A couple of months had passed, and Maekar had settled into his new routine. Each day began at dawn—he ate quickly, then made his way to the East Barracks, escorted by a small contingent of gold cloaks. There, he trained alongside the Lord Commander and other members of the city watch, honing both his skills and discipline. Afterwards, he moved into the Lord Commander's office to assist with administrative work, sometimes distributing the monthly pay to the gold cloaks.
On this particular morning, Maekar stood before a tall mirror, preparing for another day at the barracks. His healed burn stared back at him. The center of the scar was a pale, almost pinkish-white, while its edges were blackened and hardened. The surface was anything but smooth—rope-like ridges twisted along his flesh, creating a grotesque, unsettling pattern. The deformity was all the more striking against the sharp, handsome features of a Targaryen prince, transforming what had once been a regal visage into something simultaneously commanding and terrifying.
The maesters had declared the wound fully healed, and his neck no longer required the green-salve cloth he had grown accustomed to. Maekar had decided not to hide the scar. He dressed and left his chambers, moving with the calm, measured stride of a prince accustomed to command.
The first maid he encountered flinched at the grotesque sight of his wound, but she quickly bowed deeply and scurried away. Maekar paid her no mind and continued swiftly toward the barracks.
Upon arrival, he found the Lord Commander already swinging his sword, sweat glistening across his brow from the effort. Maekar called out, "Lord Commander."
The commander turned to return the greeting. "Good mor—"
His words caught in his throat as he registered Maekar's scarred visage. With practiced control, he masked his surprise and continued.
"Good morning, my prince. Ready for some practice?"
Maekar nodded. "Of course."
He placed Darksister in the hands of a young gold cloak trainee, a boy who had made it his mission to hold the ancestral sword whenever Maekar needed to practice with a dull blade. The boy handled it as though it were a holy relic. Others—both trainees and seasoned gold cloaks—watched enviously. It was not every day that one had the honor of holding a Valyrian steel sword, especially one of royal, ancestral significance.
Maekar took a dull steel blade from one of the gold cloaks, who handed it over with a mix of reverence and nervousness. Over the past months, Maekar had become the second-most respected figure in the barracks—after all, it was not every day a prince practiced alongside them and even shared meals in the mess hall.
He swung the blade experimentally, testing its balance. It barely compared to Darksister, which felt almost like a lightsaber in his hands—light, sharp, and perfectly attuned to him.
Maekar positioned himself opposite Ser Dickon, who looked entirely relaxed, exuding the calm confidence of experience. Once Maekar straightened his blade and gave a faint nod, Ser Dickon exploded forward. His sword swept in a horizontal strike aimed at Maekar's ribs, designed to overwhelm with sheer force.
Maekar, aware of the disparity in strength, evaded smoothly, sliding back with precise footwork. As Ser Dickon's sword passed just inches from his silver hair, Maekar countered with a stop-thrust aimed at the commander's wrist.
Ser Dickon easily swiped the attack aside, then executed a feint, pretending to strike at Maekar's head before swinging low to sweep his feet. Maekar anticipated the move, leaping over the sweep while delivering a mid-air chop aimed at Ser Dickon's exposed neck.
The commander barely managed to jump back as the blade passed inches from his throat. Resetting his stance, he locked eyes with the prince, seeing the absolute focus and clarity in Maekar's gaze.
Ser Dickon's mind raced.
'What a fucking monster.'
He decided to change tactics. Relying on his superior strength and stamina, he unleashed an overwhelming barrage—alternating high, low, and thrusting strikes from all directions.
Maekar responded with precision, tilting his blade to let most of the attacks glance harmlessly by. The few he couldn't completely evade hit him squarely, sending reverberations through his body.
Maekar noticed a particularly wide swing from the lord commander and ducked under it, closing the distance to get into Ser Dickon's personal space. He planned a slashing arc, but before he could complete it, he saw Ser Dickon's knee driving straight for his belly.
Taking the risk, Maekar raised one of his hands holding the sword to shield his midsection and executed the swing.
Ser Dickon's knee slammed into Maekar's arm, weakening the strike and sending a shockwave through his body that nearly lifted him off the ground.
Despite the impact, Maekar's blow partially connected, grazing the lord commander. His sword, however, became trapped between Ser Dickon's side plate and arm. Had it been a true castle-forged steel blade, the commander might have lost at least an arm.
Maekar looked up, seeing his stuck sword and Ser Dickon's own blade pressed against his shoulder—a clear mark of defeat.
Maekar raised his hands in defeat. Ser Dickon, wincing slightly from the dull blade grazing his side, said, amazed.
"Incredible, my prince. Without a doubt, you are the most talented swordsman I have ever seen. At your age, you could defeat many knights I personally know."
Maekar shook his head, replying.
"I still lose every fight against you."
Seemingly pleased by the praise, Ser Dickon laughed.
"I wouldn't be the Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks if a ten-and-three could best me, my prince."
The Gold Cloaks who had watched the spectacular fight were equally amazed, many silently realizing that if they were to face the prince, defeat would be certain.
Maekar then practiced with other Gold Cloaks before wiping sweat from his brow and reclaiming Darksister from a particularly sad-looking boy, who seemed to mourn the temporary loss of such a precious sword.
Later, Maekar made his way to the commander's chamber, where a smaller desk had been set up for him. His dependability and his ability to absorb in months what often took others years had earned Ser Dickon's appreciation.
At first, he had been inwardly dismayed at being tasked with overseeing a young prince, fearing it might complicate his work. Yet Maekar's diligence, sharp mind, and unparalleled sword talent continued to impress him.
Ser Dickon thought to himself,
'Unparalleled sword talent, a sharp mind, born a royal prince, and the fastest-growing dragon in Targaryen history… Life truly is unfair.' He sighed.
Maekar sat in his chair, eyes fixed on the parchment before him detailing the Gold Cloaks' movements and patrols.
'The Unsullied have gathered a considerable number of orphans… It's time I begin making my moves,' he thought.
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