282 AC – The Red Keep
Maekar Targaryen, younger twin of Rhaegar and called the Broken Dragon of Duskendale, stood beside his father. The name weighed upon him. Once, he had been Maekar the thw warrior choosen dragon and a dragon of war who conquered tourneys and defeated foes as if it were second nature. But those days felt like a bitter dream, twisted into a nightmare by the events of Duskendale.
He remembered the ambush as if it were yesterday. Surrounded, he had fought back to back with his father, their steel flashing in the morning mist. An arrow sank deep into his shoulder, another into his leg. The sword that followed cut a deep gash in his arm. He remembered reaching for his father, only to be thrown down and rendered unconscious.
Then came the agony. The captivity. The months of torment as he was brutalized before Aerys's horrified eyes. They had taken his sword hand first, then snapped a leg like a dry branch. They tried to burn his other hand, and when the flame refused to consume dragon blood, they broke it in two places. In that moment, Maekar the warrior became Maekar the Broken.
Now, leaning heavily upon a walking stick in the Red Keep, he watched as chaos unfolded. His elder brother had kidnapped Lyanna Stark—or so the realm claimed. Yet Maekar knew better. Whatever Rhaegar felt for the Stark girl, it was not a captor's cruelty but a lover's desperation. And now, the realm was ablaze with rebellion.
He glanced down at the burnt, twisted corpse at his feet, and another nearby, one hand still outstretched as if reaching for him. His voice was a whisper meant for the silence.
"How did it come to this? I thought you sent letters, brother…"
A small voice pulled him from the depths of remembrance. Viserys, tiny and stubborn, gazed up at him, puffing out his chest as if to mask his eagerness.
"Brother, can you tell me the story of how you defeated fifteen knights by yourself?" the boy asked, impatient as always.
Maekar smiled faintly despite himself and adjusted his grip upon the walking stick.
"Not now, little dragon," he said quietly.
Viserys huffed, pouting as he marched off, still trying to seem taller than he was. Maekar watched him go for a moment before turning toward the door.
"Ser Barristan," he called, voice deep and commanding. "Rally the men. We must be prepared for war."
With a slow, deliberate gait, the Broken Dragon stepped out of the Red Keep and into a realm upon the precipice of ruin.
Maekar stepped out into the courtyard, leaning heavily upon his stick, the sound of steel and voices filling the air as preparations for war began. Ser Barristan Selmy, tall and steadfast despite the years, came quickly at the call.
"Your Grace," Barristan said, dropping to one knee, voice deep and respectful.
Maekar waved a tired hand. "Rise, Ser Barristan. There's no time for bows and formalities." The dragon prince regarded the aging knight, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I have one more order for you."
Barristan stood, hand resting upon the hilt of his blade. "As you command."
Maekar tightened his grip upon the walking stick and drew a long breath. "Have the men ready for war by nightfall. Steel for every hand. And… have my old armor brought forth from the vault. The black and purple plate with the amethyst as the targaryen banner."
Barristan's brow rose slightly, surprised. The armor had not been worn since the days before Duskendale. The years, and the wounds, had kept the prince from donning it.
"My lord," the Kingsguard said quietly, "you have no need to don armor. Let younger men bear the weight."
Maekar shook his head, voice low but firm. "A dragon does not let others lead for them this realm is burning because too many have failed to stand. I will not be one of them." He met Barristan's gaze, and for a moment, the old warrior could still see the dragon prince he had served long ago. "Have it polished and made ready. Whatever strength I have left, Ser, I will give it to this kingdomin my family can you blame me."
Barristan bowed deeply, voice thick with pride. "It will be done, Your Grace. And the gods grant that you rise to meet this storm as you always have."
Maekar gave a sharp nod and watched as the him departed. Alone for a moment, he tightened his grip upon the dragon-headed stick and exhaled, the weight of countless battles upon him. Whatever came w this Broken Dragon would rise one last time.
, before turning down the long corridors of the Red Keep. The sound of the courtyard faded as he came to the heart of the castle — the throne room, its air thick with the faint smell of ashes and old oil. Upon the Iron Throne sat his father, King Aerys II. The Mad King.
Maekar stopped a few paces from the steps, leaning upon his dragon-headed stick. The King was hunched forward, long, tangled hair brushing the steel of the throne, fingernails long and sharp. Yet when Aerys lifted his gaze and settled it upon his son, there was a glint of lucidity in those pale lilac eyes.
"Maekar," Aerys rasped, voice wavering but rich with memory. "My Broken Dragon. My boy."
Maekar felt a sting in his chest. Whatever else Aerys had become, in that moment he was not a raving beast but a father. He stepped closer and sank down slowly to one knee, setting the dragon-head of the stick upon the stone floor.
"Father," he said quietly.
Aerys rose, gripping the edges of the throne with long, bony fingers, and descended the steps until he stood before his son. The Mad King, infamous for burning and cruelty, reached out and placed a hand upon Maekar's scarred shoulder.
"I remember Duskendale," Aerys said softly. "I remember the sound of your screams. The smell of burning flesh. You saved me, boy. You stood for your king when none would, and the gods cursed you for it." The voice shook, weighed down by guilt and madness, tangled together. "Forgive me, Maekar. Forgive an old, broken fool"
Maekar lowered his gaze, swallowing the sting in his throat. He felt the hand upon his shoulder, the faint tremor in it, and when he spoke, it was with a voice that refused to crack.
"There is nothing to forgive, Father. You are my king, and I am your son. Whatever may come, I will stand for you. I will stand for House Targaryen."
Aerys's hand tightened upon Maekar's shoulder, and for a moment, the Mad King smiled — a faint, hopeful thing. The flames that often danced wildly in his eyes gave way to quiet grief.
"Then rise, Broken Dragon," Aerys said, voice soft as mist. "Rise and make them remember the fire that courses through our blood i should have nam you king."
Maekar pushed himself to his feet, rising tall despite the ache in his leg and the pain in his hand. The weight of the moment pressed upon him, but he refused to falter.
"I will, Father, but you no i hated the pampering " he promised and smiled.
Aerys nodded and sank down upon the Iron Throne once more, brushing long fingers over its sharp edges as if to draw strength from its steel. Maekar watched for a long moment before turning, leaning upon the dragon-headed stick, and making his way toward the courtyard.
Ser Barristan was waiting. The old armor of black and purple would soon be made ready. Whatever was to come, Maekar the Broken would rise.
Maekar gripped the familiar hilt of Blackfyre, the legendary Targaryen blade, its weight steadying him as he leaned on it to walk. The sword was more than a weapon—it was a symbol of his house's glory and the burdens he now carried. Blackfyre's blackened blade and dragon-shaped crossguard gleamed faintly in the torchlight, worn but unyielding, just like its bearer.
Not long ago before Duskendale Maekar had faced down one of the last loyalists to the Blackfyre cause—a bitter old knight clinging to the fading embers of a rebellion long crushed. The man's eyes burned with fanaticism as he raised his sword, claiming the true legacy of the dragon's blood. The fight was brutal; Maekar's own body protested with every strike. But in the end, it was Maekar who stood victorious, the old Blackfyre supporter dead at his feet.
With the man's sword in hand, Maekar reclaimed Blackfyre—the very blade that had once belonged to the first king, It was a powerful reminder that the legacy of fire and blood could never be stolen, only reclaimed.
Now, as he leaned on Blackfyre and made his slow way through the gathered troops, the courtyard buzzed with anxious anticipation. His voice, hoarse but commanding, cut through the murmurs.
"Men of the realm!" Maekar called out, raising the blackened blade high so the flickering torchlight caught its jagged edges. "I am Maekar Targaryen some now me as the Broken Dragon, yes—but still your prince, your king's son, and your sword."
He paused, gathering strength with each breath, the weight of his injuries forgotten in the fire of purpose.
"The realm burns. Our enemies gather in the shadows. But I tell you now—fire does not die, it transforms. Like this sword, we are tempered by hardship. We rise from ashes stronger than before."
The crowd stirred, voices rising in hope and determination.
"Prepare yourselves. we fight not just for crowns or titles—but for our home, for our family, and for the dragon's as you and i always have "
Maekar raised Blackfyre again, the legendary sword a blazing symbol against the dark sky. The Broken Dragon, battered and broken, was ready to lead once more.