The Stone Drum, Dragonstone, 283 AC
POV: Maekar Targaryen
The halls of Dragonstone were carved of shadow and smoke, their obsidian walls etched with dragons that seemed to writhe in the torchlight, as if mourning the fall of their house. Maekar Targaryen, second of his name, stood in the Chamber of the Painted Table, his scarred hand gripping Blackfyre's hilt, the Valyrian steel blade's scabbard driven into the stone floor to brace his crippled leg.
The wound, an old gift from a rebel's axe, burned with a dull fire, but it was naught compared to the weight of the anvil-forged crown upon his brow—a crude ring of blackened iron, named for Maekar I, his namesake, and placed there by his mother, Queen Rhaella, to mark him king. The title sat ill, heavy as grief, for Aerys was dead, slain by Jaime Lannister's treachery, and Rhaegar fallen at the Trident, his rubies scattered in the river. Lyanna Stark was gone, her son Jaehaerys safe in the North with Eddard Stark, but Maekar's heart now turned to the living: his mother, swollen with child, and his brother Viserys, a boy of eight, fierce and frightened. They were the last of the dragon's blood, save for the babe in the North, and he would not let them fall.
The Painted Table loomed before him, its carved map of Westeros a mockery of a realm lost to Robert Baratheon's hammer. Maekar's violet eyes, hard as chipped amethyst, swept over the gathered men: Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, whose blade Dawn gleamed like starlight; Ser Oswell Whent, his dark gaze unyielding; Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, steadfast as stone; and Lord Ardrian Celtigar, his crab-emblazoned cloak stiff with salt.
A handful of Valyrian retainers, their faces lined with the blood of old dragonlords, stood silent, and among them was Manfryd, a grizzled man whose ancestors had served the Targaryens since Aegon's day.
"We sail for Essos," Maekar declared, his voice low and grave, each word forged in the crucible of duty. "The Narrow Sea is our path, to Braavos or Pentos, where the dragon may yet find sanctuary. Lord Celtigar, ready the fleet. Every galley, every cog, every boat that can bear us. We leave under cover of night, no banners, no torches."
Lord Ardrian bowed, his voice rough as the sea. "Three galleys remain, Your Grace, and a dozen smaller vessels. The crews are loyal, but Stannis Baratheon's ships prowl the waters. We must be swift."
Maekar nodded, leaning on Blackfyre, the tap of its scabbard a steady rhythm. "Swift and silent. The dragon hides, but it does not die."
He turned to Manfryd, the Valyrian retainer, whose dragon glass eyes held a flicker of old fire. "Manfryd, you will remain on Dragonstone," Maekar said, his tone unyielding, a king's command tempered by strategy. "When Robert's men come—and they will—you will bend the knee. Swear fealty to the usurper, keep your head low, and guard this island's secrets. The dragon's blood must endure, and when the time is right, I will return to claim the Iron Throne."
Manfryd's weathered face tightened, his voice a low rumble. "Bend the knee to that hammer-wielding oaf? Your Grace, my blood is Valyrian, sworn to the dragon. I would sooner die than kneel."
Maekar's gaze hardened, his scarred hand flexing on Blackfyre's hilt. "You will live, Manfryd. You will kneel, and you will wait. The throne is lost for now, but the dragon's fire is not quenched. Keep Dragonstone's heart beating until I call for you."
Manfryd bowed, reluctance in his stance but obedience in his eyes. "As you command, King Maekar."
The meeting dispersed, the men scattering to prepare the fleet. Maekar hobbled from the chamber, Blackfyre's tap echoing through the stone corridors, his leg a traitor but his will unbroken. His thoughts were not of Rhaegar's slaughtered family—Elia, Aegon, Rhaenys—though their loss was a shadow on his soul. His heart now burned for Rhaella, frail and heavy with child, and Viserys, a boy caught in a storm of war. They were his to protect, the last embers of House Targaryen.
That night, the heavens broke. A storm roared across Dragonstone, its winds howling like the ghosts of old Valyria, its waves clawing at the island's black cliffs. Maekar stood in the Stone Drum, leaning on Blackfyre, as Ser Gerold burst through the doors, his white cloak sodden. "The fleet, Your Grace," he said, his voice grim. "The storm has taken it. Two galleys are kindling, the smaller ships smashed to splinters. Only one galley remains, damaged but seaworthy."
Maekar's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "Then one galley will suffice. We sail when the storm breaks."
Before he could say more, a scream echoed through the castle, sharp and raw. Rhaella. Maekar hobbled toward the sound, Blackfyre's tap a frantic beat, the Kingsguard at his heels. They found her in her chambers, sprawled on a bed draped in black silk, her silver hair matted with sweat. A midwife and a maester worked frantically, their hands stained with blood. Viserys stood in a corner, his small face pale, his violet eyes wide with fear.
"Mother," Maekar said, his voice steady despite the pain in his leg as he reached her side. Rhaella's eyes, dull with pain, found his, a flicker of love breaking through her agony.
"Maekar," she gasped, her voice a thread. "My king… my son…"
The maester's voice was urgent. "She's birthing, Your Grace, but it's too soon. The storm… the grief…"
Rhaella's cry cut through the room, her hands clawing at the sheets. Maekar knelt beside her, Blackfyre propped against the bed, his scarred hand grasping hers. Time blurred, a haze of screams and whispered prayers, until a new cry pierced the air—a babe's wail, frail but fierce. The midwife lifted a tiny girl, her silver hair gleaming in the torchlight, and placed her in Rhaella's trembling arms.
"Daenerys," Rhaella whispered, her voice breaking. "Her name… Daenerys."
Maekar's heart swelled, a spark of hope amidst the storm. But Rhaella's breath grew shallow, her face paling to ash. Blood soaked the sheets, too much, too fast. The maester's hands faltered, his face grim. Maekar's grip on his mother's hand tightened, his voice low and fierce. "Mother, stay with us."
Rhaella's eyes met his, a sad smile curving her lips. "Maekar… my dragon… keep them safe. Viserys… Daenerys… they're yours now." Her voice faded, her hand slipping from his. "Promise me…"
"I promise," Maekar said, his voice a vow, tears burning his eyes. He took Daenerys from her arms, cradling the tiny girl, her warmth a fragile light. Viserys crept forward, his small hand clutching Maekar's cloak. Maekar pulled his brother close, holding both siblings as Rhaella's breath stilled, her eyes closing forever.
The storm raged outside, mourning the queen who had borne it. Maekar rose, Blackfyre's tap a solemn dirge, Daenerys in his arms and Viserys at his side. The Kingsguard stood silent, their heads bowed.
The next day, the storm had passed, leaving a sky of bruised purple. The lone galley, its hull scarred but whole, waited in the harbor. Maekar, crowned Maekar II, hobbled aboard, Blackfyre his crutch, Daenerys cradled in a sling against his chest, Viserys clinging to his side. Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Gerold Hightower, and Ser Willem Darry, a loyal knight of Dragonstone, followed, their faces grim but resolute.
As the ship cast off, Maekar stood at the prow, the anvil crown heavy on his brow. Dragonstone's black cliffs faded into the mist, the Narrow Sea stretching toward Essos, a land of exile and hope. His mother's dying words echoed, drowning out the ghosts of Rhaegar's family. Keep them safe. Viserys's small hand trembled in his, Daenerys's warmth a pulse against his heart.
"For Rhaella," Maekar murmured, his voice a vow to the waves. "For Viserys. For Daenerys."
The sea roared, and the dragon sailed into the unknown, its fire unquenched.