Maegor's POV
Harrenhal, 101 AC
The air in Harrenhal's great hall was thick with tension, the weight of history pressing down like the scorched stones of the castle itself. Maegor Stone, bastard son of Aemon Targaryen, first-born son of King Jaehaerys, stood among the lords of Westeros, his bronze-colored eyes scanning the sea of faces. Born of a tavern girl in Runestone, his life had been one of struggle, a constant fight to prove his worth in a world that sneered at his illegitimacy. His father had once looked at him with something akin to pride, before Rhaenys, his trueborn half-sister, was born. Maegor had pleaded with Aemon to acknowledge him, to give him a name beyond "Stone." But then Aemon died, struck down in battle, and Maegor was left adrift, a shadow of a Targaryen.
Now, at the Great Council of 101 AC, the realm decided its future. Maegor watched as the votes were tallied, each one a nail in the coffin of his half-sister's claim. Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, stood tall despite the murmurs of the lords, her violet eyes fierce with defiance. Maegor admired her, though he'd never admit it aloud. She carried their father's fire, his resolve. In her, Maegor saw the man Aemon might have been—noble, unyielding, yet tempered with kindness. She had always treated him with a quiet respect, never as a stain on their house, and for that, he felt a pang of loyalty, even love.
The final count was announced: Viserys, their cousin, would be king. A sigh escaped Maegor's lips, heavy with
disappointment.
Not for Viserys, who was amiable enough, but for Rhaenys, whose claim had been cast aside because she was a woman. The injustice of it gnawed at him, though he knew better than to voice such thoughts in this den of vipers. He caught Rhaenys's eye across the hall. She gave him a small, bittersweet smile, as if to say, This is the way of things. Maegor clenched his fists, his bastard's blood burning with the urge to prove himself worthy of the name she carried so effortlessly.
Dragonpit, 103 AC
Two years had passed since the Great Council, and the realm mourned the death of King Jaehaerys, the Conciliator, the greatest king Maegor had ever known. His passing left a void, not just in the Iron Throne but in Maegor's heart. With Jaehaerys gone, the Dragonpit felt emptier, its vast stone arches echoing with the ghosts of Targaryen glory. Maegor had come here seeking a dragon, a chance to claim the birthright denied him by his bastardy. He could never have Balerion, the Black Dread, who had died years before, but another might yet answer his call.
The air grew warmer as he descended into the pit, the scent of sulfur and ash filling his lungs. His blood stirred, a primal heat that whispered of his Targaryen heritage. He felt it before he saw it—a presence, ancient and unyielding. Then, from the shadows, a pair of molten orange eyes met his own. Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, loomed before him, his scales gleaming like burnished metal, his growl a low rumble that shook the stone beneath Maegor's feet.
Of all the dragons, Maegor thought, his heart sinking, it had to be him. Vermithor, the mount of King Jaehaerys himself, riderless only since the old king's death. The dragon's grief was palpable, his massive form coiled in restless mourning. To claim him now, so soon after Jaehaerys's passing, felt like tempting fate.
"Lykiri," Maegor called, his voice trembling as he raised a hand. "Lykiri, Vermithor." The dragon's growl deepened, his head lowering, teeth bared like daggers. Maegor's pulse quickened, but he steeled himself, drawing on the fire in his veins. He was no stranger to defiance, human or draconic. "Umbās, Vermithor! Lykiri!" His tone was commanding now, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue with a force he hadn't known he possessed.
Vermithor's eyes narrowed, assessing him. For a moment, Maegor thought the dragon would lunge, that his ambition would end in fire and blood. But then, slowly, the great beast's head dipped, a grudging acknowledgment. Maegor's breath caught as he stepped closer, his hand brushing against the warm, scaled snout. A bond sparked, fragile but real, like a flame catching kindling. Vermithor was his.
Later, at Rhaenys's Chambers
Maegor found Rhaenys in her quarters at the Red Keep, her dragon Meleys curled outside the window like a guardian. The once Princess of Dragonstone looked weary, her dark hair streaked with silver, but her eyes softened when she saw him. "Maegor," she said, her voice warm. "I heard of your feat in the Dragonpit. Vermithor… Father would be proud."
Maegor shifted uncomfortably, unused to praise. "I'm no true Targaryen, Rhaenys. Just a bastard with a dragon."
She stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. "You are Aemon's son. I see him in you—his strength, his stubbornness. You've claimed a king's dragon. That's no small thing."
Her words stirred something in him, a mix of pride and pain. "I wanted to be more than a shadow of him," he admitted, his voice low. "I wanted to be… someone."
Rhaenys's smile was tinged with sadness. "You are, Maegor. And you will be. The realm may not see it yet, but I do."
For the first time in years, Maegor felt a flicker of hope. Vermithor's fire was his now, and with it, a chance to carve his own name into the annals of Westeros. But as he looked at Rhaenys, he knew his path would not be his alone. She was his sister, his blood, and he would stand by her, even if the Iron Throne never would.
As he left her chambers, the weight of Vermithor's bond settled over him, a mantle of fire and ambition. The game of thrones was far from over, and Maegor Stone was no longer just a bastard. He was a dragonrider, and the world would know his name.