High above the clouds, Maekar atop Morghul sped swiftly toward the Reach. His thoughts were as steady as his dragon's wingbeats.
'The trip to Oldtown should take me near ten hours of continuous flight—longer still with rest.'
He calculated, the wind tugging at his clothes and whipping his silver hair back. He leaned forward, pressing his body close to Morghul's scales, willing the dragon not to push his pace too much, lest he tire before the journey's end.
Below, the endless stretch of the Crown's land passed in a blur of fields, rivers, and forests. Hours later, when the sun had shifted across the sky, Maekar urged Morghul to descend near a vast forest by the Mander Lake, only a short ride on horseback from Tumbleton.
Morghul circled lower and lower, wings cutting great shadows across the trees. Maekar, eyes half-lidded in concentration, let the power of his Dragon Link flood his mind. The boy's own vision gave way to Morghul's sharper gaze, scanning every clearing and shadow for signs of human presence.
Finding none, Morghul landed with earth-shaking force, folding his wings as he lowered his body to the ground. Maekar slid down and set a hand on his companion's scales. The great beast rumbled, stretching out like a cat at rest.
Maekar settled with his back pressed against Morghul's warm flank, pulling one of the two cloth bags from his side. Inside lay strips of dried jerky—plain, but enough to sustain him. As he chewed in silence, he glanced up at the looming shape of his dragon, whose eyes were half-closed in watchful rest.
"Rest, Morghul," Maekar murmured in High Valyrian, voice low and firm. "We must cut as much distance as possible."
The beast rumbled but obeyed, stretching out and folding his wings.
Two hours later, when Maekar stirred and brushed the dust from his clothes, Morghul's eyes flicked open as if they had never truly closed. Within moments, they were aloft again, the night air rushing past. Maekar guided his dragon high above the clouds, where no peasant's eyes could glimpse his passage. The last thing he needed was whispers of a black beast soaring across the skies.
The journey pressed on in measured leaps. They descended only when needed, resting in remote forests or hidden stretches of land near Longtable, then Highgarden, then Honeyholt. At last, after days of careful flight, the great sprawl of Oldtown lay just beyond the horizon. By now the sky had surrendered entirely to darkness, stars glittering faintly through drifting clouds.
For the final time, Morghul descended, wings beating the air until he landed heavily on a patch of lonely ground kilometers outside the city. Maekar slid down, placing one hand on his dragon's snout.
"Rest well, and make sure none see you," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.
Morghul's growl rumbled low in his throat in acknowledgment.
Maekar nodded once, then turned his steps toward the nearest village along the river between Honeyholt and Oldtown, his mind already shifting to the task ahead.
Ten minutes later, Maekar slipped into the village, his black cloak drawn tightly to shadow his features. It was a modest settlement, built upon the banks of the Honeywine, where most of its folk earned their bread by netting fish from the river's flow. He kept his head low, moving with purpose, until the glow of a tavern lantern caught his eye. Beside it stood a stable, quiet and half-forgotten in the dark.
Ignoring the tavern, he stepped into the stables. The air smelled of straw and horse sweat. Only three horses stood there, tethered to rough wooden posts, chewing lazily at their feed. A boy—no older than fourteen—lay sprawled in the straw nearby, half-asleep, his head nodding against the wall.
Maekar went straight to the nearest mount: a thin, brown beast with dull eyes and ribs showing faintly beneath its hide. Still, it was saddled and bridled, sparing him the trouble of wasting time. He tugged the reins free, turning for the door.
Behind him came a rustle, followed by a groggy voice.
"H-hey… what in the bloody hells are you doing?"
Maekar half-turned. The boy had stirred, blinking and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
In a single stride, Maekar closed the distance. His dagger's hilt flashed as he drove it hard into the boy's temple. The youth collapsed soundlessly into the straw like a sack of potatoes.
"You should've stayed asleep, boy," Maekar muttered before dragging the horse out into the night.
Maekar swung into the saddle in one fluid motion and dug his heels sharply into the horse's flanks. The beast gave a startled whinny and bolted forward, galloping through the night as if chased by fire. Within moments, the village lay behind him, its lanterns dwindling to sparks in the dark. He urged the horse on, heedless of its labored breath or trembling stride, driving it mercilessly down the road to Oldtown.
At last, the dull grey walls of the great city loomed ahead, vast and unyielding against the sky. Maekar slowed his mount as he neared the Honeywine Gate, the reins tight in his grip. The horse snorted and stamped, lathered with sweat, as they came to a halt before the guards.
One of them, a weary-looking man in mail, stepped forward and recited in a flat, practiced voice:"State your name and business in Oldtown."
Maekar dipped his head, his tone subdued and humble."I'm called Jon, Ser. My father's taken ill, and I've come to buy medicine for him, sir."
The guard gave a small nod—common enough, with the Citadel close at hand. Those in need of healing passed through this gate every day. Still, the man's eyes lingered."Show me your face. And do you carry weapons?"
With a brisk motion, Maekar pushed back the hood of his cloak. Dark hair fell across his brow—dyed with walnut stain, easy enough to wash away when the time came. He kept his gaze lowered, careful to hide the betraying hue of his eyes.
"I carry only a dagger, ser," he answered, producing a battered old blade, its edge worn with years. The same dagger he had used to silence the stable boy.
The guard gave the worn dagger a passing glance, then looked at the boy's weary horse—thin-flanked, foam-flecked, and stumbling on its legs. Satisfied, he stepped aside with a curt nod."Go on ahead."
Maekar wasted no time. He nudged the horse forward, passing beneath the towering gate and into the maze of Oldtown's streets. The city was alive even in the late hours—lanterns glowing in windows, the smell of salt and fish from the Honeywine, and the distant chime of bells from the Starry Sept. He kept his hood low, never once lifting his eyes from the road.
Before long he reined in at an inn not far from the Citadel, a place he had chosen in advance. Swinging down from the saddle, he handed the reins to a waiting stable boy and pressed a copper coin into the lad's palm—enough to keep the horse fed and tied for a few hours.
"See, he doesn't founder," Maekar muttered, his voice rough but even. The boy nodded.
---------
by now you guys know that his goal is the citadel; can you guess what his goal is.
hint: a relative of his lives there