After hours of soaring together above the skies of King's Landing, Maekar finally guided Morghul back into the shadows of his pit. The dragon rumbled low, unwilling but obedient, before vanishing once more into the dark.
Maekar dismounted, stroking the side of the beast's jaw where the spikes would allow, then turned on his heel and made for his chambers.
Once inside, he locked the door firmly behind him. He crossed to the window, pulling the blinds shut but leaving the frame cracked open to let the air flow. Then he dragged a small table closer and set it near the opening.
From there, he moved to a corner of the room—an all too familiar spot. Lifting a painting carefully from the wall, he removed the stones hidden behind it, layer by layer, until at last he uncovered the bundle he had concealed. Wrapped in cloth, its weight was unmistakable. He carried it to the table and unfolded it.
Laid before him were his tools. First, he brought out a pestle and mortar, placing them on the wood with care.
From one of the bags, he pulled what appeared at first glance to be simple almonds. Slowly, methodically, he cracked each shell with the pestle, extracting the pale kernels inside.
One by one, he dropped them into the mortar until a small pile had formed. Then he set to work.
The pestle ground steadily against the stone, crushing the kernels into a thickening paste.
Soon, the sharp, acrid smell of bitter almonds rose from the mixture, faint at first, then stronger—saturating the air. Though much of it drifted out through the open window, enough remained to bring a faint pressure to Maekar's temples, a dull headache settling in.
When the paste was ready, he scraped it into a clean bowl he had set aside. A small cup of water had been heating on a candle flame nearby, and once warmed, he poured it into the mixture and stirred.
Satisfied, he covered the bowl with a cloth and set it aside. His task for now was complete. He moved to his desk, sat down, and opened one of his books, letting the printed words hold his focus while the bitter fumes thinned from the chamber.
A couple of hours passed as Maekar lingered at his desk, idly turning the pages of his book. The chamber glowed with the soft light of numerous candles, their flames steady in the still air. Every so often, his eyes drifted toward the clock fixed upon the wall—a maester's invention, recently brought into fashion.
The steady ticking had grown strangely comforting. They said it was Archmaester Vaegon who had first devised it.
At last, deciding enough time had passed, Maekar rose and crossed to the covered bowl on the table. He set another clean bowl beside it and carefully filtered the liquid through a clean cloth, letting each drop pass slowly until nothing remained but a damp residue left behind. The strained liquid shimmered faintly in the bowl, catching the candlelight.
Setting it aside, Maekar produced a lump of beeswax. He held it carefully over the candle flame, patient as it softened and melted, ensuring it grew warm but never overheated. When it reached the right consistency, he poured the strained concoction into the beeswax and stirred with measured strokes until both blended seamlessly.
Taking a spoon, he dipped it into the mixture and let drops fall onto a slab of cold stone he had kept near the open window. The surface was chilled enough that each drop hardened instantly upon contact.
forming small, pale pellets. He continued until a neat cluster had formed, then gathered them and dropped them back into the warm wax, giving them a second coating.
Once he was satisfied with their size and finish, he placed the hardened pellets into a glass vial. The vial itself was precious—purchased from Myr, one of the few places known for glasswork fine enough to be worthy of holding his creation. He sealed it carefully, the vial catching a glint of candlelight as he set it down among his other hidden things.
Maekar held the vial up to the candlelight, watching it glint faintly before tucking everything carefully back into its hidden place. The dull headache still lingered, a constant annoyance, and so he finally lay down upon his bed. Sleep took him quickly.
When morning came, the headache was gone. After washing and breaking his fast, Maekar set out for the east barracks to continue his duties. His fame within the city had only grown over the past two years—for it was not every day that a prince was seen personally leading men into the slums, slaughtering gangs with merciless efficiency.
Under his urging, the Gold Cloaks had conducted countless random raids into Flea Bottom, dragging out thieves, murderers, and rapists, often executing them on the spot. Lord Dickon, though reluctant, had given his consent—partly from Maekar's persistence and partly because no further attacks had come after the second massacre.
Yet these brutal sweeps had come at a cost: dozens of Gold Cloaks had fallen in action. Maekar, however, had ensured their places were quickly filled, often with orphans brought into the ranks.
Arriving at the barracks, Maekar was greeted by rows of men who bowed deeply at his presence.
"My prince," they said in unison.
In their eyes, he was no longer merely a royal commanding from behind walls. His actions had earned him a darker reputation. In whispers throughout King's Landing,
He was now called 'The Hollow Prince.'
a name born of the way he beheaded men without the slightest change in expression, as though his face itself were carved from stone.
Queen Alicent bristled at the nickname, deeming it unfit for a royal son. Yet Aegon and Aemond had found it funny.
Maekar himself cared little. What the smallfolk chose to call him mattered not. Only results did.
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