120 Ac
A thirteen-year-old Maekar sat at his desk, absorbed in a book. It spoke of supposed mages and rumors—the pyromancers and the blood mages of Asshai. The author, Archmaester Gavin, argued that most so-called magic was little more than parlor tricks, distorted by time and poor record-keeping into folklore. He went on to claim that even if magic had existed, it was extinguished when Valyria went up in smoke.
'How convenient,' Maekar thought, 'that they forgot to mention the flying, fire-breathing fortresses we ride.'
He snapped the book shut and glanced at the sun climbing in the sky. "The Pink Dread should be happening about now," he muttered. Standing, he considered, ' I'm finally old enough to act without too much interference. I need to hurry my plans. My dragon isn't enough—I need more.'
Maekar moved to the corner of his chambers and removed a painting depicting a green field ablaze. A painter had made it to curry favor with King Viserys on his nameday. The king had been unimpressed, and the painting had been stored away—until it fell into Maekar's hands.
Maekar removed the painting and set it aside, then ran his hands along the stone wall until he felt a loose one. Gripping it, he pulled it free and repeated the process with the stones beside it, one by one, until a square hole emerged. It appeared to be an old hidden entrance, though it only extended about a meter in before rubble blocked further passage.
'The hidden entrances made by Maegor are hard to find,' Maekar thought. 'I don't know what caused this one to collapse, but it gives me the perfect hiding spot.'
Inside, he found a cloth bag sealed with a string. Scattered around it were numerous pieces of copper, blocks of hardwood, and a jumble of carving tools. Taking the bag, Maekar closed the hole once more and carefully replaced the painting.
Leaving the room, Maekar also took another sealed bag with him, this one far less hidden, simply resting in his closet. Mounting his horse, he departed Maegor's holdfast and rode swiftly toward the dragonpits.
Some time later, he arrived, the pungent stench of burned flesh and dragon excrement filling his nostrils. He made his way into the large hall where young dragons were fed and trained in basic commands. Maekar entered just in time to hear the excited shouts of three precocious boys:
"THE PINK DREAD!"
Their laughter quickly followed, filling the hall with ignorant chuckles.
Soon, the sound of three sets of footsteps, accompanied by snickering, echoed through the hall as the boys made their way toward the exit. But Aegon, Jacaerys, and Lucerys froze mid-step, their eyes locking on Maekar standing squarely in their path.
At thirteen, Maekar was still a boy, but the years of rigorous training and abundant food had made him tower over even his twin, Aegon, not to mention the younger two boys.
His dead, unblinking eyes, which always unnerved those around him, fixed on the boys.
"The Pink Dread?" he said, his voice calm, almost dispassionate. "Is there a new dragon I am unaware of?"
The three exchanged awkward glances, words failing them. If there was anyone they feared, it was Maekar—his placid, unchanging face, the hollow intensity of his gaze, and the quiet menace it carried. And then there was his martial prowess: he had defeated them mercilessly in the training yard, even when outnumbered three to one.
Seeing them too intimidated to answer, Maekar swung his head lightly toward the two Velaryons. "You two can leave. Aegon, stay."
The two boys lit up at the command and quickly ran out, making sure not to bump into Maekar on their way. Aegon's face, however, was grimacing as if he had just tasted something foul. Maekar fixed him with a steady gaze.
"Explain. And don't hide anything. I know it concerns Aemond."
Aegon's grimace deepened. 'Not only are his eyes creepy, but his intuition as well,' he thought. He took a breath and explained the joke they had played on Aemond, downplaying it as much as possible as harmless banter.
Maekar hummed, then walked toward him. Aegon instinctively stepped back, but Maekar closed the distance and slammed him hard against the wall. From somewhere unknown, Maekar drew a dagger and pressed it to Aegon's neck, his eyes locking with his brother's.
"So, what you mean to say," Maekar said, voice calm but deadly, "is that you colluded with two bastards to bully your own younger brother. Is that what you're saying?"
Terrified, Aegon's legs gave way, and he muttered weak denials, almost falling, but Maekar held him upright by his long hair.
"I currently have something to take care of, Aegon. Consider yourself lucky. But remember this: the only true brothers you have are me and Aemond. We are your family, not those bastards. Am I understood?"
Aegon nodded as quickly as he could. Maekar removed the dagger, sheathed it, and Aegon slumped to the floor, shaken.
Maekar ignored the heaving Aegon holding his neck and pressed onward until he came upon Aemond standing still. A pig ambled about nearby, snorting and appearing uneasy from the lingering dragon smell in the air.
Hearing footsteps, Aemond looked back and saw Maekar approaching. His eyes fell to the ground, ashamed. Maekar's gaze lingered silently on him.
"I taught Aegon a lesson," Maekar said, walking forward. "He will never do that again."
Aemond's voice was dejected. "It's already done, Maekar. They made fun of me."
Maekar nodded impassively. "Aye, they have. Everybody likes making fun of the weak link, Aemond."
Aemond looked up at him, slightly confused and hurt. "What I mean is, you have no dragon; thus, you are the weaker one. You are easier to bully—that's what I'm trying to say."
Maekar paused for a moment, noting the redness in Aemond's eyes.
'He is still but ten years of age. I need the bitter, cruel Aemond' he thought.
"There is no shame in weakness, Aemond," Maekar finally said. "Staying weak is the true shame. Even among Targaryens, you are born lucky. For the first time in our history, there is a surplus of dragons. The question you should be asking yourself is not whether you will get a dragon, but which dragon you will get."
Aemond looked up at his elder brother, awe and hope striking his face, as if Maekar had spoken the holiest words he had ever heard.
Maekar patted Aemond on the shoulder before looking up.
"Now off you go. Mother must be worried about you."
Aemond nodded and darted through the tunnel.
Maekar's gaze shifted toward a certain dark passage, where the low rumble of a heavy, slumbering beast could be heard. Slowly, a massive form emerged from the shadows. The Morghul of years past had transformed. His head and neck were now completely armored in jagged horns and spikes, uneven in their arrangement—some jutting upward, some forward, some backward—giving the dragon a fearsome, almost chaotic silhouette.
His slightly parted jaws revealed the dark red glow of his throat. Eyes, as red as fresh blood, pierced the darkness, vertical slits cutting through the pupils like a knife wound.
Most astonishing of all was his sheer size. Morghul's unprecedented growth had astonished every dragonkeeper and anyone who laid eyes on him. Already, he had outgrown Syrax, and though still slightly shorter than the Red Queen, he was expected to surpass her within the year.
Morghul, spotting a pig, lunges forward. with his maw wide open. Before the animal could take a step back, it found itself caught between the jaws of a merciless beast. The pig squealed in agony as its body was torn apart, flung into the air, and consumed by a jet of fire that silenced it forever. Morghul swallowed the remnants whole before turning his gaze back to his rider.
With a deliberate, lumbering grace, Morghul approached, lowering his massive head until it nudged Maekar's chest, a silent acknowledgment of his rider.
Maekar scratched his dragon's snout—the only safe place to do so—before speaking in High Valyrian. "We have a long ride ahead of us, boy. We also need to be discreet, so no roaring along the way. Got it?"
Morghul grumbled but obeyed nonetheless.
Without another word, Maekar led him outside, mounted the beast, and together they took to the skies.