Viserys's POV
Red Keep, King's Landing, 106 AC
Viserys Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, its jagged edges a constant reminder of the weight of his crown. The small council chamber was empty, save for the flickering torchlight that cast shadows across the dragon skulls lining the walls. His thoughts, however, were not on matters of state but on Maegor Stone, the bastard cousin who had become an unwelcome thorn in his reign.
Maegor, son of his late uncle Aemon, was a man Viserys could not easily dismiss. The claiming of Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, had been a feat worthy of a true Targaryen. Viserys respected the fire in him, the audacity to tame a dragon once ridden by the great King Jaehaerys himself. It spoke of Aemon's blood, fierce and unyielding, coursing through Maegor's veins. Yet that same fire was a problem. Maegor's existence as a dragonriding bastard stirred whispers among the lords—whispers of legitimacy, of claims, of threats to the stability Viserys fought to maintain. When Maegor bonded with Vermithor three years ago, the court had buzzed with unease. Was he a pretender? A rival? The smallfolk spoke of him in awe, a bastard risen to ride a king's dragon, and that made him dangerous.
Viserys rubbed his temples, the ache of rule ever-present. He did not hate Maegor—how could he, when the man carried Aemon's eyes, his uncle's resolve? But Maegor's ambition, his refusal to fade into obscurity, complicated everything. Now, word had reached King's Landing that Maegor had joined Corlys Velaryon and Daemon in their reckless venture to the Stepstones. Viserys had not sanctioned this war, yet he could not deny its necessity. The Triarchy's pirates choked the Narrow Sea, and Corlys's pride demanded action. Daemon, ever the rogue, would burn half the world to prove his worth. And Maegor? Maegor sought a name, a legacy beyond "Stone."
"Damn them all," Viserys muttered, his voice echoing in the empty hall. He respected Maegor's courage, but the man's very existence was a spark in a dry forest. If he survived the Stepstones, what then? Would he return a hero, further emboldening those who whispered of Rhaenys's claim—or worse, his own? Viserys sighed, leaning back in the throne. He wished Aemon were here to counsel him, to tame his wayward son. But Aemon was gone, and Maegor was a dragonrider now, a force Viserys could neither control nor ignore.
Maegor's POV
The Stepstones, 106 AC
The Narrow Sea churned beneath Maegor as Vermithor soared, his bronze wings cutting through the dawn mist. The Triarchy's fleet lay below, a sprawl of galleys and carracks bristling with scorpions and archers, their Lysene and Myrish banners snapping in the wind. The Stepstones, jagged and unforgiving, loomed in the distance—a prize worth fighting for, or so Corlys Velaryon claimed. Maegor's blood sang with the thrill of battle, the fire of his Targaryen heritage blazing hotter than ever. Beside him, Daemon Targaryen rode Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm's serpentine form weaving through the clouds. Their dragons were a fearsome pair, Vermithor's bulk a counterpoint to Caraxes's lithe grace.
Daemon shot Maegor a glance, his violet eyes gleaming with a mix of scorn and challenge. "Ready to prove you're more than a tavern wench's get, Stone?" he called over the roar of the wind.
Maegor gripped Vermithor's reins, his jaw tight. Daemon's hatred was a familiar sting, but the grudging respect in his tone—a hard-won acknowledgment of Maegor's bond with Vermithor—fueled his resolve. "Watch me, cousin," he shouted back. "Vermithor's fire will outshine your worm's."
Daemon's laugh was sharp, almost approving. "Bold words. Let's see them burn."
Below, the Triarchy's ships scrambled, their crews spotting the dragons' silhouettes against the rising sun. Scorpions swiveled, their bolts gleaming with deadly intent. Maegor's heart pounded, but fear had no place here. He thought of Rhaenys, safe on Driftmark with her children, her faith in him a beacon. He thought of his father, Aemon, who had ridden into battle with Jaehaerys, their dragons a terror to their foes. Today, Maegor and Daemon would echo that legacy.
"Now!" Daemon roared, urging Caraxes into a dive. The Blood Wyrm's jaws opened, and a torrent of flame erupted, engulfing a Lysene galley in a blaze of orange and gold. Screams rose from the deck as sails caught fire, the ship listing under the dragon's wrath.
Maegor leaned forward, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Dracarys!" he commanded, the High Valyrian word rolling off his tongue like a spell. Vermithor responded with a bellow that shook the air, his massive jaws parting to unleash a river of bronze flame. The fire swept across a Myrish carrack, turning its mast to ash and its crew to cinders. The heat was a living thing, searing the air as Maegor guided Vermithor in a tight arc, dodging a scorpion bolt that whizzed past his head.
Together, Maegor and Daemon wove a dance of destruction, their dragons' flames painting the sea in hues of death. Caraxes darted and struck with precision, while Vermithor's broader sweeps left entire ships blackened husks. The Triarchy's fleet began to scatter, but there was no escape from dragonfire. Maegor's blood thrummed with the power of it, the raw might of Vermithor beneath him. He was no longer just a bastard—he was a dragonrider, a force of fire and blood.
A bolt grazed Vermithor's flank, drawing a snarl from the Bronze Fury. Maegor cursed, spotting the scorpion crew reloading on a nearby galley. "Dracarys!" he shouted again, and Vermithor's flame consumed the weapon and its handlers in a heartbeat. Daemon, circling above, gave a sharp nod—approval, perhaps, or as close as Maegor would ever get.
The battle was only the beginning, Maegor knew. The Stepstones would not fall in a single day. But as he and Daemon burned the Triarchy's fleet, their dragons roaring in unison, he felt the weight of his father's legacy lift, just a little. He was Maegor Stone, rider of Vermithor, and this war would be his crucible. Let the realm see him, let Viserys fear him, let Daemon respect him. The Stepstones would burn, and his name would rise from the ashes.