a miller's son, not a knight. Would you survive a dragon's claw with such moves?"
Rhaenyra approached, miniature blade in hand. "You make them look foolish," she said.
"Foolish?" Maekar tilted his head, smiling. "No, sister. I give them a story to remember. One day, they'll tell of the prince who danced with them in the sun."
Rhaenyra frowned, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. "One day, someone will beat you."
"Perhaps," Maekar said. "But until that day, I enjoy my victories."
---
Later, in a quieter hall, Daemon Targaryen waited, leaning against the stone wall, boots dusty from city streets.
"So, the little dragon comes to visit me," Daemon said, voice low, amused.
Maekar stepped forward. "I come to learn from you, Uncle. Flea Bottom is… instructive."
Daemon's grin widened. "A sharp tongue even at eight. Good. Tell me, have you thought of Dragonstone?"
"I think often of Dragonstone," Maekar replied, eyes narrowing. "It is alive. The air hums as if it remembers the dragons. One day, I will make it more alive. Perhaps… more than even Syrax can tell me."
Daemon's eyes flicked toward him, impressed. "You'll need men who can build, not just fight. The castle is only stone; the island must breathe. And dragons… you are still dragonless?"
Maekar's small shoulders squared. "I am. But I will fix it. I've been learning from the dragonkeeper, experimenting with fire and alchemy. Soon, I will awaken my egg, and Dragonstone will remember what it has forgotten."
Daemon's laugh rolled like distant thunder. "Good. Clever little dragon. I like it. One day, perhaps you'll show me your work. Until then, keep your tricks close."
---
By evening, Maekar descended into his private chamber within the Dragonpit. The dragonkeeper had granted him this space, where he could work unhindered. Basins of simmering wildfire cast a warm, golden glow across shelves lined with powders, vials, and glass flasks. Every flame was measured; every chemical reaction observed.
The black egg rested on heated obsidian, warmer than expected. Maekar crouched, hands hovering over it. "Steady, steady," he whispered. He had spent months learning from the dragonkeeper, studying the reactions of fire and Valyrian alchemy, recording every tremor, every flicker of heat, every tiny crack. Light, warmth, and whispering encouragement were all he offered.
A thin fissure appeared in the egg's shell, glowing faintly. Maekar's lips curved in a triumphant smile. "Soon," he murmured. "Soon, you will speak."
The boy's mind raced ahead, already imagining the day when his dragon would awaken, when he would no longer be dragonless. Every experiment, every careful manipulation, was a step toward that moment. Dragonstone, the Red Keep, the court, even the city below—all were pieces in the same game. And Maekar would always stay several moves ahead.