The unsettling smile quickly dimmed like a dying light, and Maekar's face returned to its usual stoic mask. He regarded Daemon silently for a long moment before speaking aloud, his voice calm and deliberate.
"Darksister. I want it."
'Daemon is a prideful man,' Maekar thought.
'He believes himself above others because of his blood. But what defines him to those around him are two things: his dragon, the blood wyrm Caraxes, and his ancestral Targaryen sword, Darksister. Since I cannot take his dragon… I will take his sword—the thing he has always carried with pride.'
A shocked gasp rippled through the hall. Nobles and royals alike froze, their eyes widening at the audacity of Maekar's demand.
Turning toward his father, Maekar's voice carried clearly across the chamber:
"You would at least do that for me, wouldn't you… Father?"
Viserys let out a relieved sigh, grateful not to spill more blood today. He weighed the demand, seeing it as a fitting punishment, and nodded.
"Aye, son. That is a fitting justice. You shall have it."
Daemon's carefully maintained mask cracked. Shock flashed across his face, then flared into smoldering rage. His body trembled as he struggled to rise, but Ser Harrold Westerling, weighed down by shame for failing in his duty—and knowing this incident would be recorded in the White Book, a mark that would follow him long after he was in the dirt—stepped forward. Pressing his sword to the very spot where Maekar had been wounded, he spoke slowly, his voice trembling with restrained authority
"Resist no more, Prince Daemon, or I shall cut you down myself."
Viserys approached his brother, his voice firm yet measured.
"Your king has delivered justice, Daemon Targaryen, and you will obey."
He raised his hand, the weight of authority heavy in the hall.
"I hereby announce that Darksister, the ancestral sword of House Targaryen, is passed down to my son, Prince Maekar of House Targaryen."
The hall fell into stunned silence, the gravity of the moment settling over every noble present.
Ser Harrold Westerling, with a gesture from the king, lowered his sword and took Dark Sister from Ser Erryk. He approached Maekar, spreading the blade and its sheath before handing it to him.
Maekar casually took the hilt, his eyes briefly tracing the intricate design shaped like a dragon's wings. Slowly, he unsheathed the blade. The unmistakable rippled pattern of Valyrian steel shimmered along its length, the smoky white metal catching the light.
He twirled the sword lightly, and Daemon watched in disbelief. This was the blade he had always prized, given to him by Jaeharys, his grandfather—and now it was in the hands of a boy, a Hightower no less.
Maekar muttered just loud enough for Daemon and those nearby to hear:
"Too thin. Truly a woman's weapon. Who wielded it before?"
Daemon's face twisted in fury, his body trembling, and he lowered his head, a low, harsh laugh escaping him. He raised his head, letting the laughter build a moment longer before finally regaining his composure, as the room watched—some in fear, others in curiosity.
Finally, he fixed his gaze on Maekar.
"Enjoy the sword, boy."
With a dismissive shrug of the King's Guard restraining him, Daemon stormed out, his boots thundering against the floor, leaving a tense silence in his wake.
Alicent didn't look convinced that the punishment was enough and seemed to wish for blood to be spilled. She glanced at her husband and said,
"That is not enough, lord husband. Daemon must pay for his horrid crime."
Viserys, who looked as though he could retire to his chambers and sleep for a year, met her gaze.
"Do not let hatred cloud your judgment, Alicent. Besides, Maekar has already decided the punishment."
Alicent opened her mouth, ready to argue further, but Maekar's next words cut her off.
"Do not grieve, mother. My blood has gained my brother a dragon and me a Valyrian steel sword. That's blood well spilt."
Alicent looked gobsmacked, as did all who had heard him.
Soon, everyone began leaving to return to their chambers. Maekar was led to his quarters, accompanied by Alicent, Aegon, Aemond, Helaena—her worried eyes on his covered wound and her hands gripping his sleeves—and Ser Criston Cole.
As he entered the room, Alicent lingered, torn between staying or leaving. Finally, she spoke quietly,
"Son… Do you need anything?"
Maekar shook his head.
"No, mother. I'm perfectly fine."
Alicent bit her nails and said,
"If you need me, I'm just in the chamber next to yours."
With that, she left, taking everyone else with her—except Aemond.
He gathered his courage and said,
"I'm sorry, brother. Because of me…"
Maekar patted him on the shoulder and said.
"Aemond, Vhagar is worth more than some wound or a burn scar. And so is this."
He lifted the sword at his hip.
"Now go to sleep. You've had a rough night."
Aemond reluctantly nodded and left. Maekar closed the door, locked it, and let a quiet sigh escape his lips.
Maekar moved toward the mirror and slowly removed his tunic. He stood before the large glass, half-naked, and brought his hand up to begin unwrapping the cloth that covered his wound. Roll after roll came off, revealing the horrific burn.
The injury stretched from his collarbone to just below his jaw on the side of his neck. As he stared at himself,
His sharp Valyrian features seemed to shift—the hair darkening, the burn elongating, consuming half his face, taking his ear, and leaving it melted away. His once-hollow purple eyes dulled to a muted brown.
Maekar, now looking almost unrecognizable in the mirror, had memories long hidden deep within his soul surge forward, a particular one he had wished to forget but could never do.
Renold, alongside seven others, was huddled inside an armored personnel carrier. They chatted quietly, the soft murmur of voices and occasional jokes offering a thin layer of comfort. Renold stood near the door, AK-47 pressed against his chest, eyes scanning his comrades. The spark of hope for a better future still burned faintly in his brown eyes, undimmed despite everything he had endured.
For a few fleeting moments, the calm held—until it didn't.
Renold didn't remember the exact moment the hit struck. One instant, he was with his team; the next, a warhead had penetrated the carrier. All he knew was the searing pain ripping through his body as he tumbled onto the muddy ground. His side throbbed violently; ringing filled his ears.
He looked down to see a jagged piece of shrapnel lodged deep in his side—but worse, half his body was engulfed in flames. The realization sent a shock of agony through him, hotter than lava coursing through his veins.
"AAAAAAARRRGHHHHH!"
He screamed, rolling desperately in the mud, hoping the flames would abate. His face was singed, his hair evaporating into smoke, and his ear sagged, melting as fire ate through the skin and burned into the muscle beneath.
Maekar shook his head violently as the memory faded, along with the despair that would have consumed him if not for his curse. He looked into the mirror once more—Renold's face long gone—and whispered,
"This won't be the end of it, Daemon."
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