The sea wind tore across Dragonstone, salty and sharp, carrying the tang of sulfur from the cliffs. Maekar stood at the edge of the volcanic plateau, the basalt black under his boots, eyes fixed on the pit where the island's dragons stirred. Not Syrax—she belonged to Rhaenyra—but the others, the true heirs of the old Targaryen fire, moved like shadows against molten light.
He had been given leave to return here, ostensibly for study, travel, and leisure. The Crown permitted him freedom few had, trusting him as a prince yet unaware of the designs forming in his mind. He smiled quietly. Their ignorance would serve him well.
Within the Dragonpit, the dragonkeepers had prepared a chamber for him. Simple stone and heated floors, lined with rare Valyrian glass to catch light like fire. Here, Maekar worked, bending tradition to his will. Small vials of wildfire glimmered like trapped stars; ancient tomes lay open beside them. He had coaxed the keepers into secrecy with promises of gold, prestige, and subtle fear—fear that their dragons might punish failure.
The black egg lay at the center, warm and pulsing faintly. It had been weeks now, and he had begun the ritual. Fire, human sacrifice, and whispered commands. The dragonkeepers murmured guidance, but it was his hand, his mind, and his will that orchestrated every move.
He moved around the egg with a dancer's grace, sword in hand. Not for combat, but for motion, for rhythm. The "Dragon Dance" had become a part of the awakening ritual, a pattern to stir the latent life inside. Every swing, every step, measured against the currents of flame and stone. He had been practicing this for months, in secret, and the results were visible: the egg shivered, faint heat radiating, as though testing the world outside.
Beyond the ritual, Dragonstone itself had begun to transform under his attention. Guilds were being revived, not for art or glory, but as instruments. The Mummers' Guild, a troupe of performers, doubled as spies, messengers, and assassins. Pyromancers experimented openly with wildfire, but under his direction for controlled destruction. Glasswrights, shipbuilders, smiths—all worked in coded obedience, unknowingly laying the foundations of a miniature Valyria in culture and craft.
He paused at the edge of the chamber, watching the molten fissures below. Smoke curled around the columns, and the light flickered across the basalt, reflecting in his violet eyes. He imagined the guilds' performances—acrobats dancing with fire, masked figures hiding in plain sight, spies and informants moving unseen. Everything was a tool. Everything could be bent to his purpose.
"Soon," he murmured, touching the egg. "Soon you will see the world, and I will see with you."
The dragonkeepers nodded silently. They did not speak of ethics or morality. Maekar did not ask. He had learned that the world bent to those who could act, not those who hesitated.
At night, he walked the volcanic cliffs, imagining the future. Dragonstone, alive again, a seat of knowledge, power, and fear. The guilds below would sing, dance, craft, fight, and spy. The island itself would pulse with Targaryen ambition. And when the egg finally hatched, it would not be a pet or a toy—it would be an extension of his will, a living mirror of fire and intellect.
He had been dragonless for too long. That would end here. Not with a king's favor, not with Rhaenyra's guidance, but with the cunning, cruelty, and patience that had carried him through childhood, through courts, and through the streets of King's Landing.
Every ritual completed, every strike of the Dragon Dance perfected, brought him closer. And every guild, every smuggler, every hidden agent trained under his watch, was another piece in the network that would make Dragonstone his laboratory, his fortress, his private Valyria.
The volcanic night pressed in, and Maekar smiled in the dim glow. Fire, blood, stone, and secrecy—the tools of kings. And he, dragonless no longer, would wield them all.