The tourney grounds shimmered beneath the sun, a sea of silks and banners rippling with color. Gold and crimson hung heavy from every post, the dragon of House Targaryen twisting proudly in the wind. Music drifted from the pavilions — harps and pipes mingling with the distant roar of the crowd. The air smelled of sweet wine, horse sweat, and summer dust.
It was the ninth name day of Prince Maekar and Princess Rhaenyra, and the Crownlands had come to celebrate. Nobles filled the stands, jewels glinting like embers. Lords from the Reach and the Vale sat shoulder to shoulder, their laughter masked by the thundering hooves below.
Prince Maekar stood beside his father upon the royal dais, posture straight but eyes restless. His sister sat beside their mother, her hair bound with small dragon-shaped clips. Rhaenyra's gaze darted eagerly toward the lists, her excitement unhidden.
"Your brother seems far more interested in the pavilions than the knights," Aemma murmured, her tone warm but knowing.
Viserys smiled faintly. "He has his father's curiosity, but not his patience."
Otto Hightower stood at the King's side, calm as ever, whispering details of purses and prizes. "The Lord of Driftmark has funded the melee's purse most handsomely, Your Grace," he said. "The Sea Snake's favor is not cheaply won, but wisely kept."
At mention of Corlys Velaryon, Viserys turned slightly. The Lord of the Tides stood at the edge of the dais, every bit the image of a man born to the sea — silver hair streaked with salt, cloak trimmed in pale blue silk. "A fine show, Your Grace," he said with quiet satisfaction. "Let the realm see that House Targaryen still knows how to celebrate its blood."
Otto inclined his head. "It is fortunate to have your support, Lord Corlys."
The older lord smiled thinly. "Support, Lord Hand, is given when there is strength to anchor it."
Otto's answering smile did not reach his eyes. "Then may we ensure the crown remains such an anchor."
A trumpet sounded. The first tilt began.
Knights thundered past — banners snapping, splinters flying, crowds cheering. Maekar leaned forward, following each clash with rapt attention. But it was not the combat that held him — it was the people. The rhythm of excitement, the way nobles watched, the way their loyalty swayed with spectacle.
And just beyond the tiltyard, beyond the noise and glory, stood a small circle of tents with no heraldry at all. There, the Summer's Guild prepared.
When the last tilt of the day ended, Maekar turned to his father. "If it pleases Your Grace, the Guild has a small performance prepared — a gift for the name day of your children."
Viserys smiled indulgently. "You've been busy, my son. Very well, let them play."
The crowd murmured as the unfamiliar troupe stepped forward. There were jugglers, dancers, and singers — men and women from Flea Bottom, faces washed clean, clothes newly made but coarse beneath the color. Their leader, a wiry man missing two fingers, bowed low before the royal dais.
"For His Grace's blood made flesh — flame of dragonkind, and laughter of summer," he cried, voice clear.
And then it began.
They performed a play — rough, spirited, full of wit — telling of two dragons, one bright and one dark, who quarreled over the sun itself. The bright one claimed it for warmth; the dark one for shadow. In the end, both burned the sky red and were forced to share the dawn.
Rhaenyra laughed until she clapped her hands. Aemma smiled despite herself. Even Viserys, often lost in the weight of his own dreams, seemed moved by the simple cleverness of it.
Otto, however, watched Maekar more than the play. The prince's eyes were fixed on the performers, measuring every movement, every reaction from the crowd. Daemon, lounging nearby with a goblet in hand, caught the look and grinned.
Later, when the day dimmed and torches bloomed across the city, Daemon found the boy near the stables.
"You've a fine sense for spectacle, nephew," he said, his tone half-taunt, half-praise. "But tell me, what is this 'Guild' of yours? Beggars in silk?"
Maekar smiled slightly. "Builders of wonder, Uncle. And good listeners. They see things the court does not."
Daemon's laugh was sharp. "You're a dangerous little dragon. You make friends among the smallfolk, build your own troupe, and make a fool of the court without a word of treason. You'll need that wit if you mean to thrive here."
"I mean to do more than thrive," Maekar said quietly. "I mean to build."
---
That night, while the feasting stretched late into the halls of the Red Keep, Maekar descended into the Dragonpit. The torches burned low, the air thick with the musk of old stone and heat.
The dragonkeepers had long since learned of his visits — and permitted them. The eldest, an old man named Hareth, met him with a small nod. "Your Grace," he said, leading him down the steps. "The room is as you left it."
Within, Maekar's little chamber glowed faintly green — wildfire simmering in glass jars, casting flickering light over scrolls and half-finished devices. Charred fragments of eggshell lay in a bowl beside melted wax and powdered obsidian.
He studied them carefully, murmuring to himself. "Heat without flame. Breath without life. Perhaps… too much salt. Or not enough ash."
Hareth watched in silence, both proud and uneasy. "This craft is perilous, my prince. Even the pyromancers fear what lies beneath their own fires."
Maekar smiled faintly, eyes bright in the green light. "Then it is worth pursuing."
He poured a drop of wildfire onto a shard of scale. It hissed, shimmered, then cooled — leaving behind a faint trace of color not unlike dragonhide.
Tomorrow, he would show Daemon. The day after, he would ask his father for what he truly wanted.
When the feast ended and candles guttered low, Maekar approached Viserys and Aemma together in their private solar.
"Father. Mother." He bowed, eyes intent. "For my name day, I would ask a boon."
Viserys looked up from his wine. "Name it, my son."
"I wish to go to Dragonstone — only for a few moons. To study, to build, to learn its heart. It calls to me."
Aemma hesitated. "It is no place for a boy—"
But Viserys raised a hand. "A few moons, you say? With proper guard and retinue?"
Maekar nodded. "Of course, Father."
Viserys smiled, half-proud, half-nostalgic. "Then so it shall be. The blood of the dragon must know its true home."
Maekar bowed again. "Thank you, Your Grace."
As he left them, Daemon's voice rose from the doorway, dry and amused. "You've learned well, little one. You don't ask for power — only for place. Clever."
Maekar looked back, lips curving slightly. "Place becomes power, Uncle, when you know what to build upon it."
Daemon's laughter followed him into the corridor like a promise.