Just Outside King's Landing, 283 AC
POV: Maekar Targaryen
Maekar's body screamed with pain, each jolt of the galloping horse driving a spike through his battered frame. His scarred hand, gnarled from old wounds, slapped hard against the reins, urging the black steed faster. The wind tore at his cloak, carrying the acrid scent of smoke rising from King's Landing in dark, curling plumes against the twilight sky. The city was a wounded beast, its silhouette jagged and wrong.
As he crested a low hill, Maekar's breath caught. The crimson dragon banner of House Targaryen, once proud atop the Red Keep, was gone. In its place fluttered the golden lion of House Lannister, snarling beside the crowned stag of Baratheon. The sight was a blade to his gut. He reined in his horse, the beast snorting and stamping as he stared at the distant walls.
"So, Tywin Lannister has betrayed us," Maekar whispered, his voice hoarse with rage and disbelief. The Broken Dragon felt truly broken now, his heart a furnace of grief and fury. The man who had knelt before their father, who had sworn loyalty to the Iron Throne, had turned his cloak. The dragon banners lay tattered in the mud, replaced by the symbols of those who would see House Targaryen cast down.
Maekar's grip tightened on Blackfyre's hilt, the ancestral blade heavy at his side. His brother's words echoed in his mind: "Protect the city, protect the realm… you will take the throne." Rhaegar had entrusted him with the future of their house, but what future remained in a city already lost to treachery? The weight of his brother's charge pressed against his chest, heavier than the steel in his hand.
He spurred his horse forward, the beast's hooves churning the earth as he descended toward the city. The gates of King's Landing loomed ahead, their iron teeth glinting in the fading light. Lannister men-at-arms stood watch, their crimson cloaks snapping in the wind. Maekar's violet eyes burned as he scanned their ranks, searching for any sign of friend or foe. The smallfolk scurried through the streets beyond, their faces pale with fear, their whispers drowned by the clatter of steel and the distant wail of a horn.
He drew his cloak tighter, concealing the dragon sigil embroidered on his doublet. To ride openly as a Targaryen now was to court death. Tywin's betrayal changed everything—King's Landing was no longer a stronghold but a trap. Yet Rhaegar's final command tugged at him: "Go to the Tower of Joy. Lyanna is there." The words were a riddle wrapped in duty. Why had Rhaegar spoken of Lyanna Stark with such urgency? What secret lay hidden in that distant Dornish tower?
The Kingsroad, South of King's Landing, 283 AC
POV: Maekar Targaryen
The night was a cloak of shadow, heavy and suffocating, as Maekar urged his black steed south along the Kingsroad. The lights of King's Landing faded behind him, swallowed by the horizon, but the city's screams lingered in his ears. Smoke still curled in his memory, the golden lion of Lannister mocking the tattered dragon banners. His heart gnawed at itself, torn between duty and blood. Aerys, his father, and Aegon, his nephew, were trapped in the Red Keep, prey to Tywin's treachery. Yet Rhaegar's final command burned brighter: "Go to the Tower of Joy. Lyanna is there."
Maekar's scarred hand tightened on the reins, the pain in his knuckles a dull echo of the ache in his chest. Blackfyre, sheathed at his side, felt heavier than ever, its Valyrian steel whispering of oaths and burdens. He was the heir now, named by Rhaegar to carry the dragon's flame, but what was a dragon without its kin? To abandon his family to the lions and stags was a wound deeper than any blade could cut. Yet Rhaegar's words were a chain, binding him to a path he could not refuse.
The Kingsroad stretched into the darkness, a ribbon of dust and danger winding toward Dorne. The Tower of Joy lay far to the south, hidden in the red mountains, a place of secrets Maekar could not yet fathom. Why had Rhaegar spoken of Lyanna Stark with such urgency? What could a Stark woman, hidden in a Dornish tower, mean to the fate of the realm? Maekar's mind churned, but no answers came—only the hoofbeats of his horse and the distant howl of a wolf under the starless sky.
He rode through the night, the world a blur of shadowed trees and silent fields. The smallfolk had fled the roads, driven to hiding by war's cruel hand. Maekar kept his cloak drawn tight, the dragon sigil hidden. Lannister men or Baratheon scouts could be anywhere, and a lone rider bearing the Targaryen name was a prize too tempting. His violet eyes scanned the darkness, wary of every rustle, every flicker of movement.
By dawn, the air grew warmer, the flatlands giving way to rolling hills dusted with red sand. Dorne was near, its border a threshold between the known and the unknown. Maekar's body ached, his wounds throbbing with each mile, but he pressed on. The Tower of Joy called, a beacon of mystery pulling him from the ruins of his house.
He halted at a stream to water his horse, the beast's breath steaming in the cool morning air. Kneeling by the water, Maekar splashed his face, the icy shock grounding him. His reflection stared back—gaunt, scarred, a dragon broken but unbowed. He thought of Aerys, mad and raging in the Red Keep, and Aegon, frail and fading. I should be there, he thought, the words a dagger in his gut. I should fight for them. But Rhaegar's trust was a heavier burden, a crown of duty he could not cast aside.
He rose, wiping his hands on his cloak, and mounted again. "For Rhaegar," he muttered, the vow a lifeline. "For House Targaryen." But the words tasted of ash. To leave his family to their fate was a betrayal of his heart, yet to defy Rhaegar's command was to betray the realm. Maekar the Broken was no stranger to pain, but this choice carved a new scar, one that would not fade.
The sun climbed higher, painting the Dornish hills in hues of blood and gold. By midday, Maekar glimpsed the first peaks of the red mountains, their jagged silhouettes a promise of secrets. The Tower of Joy was close now, hidden somewhere in those crags. Lyanna Stark waited there, and with her, perhaps, the truth Rhaegar had died for.
As he rode, a memory surfaced—Rhaegar's voice at the Trident, soft and heavy: "The realm needs more than a sword this day." Maekar's jaw clenched. He would find the tower. He would uncover its secrets. And if the gods were cruel, he would carry the weight of his family's fall alone.
The wind whispered through the mountains, carrying the faint cry of a hawk. Maekar spurred his horse forward, the path to the Tower of Joy.