Maekar stood inside a small chamber, crimson and white velvet drapes hanging from the ceiling.
The air was filled with perfume and sweat.
Ser Clement stood behind him, while Criston Cole waited at his side, looking as though he was still trying to figure out where exactly he had ended up.
Maekar studied the woman across from him.
She stood perfectly still, calm and composed, dressed in a simple white gown.
“As I said, I wish to place a bet on Ser Clement to win the joust.
Is that possible?”
The White Worm, they called her.
She was a well known figure in Flea Bottom.
Maekar had asked Roland, one of his former guards who now served in the City Watch, where to find someone like that.
Without a second thought, Roland had sent him here.
The establishment and the woman before him were one and the same.
She nodded.
“Forgive the question,” she said, her eyes briefly settling on the heavy pouch of gold resting on the table.
“But are you a Targaryen?”
Maekar gave a quiet scoff and turned to leave, adjusting his hood.
A few strands of silver hair had slipped free.
“My prince.
A moment, please.”
So he had caught her interest.
He did not turn around.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asked.
“I trade in information as well.”
“Information,” Maekar repeated.
He glanced at Ser Clement.
The knight understood immediately.
Before Mysaria could say another word, a sword rested against her throat.
Maekar could hear her breathing.
Only then did he turn, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his own sword.
“Let me make one thing clear.”
His voice remained calm.
“You do not ask.”
“You do not demand.”
Mysaria slowly nodded, her eyes shifting between the blade at her throat and the young prince.
“Good.”
Maekar gestured for Ser Clement to lower his sword.
“I have another task for you, if you dare accept it.”
Mysaria carefully touched her throat, almost as if making sure it was still there.
“I dare.”
A faint smile appeared on Maekar’s face.
“I want information on the Hand.”
“Everything you can find.”
For the first time, Mysaria’s composure cracked.
Her eyes widened ever so slightly, though she quickly recovered.
“That is…
possible,” she said.
“But it will be expensive.”
Maekar laughed.
“Consider this a test.”
“If you prove yourself worthy, you will be paid well.”
“If you fail…”
His smile disappeared.
“Or if anyone asks what happened here tonight, and you answer them…”
He stepped closer.
“You will die.”
The words were spoken so quietly they almost sounded gentle.
Mysaria nodded once.
She understood.
With that, Maekar departed, pausing at the city watch along the way to secure Criston a temporary place in their training.
Three days had passed since then.
Maekar had his head leaned against his hand as he sat in the royal lodge, watching the current joust.
“WOOAH!”
A loud roar sprang through the crowd as Daemon managed to unhorse his opponent.
A knight from the Riverlands.
His gaze moved towards his brother, who was raising his fist proudly into the air.
Then his thoughts trailed off once again to what he had been told this morning.
A smuggler.
The White Worm’s spies had managed to find out that the Septon had visited the harbour a few weeks ago, contacting a man named Lorris.
A smuggler.
Why?
They did not know, but the man was currently being interrogated in a cellar.
Maekar thought about making a personal visit, when suddenly someone interrupted his thoughts.
“Prince, may I sit here?”
It was Lord Corlys, today without Rhaenys in tow.
Maekar gestured in agreement as Lord Corlys, who was wearing a blue doublet, took his place.
“Prince Daemon has won?” he asked, his voice betraying him.
He already knew the answer.
“Of course.” Maekar answered, his pride somewhat revealing itself as well.
“I must say Prince, I have not yet expressed my admiration for your work.
Although Viserys and Daemon surely played their part as well, I was there that night.
The night when you arrived at Driftmark, when you uncovered the plot.”
Maekar listened for a moment.
“Plot?
You are not the first one to call it that, although perhaps the first one in the small council.”
Corlys looked at the joust for a moment, then nodded slowly.
“You truly speak well.”
They continued talking while more and more members of the royal family arrived in the lodge.
The most exciting matches of the day were about to begin.
First came King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, walking arm in arm.
Then Viserys, who looked thoughtful as always.
Rhaenys arrived with a confident smile, and finally Gael, who sat down quietly beside Alysanne.
The herald’s voice rang out across the field, loud and clear.
“Please welcome Prince Daemon Targaryen once more!
His opponent will be none other than the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Ryam Redwyne!”
The crowd erupted in a massive roar.
Even the lords and ladies clapped and cheered as both riders entered the lists.
Daemon was clad in dark Targaryen armor that shone in the sun.
His helmet was shaped like a dragon with wings spread wide.
He sat tall and proud on a strong black horse, clearly enjoying the attention.
In contrast, Ser Ryam Redwyne wore his white Kingsguard armor.
He rode a calm white steed and carried himself with dignity and control.
Even King Jaehaerys seemed excited.
The old king leaned forward in his seat and clapped his hands with real enthusiasm, a rare smile on his face. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Daemon was excited.
Every muscle in his body tensed as he looked at his opponent in the distance.
It was truly a feeling of freedom.
He had heard stories of his father’s splendor in the joust.
Today he rode for him.
He had made that promise to himself.
“Lance!” he called out.
“Shield.”
He received both.
The heavy lance felt perfect in his hand, and the shield sat firmly as well.
His black horse shifted nervously beneath him.
At the other end of the lists, Ser Ryam Redwyne sat motionless on his white steed.
The Lord Commander looked almost peaceful in his shining white armor.
The herald raised his hand.
The crowd grew quiet in anticipation.
Then the trumpet sounded.
Both riders kicked their horses at the same moment.
The ground shook as the two powerful animals thundered toward each other.
Daemon lowered his lance, aiming straight for the center of Ser Ryam’s shield.
The first pass was violent.
Wood splintered loudly.
Daemon’s lance struck, hitting Ser Ryam’s shield dead center.
But the older knight barely moved in his saddle.
His own lance hit Daemon’s shield with moderate power.
They turned their horses and rode back to their starting positions.
Daemon grinned under his helmet.
“Again!”
On the second charge, both men charged harder.
This time Ser Ryam’s lance hit Daemon’s shield with incredible force.
The impact shook Daemon’s bones, but he stayed firm in the saddle.
The crowd cheered wildly.
On the third pass, Daemon leaned forward aggressively.
He wanted to unhorse the legendary knight.
His lance struck perfectly!
But Ser Ryam turned at the last moment, deflecting the blow.
At the same time, his own lance slammed into Daemon’s chest plate.
Daemon rocked back hard from the impact.
He almost lost his balance, his back nearly sliding over the wooden railing, but he managed to straighten himself at the last moment.
The fourth pass was the decisive one.
The crowd was already standing.
A tense silence fell over the lists as everyone held their breath in anticipation.
Daemon decided he would give it everything.
He leaned forward, clenched his muscles, and urged his horse into a full charge.
They struck.
Ser Ryam deflected the blow with perfect timing.
Daemon felt a brutal impact against his chest.
For a moment his body was lifted into the air.
Then he crashed hard into the dirt.
The crowd gasped.
Ser Ryam quickly swung off his horse and walked over.
He offered his hand and helped Daemon rise to his feet.
“A splendid match, my Prince,” Ser Ryam said with genuine respect.
Daemon nodded slowly, still breathing heavily.
He took off his dragon-shaped helmet and forced a smile.
“Next time, old man,” he laughed.
Then he turned toward the royal lodge to look at his family, but something was wrong.
His grandfather was not even looking at him.
Jaehaerys was leaning toward a man standing beside him, whispering urgently into his ear.
A moment later the king rose from his seat with a grim expression.
The crowd groaned in confusion as he hurried away.
Queen Alysanne, Viserys, and Maekar followed them a few moments later.
What was going on?
Daemon’s smile faded.
He pushed past Ser Ryam, still holding his helmet, and strode toward the exit with long, angry steps.
Maekar did not know what the messenger had told his grandfather, but he decided to follow.
An ominous feeling grew inside him as his carriage thundered through the streets of King’s Landing.
As they neared the Red Keep, the carriage suddenly stopped.
Maekar hammered against the wall.
“I apologise, my Prince, but the road is blocked,” the driver called.
“Blocked?” Maekar asked, confused.
He opened the door.
“The Father’s face is stern and strong!
He judges all who do him wrong!
The Mother’s face is soft and mild!”
A group of grey-robed Faith priests was singing as they moved slowly through the street.
“What are they singing?” Maekar asked a guard on horseback, clearly annoyed.
The guard looked surprised.
“It is the Song of the Seven, my Prince.”
Maekar nodded.
He looked at the Red Keep in the distance and at the carriage behind him carrying Viserys.
“Give me your horse.”
The guard furrowed his brows.
“What?”
“You heard me correctly,” Maekar said, his voice rising.
The guard climbed down from his brown steed and glanced at Maekar in confusion.
Maekar moved past him, grabbed the saddle, and with a strong jump pulled himself onto the horse.
It wasn’t easy but possible.
He calmed the animal quickly.
Then he kicked the horse forward.
It shot past the other guards before they could even react.
“Prince!”
“Prince Maekar!”
He heard them shouting behind him, but he did not slow down.
He rode straight toward the massive column of priests.
The men in the front row began shouting and raising their hands, but Maekar did not stop.
They stepped aside.
Even they feared death.
Even they who said they did not.
He raced past the angry believers and finally reached the gates of the Red Keep.
The guards let him through in surprise.
After a few moments, Maekar hurried past maids and servants in the hallways.
He already knew why they had hurried here.
He had heard the whispers on his way.
The door was right in front of him.
For a moment he hesitated.
Then he pushed it open and stepped inside.
Jaehaerys and Alysanne stood beside the bed where his father had been lying for so long.
Baelon had woken up a few times before, muttering a few words, scaring some servants, before falling back into sleep.
But this time his eyes were closed.
“Grandmother?” Maekar asked, even though he already knew the answer.
Alysanne was sobbing quietly.
Jaehaerys looked grim, his hands clenched tightly around the wooden frame of the bed.
Maekar stepped closer.
Baelon looked lifeless.
He had looked weak for some time now, but today it was different.
Maekar stood right beside him and looked at his father’s face.
What rose inside him was not sadness.
It was anger.
A Targaryen.
The man who had been his father in this life, dead.
Not in battle.
Not from old age.
No.
Killed in the most cowardly way possible.
Undignified.
Pathetic.
That made the anger burn even hotter.
He himself had been murdered like that in his last life.
Always those who could not win otherwise.
For a moment he just stood there.
The summer sun shone through the open balcony door, warm and bright.
Then he turned and walked out.
He almost collided with Viserys in the corridor.
Viserys said something.
Maekar did not hear it.
Further ahead, Daemon appeared, still in his tourney armor.
“What is happening?” Daemon asked.
Maekar stopped.
“Say your farewells.
After that, meet me in my room tonight.”
Daemon held his gaze for a moment.
Then the sound of sobbing from the chamber behind them finally reached them…
Maekar stood in the dark underground cellar, breathing hard.
His small fists were covered in blood.
Most of it from the smuggler.
Lorris groaned again as Maekar hit him again and again.
The pain in his small knuckles felt distant.
He had sneaked out of the Red Keep, not taking Ser Clement with him.
Clement was loyal, but he was still a Kingsguard.
Maekar did not want anyone who might try to stop him tonight.
Instead it was Daemon who now hit the man.
His brother’s fist landed on the smuggler’s face much harder than his own.
Then it was Maekar again, they had been doing this for a while now.
“What did he want from you?” Daemon asked, his voice low.
Maekar had told him the most important things.
That he suspected the Septon behind their father’s poisoning and that he had a lead.
Daemon had agreed to come with him.
Both of them had sneaked out of the Red Keep together.
Daemon had shown Maekar a secret passage he of course pretended not to know.
The middle-aged smuggler spat blood onto the dirty floor.
“Nothing… I swear…”
Maekar wiped his hands on his tunic and massaged his temples.
His head hurt.
“Cut off his arm.”
Daemon turned.
“Cut off his arm,” Maekar repeated.
“Else I will do it.”
Daemon paused for a moment.
Then he pulled out his sword.
Lorris started screaming.
“No!
No!
Please!”
Maekar walked toward the door.
He had almost reached it when the smuggler broke.
“WAIT!
WAIT!” Lorris shouted in panic.
“A corpse!
I smuggled a corpse for him!
Or at least what was left of it.
Blackened, charred bones and a few personal belongings.
They came from Dragonstone…
it was strange.”
Maekar stopped.
He slowly turned around.
A cold, bitter laugh escaped his lips.
It grew louder with every passing second until it echoed throughout the cellar.
Daemon tilted his head back and joined in.
The laughter was entirely out of place, yet it seemed to be the only way either of them could release the emotions that had been building inside them.
“So that is how it was,” Maekar said between quiet laughs.
Oswin had risen through the ranks far too quickly.
Maekar had suspected there was a connection between the two, but never a personal one.
Why else would Barth recover what remained of the body?
Cannibal had torn Oswin apart.
Half of his remains had been left scattered across the courtyard.
The laughter slowly died in Maekar’s throat.
He had known it.
He had known it the moment he met that old man’s gaze.
A snake.
One that had sired another.
His expression became still.
Then he whispered.
“Oh…
Barth,” his voice almost gentle.
“You must have loved your bastard so very much…”