Two years had passed.
Maekar stood in the training grounds of the Red Keep, the late sun glinting faintly off the blackened steel of his armor. It was light, forged for speed rather than bulk, its edges trimmed in crimson—colors that by now had become tied to him in the coloring of his dragon, Morghul. The armor hugged his frame well, showing the growth of his body: no longer the boy of a few years ago, but a young man hardened by drill and fire.
In his hand rested a longsword of his own making, its blade long, lean, and slightly curved, a deliberate echo of Dark Sister. This was not the true Valyrian steel, but for sparring it served its purpose—sharp enough to test his skill, heavy enough to build his strength. He held it lazily, the tip angled toward the ground, his stance relaxed but balanced.
Across from him stood Ser Joffrey, a sworn sword of House Hightower. The knight's expression was set, jaw tight, eyes wary. His grip on the hilt was firm, his shoulders squared as he lowered into a guard stance.
"You may fight however you like, ser."
Maekar said, his voice calm, almost dismissive.
Joffrey drew in a steadying breath, then answered with a grave nod.
"Here I come, my prince."
With that, he launched forward, steel flashing in the light.
Joffrey came in fast, his sword raised high before crashing down in a powerful overhead cut meant to break through Maekar's guard.
Maekar didn't meet it head-on. Instead, he shifted lightly to the side, letting the blade whistle past his shoulder. Before Maekar could reset, Joffrey turned his momentum into a diagonal slash aimed at Maekar's ribs.
Steel rang as Maekar's wrist flicked, his own blade snapping out in a sharp beat parry, knocking the attack off-line without strain.
Joffrey pressed on, dipping low and driving his point forward in a sudden thrust toward Maekar's midsection.
But Maekar was already upon it—his sword met Joffrey's in a binding twist, coiling up the length of the knight's blade in a winding motion that left Joffrey's weapon trapped and his chest laid bare.
The killing stroke was there for the taking, but Maekar only let the point hover, then withdrew with deliberate control. He chose restraint, not victory, the quiet display of superiority far sharper than any finishing blow.
Ser Joffrey distances himself, steadying his breath and composure. Maekar, noting this, decides to raise the challenge. With the smallest tilt of his head, he gestures toward another knight lingering near the yard—his surcoat unfamiliar, some landed knight's colors that Maekar does not bother to recall.
"You, ser," Maekar calls, voice steady but carrying the weight of command. "Please—if you would join Ser Joffrey."
The knight stiffens in surprise at being addressed by a prince but quickly nods with eagerness. He fastens his helm, steps forward, and takes his place beside Ser Joffrey. Joffrey's jaw tightens at the implied insult, though he dares not voice protest before the prince.
Maekar lowers himself into a guard, sword angled down, presenting the smallest target. His stance is calm and measured, his eyes sharp, ensuring both knights remain within his sight.
Joffrey, predictably, is the first to move—he charges, blade raised high, and brings down a powerful overhead cut.
At the same instant, the second knight circles to Maekar's left and thrusts.
Maekar does not retreat. Instead, he steps forward and right in a smooth passing step, sliding past Joffrey's descending strike. His sword rises in a clean diagonal motion, parrying the second knight's thrust aside. In one breath, he has shifted position—Joffrey now stands between him and his fellow, their advantage undone.
Maekar presses his advantage, his blade flashing in a swift counter-cut aimed at Joffrey's head. Forced to give ground, Joffrey stumbles backward—straight into the path of the second knight, throwing his advance into disarray.
Maekar remains tight upon Joffrey, his footwork and movement deliberate, using the knight's flailing body as a living barrier to choke off Edric's angles. Edric falters, sword raised yet unwilling to strike for fear of cutting down his ally.
Joffrey, desperate, recovers and swings wildly once more. Maekar meets him with calm mastery—his blade sliding against Joffrey's sword quickly, sapping the strength from the blow before it can build. In the same breath, Maekar drives his pommel into Joffrey's hand. The knight cries out, his sword clattering to the dirt.
With Joffrey neutralized, Maekar pivots fluidly to face Edric. Alone now, the knight steels himself, lifting his sword into a wary high guard.
Maekar advances, feinting a sharp thrust to the face. Edric bites at the bait, his blade rising to parry—too late to see the true attack. Maekar drops low, his sword arcing upward in a sudden Unterhau. Steel slips past Edric's guard, forcing him open, until Maekar's point hovers at his throat.
The yard falls quiet. Both knights stand bested, one disarmed, the other defeated at sword's point.
The nobles and knights watching broke into applause, their claps echoing across the training yard at the display of skill the young prince had shown.
Both Ser Joffrey and Ser Edric bowed their heads to Maekar, accepting their defeat with dignity before stepping aside.
Maekar removed his helm, its design shaped to resemble the fearsome head of Morghul, and tucked it beneath his arm. Without lingering for praise, he left the grounds and made for his chambers, intent on washing away the sweat of the bout before visiting his dragon. It had been a week since he had last seen Morghul, his duties keeping him occupied, and the dragon's discontent through the dragon-link gnawed at him.
Soon enough, he was clean, dressed in his riding wear, and mounted on horseback. The Red Keep fell behind him as he rode through the city streets toward the Dragonpit. His thoughts wandered as the hooves struck stone.
'Sixteen… in a week's time. I should have Otto prepare me the perfect gift for my nameday.'
By the time the thought faded, the looming arches of the Dragonpit rose before him. A dragonkeeper approached swiftly, bowing deeply at the prince's arrival. Maekar dismounted and walked the rest of the way alone until he stood a few paces from the cavernous mouth of Morghul's lair.
Through the bond they shared, Maekar called to his dragon.
The answering growl rumbled through the stone like an earthquake. The scrape of claws echoed in the dark before a monstrous silhouette emerged. Morghul's head broke the shadows first, his horns and spikes now grown longer and thicker than ever. Some had become so pronounced that they no longer allowed the beast to rest his head flat against the ground. Rows of jagged teeth gleamed, far more numerous and brutal than before.
Maekar's eyes narrowed as he took in the sight. By his own estimation, Morghul had grown to rival Dreamfyre in size—already outstripping Meleys and Caraxes, and still not yet full-grown.
The vile beast growled low upon seeing his rider. It tried to press its head against Maekar's chest as it had when younger, but the mass of horns and spikes barred the gesture. Still, the intent was there.
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