114 Ac
Maekar crossed the gates of the Red Keep with Ser Criston at his side. Sliding from the saddle, he handed the reins to a waiting stable boy without a word. Criston inclined his head in farewell, turning away to resume his other duties as a Kingsguard.
Left alone, Maekar considered where to spend his time. The gardens came to mind—he was certain he would find a particular someone there, happily playing in the dirt. With that thought, he set off, weaving his way through the labyrinth of hallways and heavy doors that led toward the outer grounds.
But before he could reach them, a Red Keep guard stepped into his path. The man bowed hastily.
"My prince, His Grace requests your presence in Princess Rhaenyra's chambers."
Maekar exhaled softly, a sigh escaping his lips.
'It seems I came a bit early.'
Earlier that morning, Rhaenyra, the realm's declared heir, had her waters break at first light. Since then she had been confined to her chambers, surrounded by the Grand Maester and a flock of midwives.
'So the second bastard had finally been dragged screaming into the world. Or perhaps,' Maekar mused, 'or perhaps my birth could have changed something. though judging by the fact that Jacaryes is already born, i doubt it'
Either way, he had no choice in the matter. Summoned by the king himself, Maekar turned and began making his way toward his half-sister's quarters.
Soon enough, Maekar reached Rhaenyra's chambers, only to find them crowded. Courtiers, servants, and hangers-on had gathered, eager for a glimpse of the heir's second-born child. A guard spotted Maekar and quickly cleared a path through the knot of gawking attendants by the door, allowing him to slip inside.
The scene within was heavy with heat and the stench of birth. In the center of the chamber stood the king himself, cradling a small bundle in his arms, rocking it with uncharacteristic tenderness. He cooed softly, his face alight with joy.
On the bed lay Rhaenyra, pale and spent, her gown stained dark with blood. Her silver hair clung damply to her face, plastered by sweat. At her side sat Laenor Velaryon, dutifully clasping her hand, though his expression seemed more rehearsed than heartfelt.
Off to one side, Queen Alicent lingered in silence. Her face was a mask of uncertain calm, yet her eyes betrayed her. She flicked nervous glances between the bundle in the king's arms, Rhaenyra on the bed, and Laenor at her side. Each time, her gaze settled not on their faces but upon the crowns of their heads.
To the corner of the chamber stood Lord Corlys Velaryon, arguably the second most influential man in the Seven Kingdoms—and by far the richest. At his side was his wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, rider of Meleys, the Red Queen. Yet rather than standing beside the king to bask in the joy of their newborn grandson, they lingered apart, their eyes flitting toward one another, sharing suspicious looks. As though some hidden unease weighed upon them.
Maekar's lips curved in the faintest smirk, a flicker of cruel amusement flashing across his otherwise impassive face. 'Not their faces… but their hair they are looking at. Always the hair.'
The expression vanished as swiftly as it came, replaced by the cold neutrality the curse demanded of him. 'So… my birth changed nothing. My half-sister still wallows in her whorish ways.'
Stepping closer, Maekar reached up and tapped the king's arm. "Let me see my newborn nephew," he said, his voice smooth.
Aegon, who had been lingering near his mother's side, suddenly stepped forward, falling in just behind his younger twin, eager now for a glimpse of the newborn. He leaned forward with boyish curiosity, though the flush still burning at the tip of his ear betrayed the truth—that he had not come of his own accord but had been dragged there at first.
Delighted to share his joy, the king gladly obliged. He lowered the bundle and drew back the cloth that had been shielding the child's head. A hush spread through the chamber as the infant's tiny crown of hair was revealed—not silver, not gold, but a soft brown.
Maekar's eyes lingered on the infant, sharp and unblinking. 'So… that is the mark. The only proof, for now, yet proof enough. Rhaenyra's firstborn could perhaps be dismissed as mere misfortune, though any observer would know a bastard when they saw one. This one, however, still had a face too soft, too shapeless to reveal much more. But the hair… the hair had already raised enough red flags.'
He shifted his gaze to Laenor. "Have you decided on a name?"
Laenor's jaw worked before he glanced at his wife. After a brief pause, he answered, "We decided to name him Lucerys Velaryon." His words carried the weight of duty, not pride, and his forced smile betrayed the strain beneath.
Maekar inclined his head. "Lucerys," he repeated, then offered a slight nod towards his half-sister. "I can tell he will grow into a strong boy, sister." His gaze, hollow and piercing, locked with Rhaenyra's.
Color drained further from her already pale cheeks. She tore her eyes from him, heart hammering. 'Could he know? No… impossible. He is but seven. he couldn't know'
Having had his fill and played his part, Maekar slipped from the chamber. 'Only Rhaenyra and Breakbones knew the truth of her boy's strength—for now. But not for long,' he thought coldly. 'Soon enough the bitch will give birth to another one of these things, and then all will see who their true father is.'
He turned from the laughter and cooing behind him, heading toward the gardens—the place he had intended to go before being waylaid by the birth of yet another bastard.
The night air was cool, the gardens quiet, their paths lit only by the shimmer of torchlight. Maekar stopped short of the garden's entrance, his face hardening even further. 'Dark?… of course. it's fucking midnight'
'A five-year-old would not be playing in the gardens at this hour, least of all if her mother were Alicent Hightower.'
For a fleeting moment, something like relief brushed him—thankful, perhaps, that he had told no one of his intentions. But the feeling withered as quickly as it came. Turning on his heel, Maekar made for his chambers, his expression once again the dead mask that so often unsettled those who dared look too long. Sleep awaited him after all.
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