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They named him Maegor, though some whispered that such a name should never again grace a son of House Targaryen. Yet the Mad King, Aerys the Second of his name, had always taken delight in ill omens.
Born in the year of 261AC, Prince Maegor Targaryen came into the world with the cry of a storm outside the walls of Maegor's Holdfast,— a sign that some at court deemed fitting. He was two years younger than Rhaegar, his brother, and of a sharper, prouder temper. Where Rhaegar was all silver light and melancholy, Maegor burned like a forge.
By the time of the Tourney at Harrenhal, he was twenty namedays, standing tall and broad-shouldered, a warrior of six feet and three inches, his body honed by years of training under the finest swordsmen of the realm. The scars upon his back and chest told the story of both defiance and devotion,— some earned in battle, others in his father's wrath.
His hair was platinum white streaked with faint ash-gray, a rare inheritance that many took as an ill-omened blessing from some darker strain of Valyrian blood. His eyes, deep amethyst, betrayed a temper that simmered beneath the surface,— slow to rise, but violent when loosed.
Prince Maegor was seldom seen without his armor: blackened steel chased with silver dragons, its design stark and solemn compared to the ornate gilded plate his brother preferred. The breastplate bore the sigil of House Targaryen rendered in red enamel, its three heads gleaming like coals. Beneath his left pauldron hung a thin, curved scar,— the mark of his father's belt when he had once stood between Aerys and Queen Rhaella.
At his side he bore Darkflame, a non-Valyrian steel longsword of lean make, its crossguard shaped as a dragon's wings. The sword's edge gleamed with a smoke-dark hue, and in torchlight it seemed to drink in the fire rather than reflect it.
Those who knew him spoke of a prince both daring and dangerous, possessed of an easy charm when he wished to use it and a cold detachment when he did not. He was known to laugh with soldiers and dine with knights, but his silences were heavy things, and more than one courtier had learned to fear his stillness.
To the smallfolk, he was the Daring Prince,— a title half admiration, half warning. To his father, he was the son who still obeyed. And to Rhaegar, though neither would speak it aloud, he was the shadow that walked beside the sun.
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A/N: I feel like Maegor and the music 'A Little Death' by Neighbourhood go hand in hand, lmao.