Maekar lingered near the Citadel's gates, close enough to watch yet far enough not to draw suspicion. The night deepened, and with it came the Hour of the Wolf. At last, he saw what he had been waiting for—the guards changing shifts, one pair leaving, and another pair taking their posts.
Slipping into a shadowed alley, he shed his travel-worn cloak and pulled on a plain grey robe, the garb of a novice. From his satchel he produced a weathered tome, its cracked spine and faded lettering lending it an air of authenticity. He drew the hood low, concealing his eyes in shadow, and returned to the gates.
The twin sphinxes loomed as he passed between them, silent stone sentinels. One of the fresh guards stepped forward, barring his way.
"Where were you at this hour, boy?"
Maekar dipped his head, raising the old book so it caught the torchlight.
"My maester bade me fetch this tome for him. He'll have my hide if I tarry."
The guard squinted at the volume, its age plain, then frowned.
"So late?"
"You've just begun your watch, haven't you?" Maekar said smoothly.
"Ask the men you relieved. They saw me leave with their own eyes."
The guard let out a tired sigh, more irked at the thought of chasing down answers than suspicious. With a dismissive wave, he stepped aside.
"Get on with it, then."
Maekar bowed his head and slipped past, his pulse steady, his steps measured. The halls of the Citadel yawned before him—vast, silent, and heavy with the scent of parchment and dust. At this hour no maester stirred, and only the occasional novice or acolyte shuffled about half-asleep.
Guided by memory and the fragments of blueprints he had once glimpsed in Grand Maester Mellos' chambers, he traced the winding passages. Ten minutes passed before he reached the right floor.
At last, he stood before the oaken door of the man he had come so far to find. Mellos had not suspected his subtle questions earlier—why should he, when Maekar had merely asked after his own great-uncle?
Maekar slipped into an adjacent chamber, one that reeked faintly of waste. It was little more than a room for chamber pots and washing, yet inside stood a wooden tub filled with still water. Likely used to cleanse filth, but Maekar paid no mind. Without hesitation, he bent over and plunged his head in, scrubbing furiously. The black walnut dye bled into the water, swirling away until his hair shone once more in its true resplendent silver. He wrung it out and dried it with his cloak, not caring for the damp that clung to his shoulders.
Stepping back into the dim corridor, he set his mind on his true purpose. Yet before he could take more than a few strides, footsteps echoed behind him. Maekar's lips tightened.
'What is it with people trailing behind me tonight?'
The sound halted, and a sharp voice cut through the silence.
"What is a novice doing here? Do you not know this part of the Citadel is forbidden at such an hour?"
Maekar turned with a weary sigh. The speaker was revealed as an acolyte, his dark grey robe marking his station. Maekar took a slow step toward him, then another, raising his voice just enough to carry.
"I only wished to look around, that is all," he said, feigning nonchalance.
The acolyte's face darkened, his expression twisting with indignation—as though the boy before him had trampled upon some sacred law of the Citadel.
The acolyte opened his mouth to admonish him but froze as the torchlight caught Maekar's silver locks cascading down his head. By then, Maekar was already within arm's reach. Without hesitation, he slammed his fist into the boy's chin, forcing the acolyte's body to tense and nearly collapse. Circling him swiftly, Maekar wrapped his arms around the boy's neck in a chokehold, guiding him back toward the chamber pot room to avoid any witnesses.
The acolyte gurgled, the sound raw and strangled, as if some cruel soul reaper were wringing his life from him. He tapped weakly at Maekar's arms, begging him to release the hold, but Maekar only tightened it, whispering in a low, deadly tone:
"No need to struggle. Just close your eyes."
Moments later, the acolyte's body went slack, the last breath leaving him. Maekar held him for an additional thirty seconds before letting go, then dragged the limp form to a nearby window. Peering down, he spotted a secluded spot between the Citadel's buildings, where thick bushes could muffle the impact. With a powerful heave, he dropped the body; the sound of the landing was softened by the greenery below.
Finally free of distractions, Maekar turned back and approached the room of Archmaester Vaegon. The chamber was a chaotic haven of knowledge: books strewn across a large study desk, candles lining the room with a dull flickering light, and walls packed with shelves holding ancient tomes. Quietly, he moved toward the silhouette of his great-uncle, lying on his back atop the bed, unaware of the presence creeping closer.
Maekar's shadow fell over Vaegon as he loomed above, peering down at his great-uncle's form. The old maester's face was long, framed by a silver goatee and mustache, his hair just long enough to brush his chin—distinctly Targaryen features. Perhaps sensing the sudden loss of light on his face, Vaegon's eyes slowly opened, revealing the deep purple of his irises. Shock and fear widened them as they locked onto the figure standing over him.
Vaegon's mouth opened to scream, but a hand shot out, clamping over it and silencing the shout. Maekar leaned in until only a few inches separated their faces, his expression cold and unyielding, his hollow purple eyes boring into Vaegon's own.
Raising his other hand, Maekar pressed a finger to his lips in a quiet, deliberate shush.
"Shhhh, Grand Uncle… There is no need to fear."
Vaegon's gaze flickered to the silver hair and the unmistakable Targaryen violet of Maekar's eyes. His tension eased just slightly, though he remained on edge, and he nodded wordlessly as Maekar finally removed his hand.
Maekar lifted a chair from behind the study desk and dragged it over to sit beside Vaegon on the bed. The old archmaester looked absolutely bewildered, a hand pressed to his chest as he tried to calm his racing heart.
Snapping out of his shock, Vaegon's face contorted into a mask of rage. He opened his mouth to rebuke the boy, but Maekar's low, steady voice cut him off.
"Don't raise your voice, Grand Uncle Vaegon. Nobody knows I'm here."
Vaegon closed and reopened his mouth several times, struggling for words, before finally relaxing slightly. His voice was still wary, though quieter now.
"Are you mad, boy? What are you doing standing in front of me at this hour? You nearly gave me a heart attack."
Maekar inclined his head, unapologetic. "I'm sorry about that, but I thought I might find help here."
Vaegon's eyes narrowed as he watched Maekar set the chair in place. The boy's calm, deliberate movements only seemed to heighten the archmaester's tension. Maekar then pulled a cloth bag from his shoulder and placed it in his lap as he sat.
"You sneak into the Citadel… into my room… at this hour… for help?" Vaegon's voice was sharp, but his incredulity was clear. "And how did you even get in? No—the better question is, what is a Targaryen doing in Oldtown instead of the Red Keep, and who the fuck are you, exactly?"
Maekar inclined his head once more. "Well… that is no language for an archmaester. But to answer your questions: it turns out the Citadel isn't that hard to sneak into, and I came here on dragonback."
"And I am the son of Viserys," Maekar said evenly, his violet eyes unflinching. "Second-born son—Maekar Targaryen."
Vaegon's expression shifted, a knowing look creeping across his face. "Ah… the Grim Prince. And his dragon, Morghul—the vile."
Maekar's brow lifted slightly, feigning mild curiosity, though he already knew the rumors circulating. Vaegon noticed, and the archmaester's tone grew sharper, though his eyes twinkled with a hint of morbid amusement.
"They say… a prince born to King Viserys who has never laughed, never cried, and is always grim and impassive. And his dragon… that grows faster than any other dragon and has already burned nine dragonkeepers—seemingly just for sport."
Maekar nodded, his expression unreadable. "My dragon does have his vices. A shame… those dragonkeepers—they were loyal men."
Though the words carried no hint of remorse, Vaegon said nothing about the lives lost in dragon fire, a truly painful way to go since it runs in the family.
"Anyway," Vaegon said, his deep purple eyes narrowing, "say what you've come for, little shit, and leave. You're messing with my sleep schedule."
Even in his irritation, the hint of Vaegon's well-known sour personality shone through, a trait well known about within the royal family.
Maekar nods, opens the bag on his lap, slips his hand inside, and pulls out…