Maekar the broken

Dragonstone, 283 AC

POV: Maekar Targaryen

The Narrow Sea had been a crucible, its storms lashing the smuggler's ship as Maekar Targaryen clung to Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel blade's scabbard his only brace against the rolling deck and the fire in his crippled leg. The old wound, a rebel's axe from years past, burned with each step, forcing him to lean on the ancestral sword like a crutch. Now, as Dragonstone's black stone cliffs loomed through the mist, Maekar stood at the prow, his violet eyes hard as amethysts, his scarred face set with a seriousness that had calcified in the wake of loss. Rhaegar, Lyanna, Aerys, Elia, Aegon, Rhaenys—all gone, their deaths a litany of pain. Robert Baratheon's laughter—"dragonspawn"—echoed in his mind, fueling a fire that no storm could douse. Jaehaerys, Rhaegar's son, was safe with Ned Stark in the North, but Maekar, named heir, carried the weight of House Targaryen's survival.

Beside him rode the Kingsguard: Ser Arthur Dayne, his greatsword Dawn a pale beacon; Ser Oswell Whent, his dark eyes scanning the horizon; and Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, steadfast as stone. They had guarded Lyanna at the Tower of Joy, bearing the raven's news of Rhaegar's fall at the Trident, and now they stood with Maekar, their white cloaks tattered but unyielding. The ship docked at Dragonstone's grim harbor, its obsidian walls rising like a dragon's bones against the churning sea.

Maekar hobbled down the gangplank, Blackfyre's point tapping the stone quay, each step a battle against his ruined leg. The Kingsguard flanked him as they ascended the winding path to the castle, its towers carved with dragons that seemed to watch their approach. The air was thick with salt and ash, the island's volcanic heart a low rumble beneath their feet. Maekar's heart pounded, not from pain but from the weight of what awaited: his mother, Queen Rhaella, pregnant and frail, and his younger brother, Viserys, a boy of eight, the last of their blood save for the child in the North.

Inside the Stone Drum, Dragonstone's heart, Rhaella stood waiting, her silver hair dulled by grief, her swollen belly straining her black gown. Viserys clung to her side, his violet eyes wide with fear and defiance. The hall was sparse, lit by flickering torches, its walls etched with Valyrian glyphs. A handful of loyalists stood in attendance: grizzled Valyrian retainers, their faces marked by dragonfire's legacy, and Lord Ardrian Celtigar, his crab-emblazoned cloak stiff with salt, representing the house sworn to Dragonstone.

Rhaella's eyes met Maekar's, and for a moment, the weight of their shared loss—husband, son, daughter-in-law, grandchildren—hung between them. She stepped forward, her voice soft but resolute. "Maekar," she said, "my son, my king."

Maekar froze, leaning on Blackfyre, his serious gaze locked on hers. "Mother," he said, his voice low, stripped of warmth by the burdens he bore. "I am no king while you and Viserys live."

Rhaella shook her head, her hand resting on her belly. "Aerys is dead, slain by Jaime Lannister's treachery. Rhaegar named you his heir, and the realm is lost to us. You are Maekar, second of your name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men." She lifted a crude crown, forged of blackened iron in the shape of an anvil—a nod to his namesake, Maekar I, the warrior king. "This is no crown of gold, but it is yours."

Maekar's jaw tightened, the weight of the title heavier than Blackfyre in his hand. He knelt, his leg screaming as he bowed his head. Rhaella placed the anvil crown upon him, its edges biting into his brow. "Rise, Maekar II," she said, her voice trembling with pride and sorrow.

He rose, Blackfyre's tap echoing in the silent hall, his scarred face a mask of resolve. "I am no king to sit a throne," he said, his voice steel, "but I will be a dragon to keep our house alive."

Viserys stepped forward, his small voice sharp. "They killed Father, Maekar. They killed Aegon and Rhaenys. We should fight!"

Maekar's gaze softened, though his seriousness remained. "We will fight, Viserys, but not here. Not now." He turned to the gathered loyalists, his eyes sweeping over the Valyrian retainers—descendants of dragonlords, their blood tied to old Valyria—and Lord Celtigar, whose fleet was Dragonstone's lifeline. "The usurper Robert sits the Iron Throne, his hands stained with our kin's blood. Tywin Lannister betrayed us, and King's Landing is lost. Dragonstone will not hold against his fleet. We must sail for Essos, to Braavos or Pentos, where our blood can endure."

Lord Ardrian Celtigar, his beard salt-flecked, stepped forward. "The fleet is ready, Your Grace," he said, his voice gruff. "Three galleys and a dozen smaller ships, enough to carry you, the queen, and Prince Viserys. But the Narrow Sea is watched. Stannis Baratheon's ships may already hunt us."

Maekar's hand tightened on Blackfyre, the blade's hilt grounding him. "Then we sail under cover of night," he said, his tone unyielding. "The Valyrian blood among you knows the old ways—shadow and secrecy. We'll slip through their nets. The Free Cities offer sanctuary, and there we'll gather strength."

A Valyrian retainer, an old man with eyes like dragon glass, spoke up. "The blood of the dragon endures, Your Grace. In Essos, we can find allies—sellswords, perhaps the Golden Company. But what of the child in the North?"

Maekar's gaze hardened, Jaehaerys's name a silent vow in his heart. "He is safe, hidden by Ned Stark. Jaehaerys is our future, but he must remain a secret, even from you. Our task now is to protect Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys, to keep House Targaryen alive."

Rhaella's hand rested on Viserys's shoulder, her voice steady despite her frailty. "We trust you, Maekar. Lead us across the sea."

Maekar nodded, the anvil crown heavy on his brow. He turned to Ser Arthur, his voice a low command. "Prepare the men. We sail at midnight. No banners, no torches. The dragon hides, but it does not die."

Ser Arthur bowed, Dawn gleaming at his side. "For House Targaryen, Your Grace."

As the loyalists dispersed to ready the fleet, Maekar hobbled to a window overlooking the churning sea, Blackfyre's tap a steady rhythm. The pain in his leg was a dull roar, but his heart burned with a dragon's fire. Robert's laughter, the deaths of his kin, and Lyanna's dying plea fueled him. He was Maekar II, a broken king with a broken leg, but the dragon's blood ran true. Essos awaited, a land of exile and hope, where House Targaryen would rise again.