Maekar slowly pulls his hand from the bag, middle finger raised and aimed at Vaegon with deliberate smugness.
Vaegon just stares, blanking for a moment before stammering,
'W–what the fu—are you serious?
(joking, it was Great_maid_Oni's idea.)
-----------------
Maekar slowly pulls his hand from the bag before pulling free what appears to be a wooden clock. It was no larger than a small chest; its frame of dark oak, square and sturdy, meant to hang flat upon a wall. At its heart, behind a painted wooden face, a single iron hand crept around a circle of twelve uneven numerals. The hand was driven not by water or sand but by a hidden weight, a stone hung on a rope that descended inch by inch with the passing hours. Through narrow gaps in the casing, the glint of brass wheels could be seen, their teeth clicking softly in time with the steady swing of a horizontal bar—the foliot—that rocked back and forth like the ancestor of a pendulum.
Vaegon stared at the wooden contraption before him, trying and failing to make sense of it. Finally, he looked at Maekar and said, "Are you going to explain, brat, or not?"
Maekar nodded. "This is what I call a wall-mounted clock. It's like a sundial, but unlike the sundial, it needs no light, no adjustment. It keeps track of time all day—and even through the night."
Vaegon's face twisted into a ridiculous expression as he muttered, half-disbelieving, while reaching forward to touch it.
Maekar continues, "Inside this wooden frame are wheels, each turning the next, all driven by the slow pull of a weight. Yet they do not rush to fall, for their motion is checked by a balance bar that rocks back and forth, letting the wheels advance only a little at a time. At the front, an iron hand points to painted marks upon the dial, showing which hour has come."
Vaegon held the clock, running his fingers across every surface, testing its weight, and prodding at its workings in a clumsy attempt to grasp its secrets. Maekar listened to his granduncle muttering half-formed observations—rudimentary, yet revealing a mind steeped in vast knowledge.
'This won't bring much coin in the long run compared to other "inventions." I wanted to make other creations—a press for printing words, among them—but I was only ever a soldier, with no such knowledge to guide me ' Maekar thought.
'But coin was never the goal. This hidden income will give me the means to move pieces in silence.'
His gaze lingered on the clock in Vaegon's hands, and memories long buried stirred. Memories drowned in war and bloodshed, of little Renold, seated at a worn table, while an older man who so resembled him patiently explained the tiny parts of a watch in their humble shop back home.
A melancholy and sad feeling welled within Maekar's chest—perhaps the strongest emotion he had felt since being reborn. Yet the curse, as if unwilling to allow it, crushed the feeling until it dulled… and then faded altogether, leaving only emptiness.
Vaegon turned to him at last, brow furrowed. "How did a child like you fashion such a thing? Something even we, the maesters, have not wrought in all our millennias of history?"
Maekar met his grand-uncle's gaze in silence. Inside, he reached once more for that fleeting warmth—the vision of himself at the table beside his father, learning the secrets of gears and wheels—but the feeling would not return. It slipped away, leaving him hollow.
At length, he spoke. "How I made it is not what matters. What matters is how you—the Citadel—will take this design, mass produce it, and place it in the hands of every lord and noble in this realm."
Vaegon studied him for a long moment before remarking, "I was not aware the royal family had grown so poor that its princes must turn to invention."
Maekar ignored the barb. "The prototype you hold is complete. I have the blueprints as well. I want it made under the name of the Citadel—or yours; it makes no difference. But my name must never be tied to it. No one else must know. Only you."
Surprise flickered across Vaegon's face before giving way to something keener. "If a prince must hide his own creation, it can only mean he seeks a hidden source of income… Maekar."
It was the first time he had spoken his name, as though acknowledging at last that what stood before him was no mere boy. His eyes narrowed. "Selling this will make millions. Tell me, grandnephew—what does a prince need with such wealth?"
Maekar gazed at his grand-uncle with a vacant look."You, who have sworn a maester's oath, are no longer entitled to anything beyond your service. So, Vaegon Targaryen—you will serve."
Deeply insulted by the audacity of the boy, anger flickered across Vaegon's face. "As you say, Maekar. But what stops me from summoning the guards? They could send you back in disgrace to the RedKeep while I keep this invention for myself."
Vaegon was testing him—probing, curious whether the grandnephew he had never known had thought ahead, whether he carried a countermeasure against betrayal.
Maekar leaned forward in his chair, unblinking eyes locked on Vaegon's. He held the silence just long enough to ensure his granduncle's full attention, then spoke in a low, calm voice.
"Then you, the maesters, the acolytes, the guards, House Hightower, and Oldtown itself… will burn."
Vaegon searched Maekar's face for even the faintest trace of bravado, but to his horror he found none. The boy's eyes held only a cold certainty.
'A monster is born to House Targaryen,' Vaegon thought bitterly.
With a weary sigh, he yielded. "Fine. You win. How will this transaction work, Maekar?"
Maekar leaned back in his chair, the shadow of his earlier threat still heavy between them. "I will take only a yearly percentage in perpetuity for my invention. And I will receive one hundred thousand gold coins upfront."
Vaegon nodded slightly. A hundred thousand was steep, but for an invention of this magnitude, it was bearable. The true matter was the percentage."What share do you want?" he asked.
Maekar tilted his eyes upward as if pondering, then replied, "Fifty–fifty."
Vaegon let out a sharp snort, unbecoming of an archmaester. "Impossible. You may have devised it, but we will supply the equipment, build it, and create the market—on top of the hundred thousand you demand upfront."
"Forty–sixty," Maekar shot back without hesitation.
"Ten–ninety," Vaegon countered.
Maekar's gaze hardened. "Thirty–seventy."
Vaegon hesitated, then said, "Twenty-five–seventy-five. That is the best I can offer."
"Done," Maekar answered at once.