(Explanation for Daemon's presence in the previous chapter: in the show, Daemon and Rhaenyra were fucking in the sands very late at night when everybody was asleep so that they don't get caught. Aemond was hesitating all night whether to go for Vhagar or not. maekar's action of pushing him forward had pushed the story hours before it was supposed to happen; thus, Daemon didnt have the chance to get with Rhaenyra.)
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The sword bit from Maekar's collarbone up beneath his jaw, carving a long gash. His dagger, meant for Daemon's hand, cut nothing but air as the prince easily avoided it.
Daemon leapt back, shocked by the boy's defiance, his blade dripping red. He looked down at the blood, then back at Maekar—no, not a boy.
The prince stood unmoving, blood pouring from his neck, his gaze fixed, cold, and unfeeling. He had not flinched. He only stared.
The Kingsguard chose this moment to arrive, bursting through the gates. At once they took in the scene—the royal children scattered and bruised, Maekar standing bloodied, and Daemon with Dark Sister still in hand.
Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, locked eyes on Maekar first. The boy was bleeding heavily, crimson soaking his tunic, then his gaze shifted to Daemon—sword drawn, its tip stained with blood. Rage twisted his face.
"Seize him!" he bellowed, pointing at Daemon, before rushing to Maekar's side.
He dropped to one knee, hand trembling as he reached out. "My prince, please—let me see the wound."
But Maekar stopped his outstretched hand, pressing his own palm against the gash. It was so long he couldn't even cover half of it. His voice was cold, unflinching despite the blood flowing fast.
"You don't look like a maester, Lord Commander. Call one."
Ser Harrold whispered, almost to himself, "Dear gods…" as he took in the boy's calmness in the face of such a mortal wound.
Behind him, Daemon was already being forced down. Ser Erryk Cargyll wrenched his arms behind his back, stripping him of Dark Sister, while Ser Steffon Darklyn pressed a blade to his neck.
"Ser Lorent! Fetch the maester at once!" Harrold roared. "The prince is losing too much blood!"
He guided Maekar down into a chair, steadying him, and helped him press tighter against the wound as they waited for aid.
It did not take long for more than the maester to be dragged into the hall. The entire royal family arrived in a rush, with Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys at their side, and Ser Otto trailing close behind.
King Viserys looked livid, trembling as his eyes darted between Daemon in chains, his injured son, and the chaos around them. His voice thundered through the chamber.
"I want answers!"
Maekar now sat slumped in a chair, the maester working quickly to tighten a clean cloth around his neck to slow the bleeding. Queen Alicent knelt close, her eyes swollen red with tears.
"It will heal, won't it, maester?" she asked desperately.
The hall fell silent at her words; even the king's admonishing his kingsguards was cut short. Every gaze fixed on the maester.
The man swallowed, his voice low and uncertain. "The flesh has been… separated so cleanly, as though by Valyrian steel, Your Grace. No major artery has been struck, but…" He hesitated.
"…sewing it will not hold."
"What is to be done then?" Alicent snapped, impatience and fear lacing her tone.
The maester looked down, speaking barely above a whisper.
"It must be burned shut, Your Grace."
Alicent's face crumbled at the words, her hand covering her mouth. Across the hall, King Viserys closed his eyes in dismay, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the moment.
The king turned his furious gaze to Daemon, still restrained by the Kingsguard. He approached him, his voice trembling with rage.
"Every time I think you've learned your lesson, you do something even more foolish. But to strike at my son… tell me, Daemon, what should I do now?"
Daemon opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself, but the maester interrupted.
"Your Grace, the hot steel is ready. With your allowance, we may proceed."
Queen Alicent held tightly to one of her sons' arms, while Aegon and a tearful Aemond stood on the other side. Maekar let out a quiet sigh, removing the now blood-soaked cloth and tilting his neck to give the maester room.
"Quit dawdling and get on with it, maester," he said flatly.
The maester glanced at the fearless boy, then at the king, who gave a silent nod. The burning steel was brought forward. Alicent closed her eyes and whispered.
"It will be all over soon, Maekar."
The hot steel pressed against the wound.
Contrary to expectation, there was no scream or shriek.
Only the hiss of burning flesh, smoke curling into the air, and the acrid smell of seared skin filling the room. The occupants of the room watched in disbelief as the boy remained utterly still.
Once the wound was sealed, the maester wrapped it with a clean cloth soaked in a green salve and carefully secured it around Maekar's neck.
Seizing the moment, Otto Hightower closed the distance to the king and whispered urgently in his ear. "Your Grace, this cannot go unpunished. Attacking a prince is punishable by death. Justice must be done."
The king looked around the hall, dismayed. His daughter held her children close; Daemon remained unmoved; Alicent knelt beside her son; the lords of the realm waited, tense, for the king's judgment.
Finally, with a heavy sigh, the king's shoulders slumped, revealing his weakness. He turned toward Maekar, the boy who had remained silent, his gaze still fixed on Daemon, and said quietly:
"My son… You were the one wronged. Speak. Tell me what you wish Daemon's punishment to be, and it shall be done."
The king's hope was clear—he prayed the young prince would show mercy and deliver a measured punishment for his uncle.
Maekar hummed softly as he rose to his feet. His mother reached for him, trying to press him back into his chair, but he brushed her off. Ignoring her—and the eyes of everyone else in the hall—he strode forward until he stood before Daemon, still kneeling, still restrained by the Kingsguard.
The boy locked eyes with his uncle, his expression unreadable.
'Viserys hopes my youth, and the fact that this man is my uncle, will make me lenient; he certainly isnt as clueless as he appears.'
Maekar thought.
'But even if I demanded his head, Viserys would never grant it. He wouldn't even take his sword hand, not truly. And exile? Worthless. He would return the moment Viserys grows weaker.'
His gaze sharpened.
'No… if Daemon is to be punished, it must be in a way that breaks him—not his body, but his pride. His great ego is the only thing sharp enough to cut him.'
As that thought settled, Maekar's lips curved. Slowly, deliberately, an unsettling smile spread across his face, reaching ear to ear.
The lords shifted uncomfortably, some averting their eyes. To those who had never seen the boy smile—never heard him laugh—it was a disturbing sight, something that seemed wrong upon his features, as though it did not belong there at all.
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