Two weeks later
Aemond, Aegon, Jacarys, and Lucerys sparred in the training yard, the clatter of swords and shields echoing off the stone walls. Maekar stood off to the side, a punishment from the king for his earlier actions: he had to attend every training session but was forbidden to join in.
Seeing Maekar isolated, Viserys raised a hand, catching his attention. Maekar climbed the steps and stood behind the king, who seemed in unusually good spirits.
"Watch the training with me, Maekar," Viserys said with a rare laugh.
Lyonel Strong, standing behind the king, glanced at the prince and inclined his head.
"Prince," he greeted formally.
Maekar returned the gesture with a nod. "Lord Hand."
The young Targaryen prince then settled beside his father, eyes scanning the yard as the other boys continued their drills.
Viserys, watching his children and grandchildren spar together, patted Lyonel.
"This is the way, Lyonel. Lads who learn together, train together… they will surely form a bond that lasts a lifetime. Wouldn't you agree?"
Lyonel nodded slightly.
"That is the hope, Your Grace."
Maekar, standing on the other side of the king, cast a side-eye at the king.
'Can he not see the tension between them? Does he pretend, or is he truly blind?'
His attention then shifted to the yard, where Ser Criston Cole faced his two brothers. With effortless precision, Criston handled them both at once, driving them back without breaking a sweat.
Maekar's gaze wandered further and caught Ser Harwin Strong entering the yard, adjusting his gloves. The older knight muttered something that Maekar couldn't quite hear from his perch, but it carried a weight in the way he moved—calm, measured, and ready.
Ser Criston, seemingly annoyed by Ser Harwin's words, strode over to Aegon and shoved him into the center of the yard. He then did the same with Jacarys, though with far less care.
Viserys' smile faded slightly, replaced by a confused frown.
He stepped a little aside but stayed close enough to oversee the boys.
"Raise your swords," he commanded.
Then he stabbed the practice sword in his hand into the soft muddy ground as he said.
"engage"
With a cry, Aegon charged, using his height and strength to full advantage.
One, two, three, four, five strikes later,
Jacarys was sent sprawling onto his back. Smug, Aegon turned to return to his position—only for Jacarys to spring at him from behind.
From there, the fight devolved into chaos, with Ser Harwin and Ser Criston shouting instructions to the boys as if refereeing a boxing match. Their raised voices carried across the yard, causing the frown on King Viserys to get larger and larger.
Aegon finally overpowered Jacarys and forced him to the ground, sword raised, intent on bringing it down upon his nephew. But Ser Harwin foolishly placed a hand on the prince and pushed him away, making Aegon stumble and almost fall.
Maekar's face turned and locked on the king's hand, ensuring he was watching.
The knight's face tightened into a grimace as Aegon's furious shout pierced the yard.
"You dare put your hands on me!"
Maekar then spoke.
"Quite the brave son you have there, Lord Hand… or is it foolishness?"
Lyonel's face, already tight with a grimace, darkened further.
"I will be sure to discipline him, my prince."
He replied through clenched teeth.
What exactly Criston had said to Ser Harwin remained unknown, but the older knight had charged, knocking Ser Criston off balance and pummeling his face relentlessly—until two of the Kingsguard intervened and pulled him off.
Lyonel quickly bowed his head to King Viserys, his voice strained with contrition.
"Your Grace, I apologize for my son's shameful actions. I will ensure he receives a punishment worthy of his behavior."
Soon, the yard emptied. King Viserys retired to his chambers, weariness and sorrow etched across his face after witnessing the chaos. Maekar's eyes followed his father's retreating form, his thoughts sharp.
'His weakness and inaction… it is what will ignite the bloodiest Targaryen civil war, and he knows it.'
Barely two days passed before news reached him: Lord Lyonel had resigned as Hand of the King and planned to take his son, Ser Harwin Strong, back to Harrenhal, apparently out of shame. The king had hesitated to let him leave, but Lyonel remained adamant.
Maekar watched from a balcony as the carriage carrying the former Hand and his son wound its way out of the Red Keep. His mind raced.
'It will take at least a month for Otto to return. Rhaenyra… she will soon have no choice but to flee to Dragonstone due to the rumors.'
A week later, somber tidings spread through both the city and the Red Keep. Laena Velaryon, wife of Prince Daemon, had died in childbirth. Whispers told that her dragon, Vhagar, had burned her alive at her own command, leaving nothing behind but ashes.
In a private chamber, Queen Alicent gathered with her children for breakfast. She had wished for Viserys to join them, but the king had taken ill that morning and was under the care of the Grand Maester.
Alicent sat at the head of the table, her composure steady though her eyes carried the strain of recent days. To her right was Helaena, quiet and withdrawn as ever, her hands fussing absently with the edge of her cup. Opposite sat Aegon, lounging in his seat, his posture careless despite his mother's sharp glances.
Beside him, Maekar sat in silence, his presence composed yet heavy, while on his other side, Aemond watched everything with sharp, restless eyes.
At the end of the table, next to Maekar, sat the youngest of Alicent's brood, little Daeron. Now six years old, he already had a dragon of his own—Tessarion—though the beast was far too small to ride. The boy fidgeted in his seat, bright-eyed and eager, unaware of the tensions that coiled around the table.
Alicent broke the quiet first.
"Laena Velaryon has, most unfortunately, passed. Your father, the king, has decided we will all travel to Driftmark to mourn her death. Every one of us will go."
Aegon groaned and sank back into his chair.
"We didn't even know the woman. Why should we go and mourn her?"
Alicent's gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade.
"I do not expect you to weep for her, Aegon. But as a prince—and as her blood kin—it is expected of you."
Aegon muttered another groan under his breath but fell silent under her stare.
Beside him, Maekar lowered his eyes to his plate.
'Should nothing go wrong, Aemond will soon claim a dragon… the largest and most seasoned of them all.'
When he finished eating, he rose smoothly to his feet.
"If you'll excuse me."
Alicent narrowed her eyes.
"And where are you going, Maekar?"
"A short flight," he answered.
Her sigh was heavy and resigned.
"Do not stray far."
He inclined his head.
Soon he was aloft on Morghul, the wind tearing past him as the Red Keep shrank behind. He angled toward the Kingswood, then leaned forward, closing his eyes.
Through Morghul's sharper senses, the world sharpened. His vision stretched along the coast until it fixed upon a merchant vessel, half-sunk in the shallows. Footprints marked the sand, trailing inland. He urged the dragon lower, skimming the treetops with the dragon's keel, until a clearing opened beneath.
There, men were gathered around several chests and the scattered cargo of the wreck.
At his command, Morghul descended, branches thrashing under the beast's weight as he touched down. Maekar exhaled, severing the shared sight with his dragon, and swung down from the saddle to meet his men.