“Prince, our city is honored by your arrival.” Alios said.
Maekar meanwhile looked past the opening in the wall towards the vast city.
They were sitting inside a chamber of the Red Temple.
Two cups of steaming tea stood before them.
“I am fond of it.
It is large, mighty, and rich.” He finally said, turning back towards the Triarch.
For a moment something moved across his face.
“Well, although the war against the Triarchy must have hurt.
Did it not?”
Alios sighed, nodding.
“I have always pleaded for more security, more gold for our defenses, but it is impossible to vote one against two.”
Maekar scoffed.
The system in Volantis was truly twisted.
“The Triarchy, those barbarians, will likely attack the Stepstones soon.” Maekar said, nearly spitting the words.
Alios widened his eyes.
“Is that true?”
He clenched his fists.
“It must be.
Meanwhile, we drown in our greed and self service…”
Alios stopped, noticing that he had drifted too far.
“Well, enough of these topics.
I wish to ask you, Prince.
Is there anything you wish to see in Volantis?
The great wall, or the bridge?”
“I wish to see a person, and I would be grateful if you could arrange that.”
Alios clapped his hands.
“Of course.
Who is it?”
“Saera Targaryen.”
Alios’ smile faded.
“Of course…” he muttered.
After a few more words, Maekar and Alios left the temple.
Kinvara had wished to stay behind, having some things to arrange.
She was the High Priestess, after all.
Maekar and Alios were carried through the streets on two platforms, borne by slaves.
The city was loud and full of life.
Merchants shouted everywhere and somewhere behind them, a bell rang.
“A magnificent dragon.” Alios called out, looking towards the sky.
Morghul had risen once more, circling the city like a guardian, or a bad omen.
Both words came from the mouths of Volantis’ people below.
“And it is growing steadily.”Maekar added, not bothering to hide his pride.
But perhaps there was a way for Morghul to grow faster…
“We have arrived.” Alios said, pointing towards a large wooden house ahead.
Many people crowded the streets around it, men especially.
This was the courtesan district, after all.
“The festering wound.” Maekar muttered, as he climbed off his litter.
A few of the slaves gasped, but Maekar did not mind them.
“My Prince, I will give you authority over two dozen guards.
As Triarch, it is not appropriate for me to enter such an establishment.”
Maekar nodded, thanking him, the guards flanking him on both sides.
As they reached the door, a few men grew agitated, being pushed away by the retinue.
“Captain.” Maekar said, addressing the man who seemed to be the leader.
The soldier stood straight at once.
“Yes!”
“Let your men block the entrance.
The rest clears out the filth inside.”
The man nodded resolutely.
The guards swarmed out, pushing the visitors away.
“Hey!”
“What is this!”
One man in particular seemed very distressed, pushing and shouting so loudly that spit flew from his mouth.
“What are you doing?!” he shouted.
Maekar glanced at him for a moment before entering the building.
His shouts were drowned out by the music.
Another pair of guards grabbed the musician, who stopped playing immediately.
Maekar glanced around.
Behind thin curtains and gaps, he could see them.
The filth.
“Those that are already at it shall finish.
It won’t take long, after all.
The rest is to be thrown out.” He ordered, the soldiers spreading out at once.
Under protest, the men were escorted out, while others followed voluntarily.
“What is going on here?!” A young man’s voice echoed through the first floor.
He had come from the staircase, his gaze full of anger.
But more importantly, his hair.
Silver.
Their eyes met across the hall, and both understood.
The man drew closer slowly and was let through the protective circle of guards towards Maekar.
“You are…” he began.
Maekar smiled.
“Prince Maekar of House Targaryen.”
The man’s eyes widened with shock.
For a moment he simply stood there.
“It…” he searched for words.
“It is rare for Targaryens to be this far from home.”
“You are mistaken.
I am closer than ever.
Valyria is not far at all.”
The man had an awkward smile, unsure if that had been a joke or not.
“Your name.” Maekar reminded him.
“I am Aegon.”
Maekar’s smile vanished at once.
“You must be looking for my mother.” Aegon said, the atmosphere having grown colder.
Saera moved her hand carefully.
The makeup had to be perfect.
Every line, every color, handpicked by her.
She drew a line beneath her eye, when suddenly her hand slipped.
A long smear of black now covered her cheek.
She bit her lip, as her gaze moved from the mirror to the letter lying on her table.
A dragon seal, broken.
My dear Saera,
Another year has passed, and I am writing to you once again.
Perhaps I should have done so sooner.
Perhaps you will not even wish to read this letter.
I have heard that you are well in Volantis.
I pray that it is true.
Your father grows older.
So do I.
The years pass faster than they once did, and so I catch myself falling into old memories more often.
I still remember the girl who laughed too loudly, argued with everyone, and always believed she knew better than the rest of us.
You brought me joy as often as you brought me worry. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
I know I cannot change what has happened between us.
I cannot change you, and I know there are wounds that do not heal simply because enough years have passed.
Even so, you are my daughter.
If you ever wished to return, my door would not be closed to you.
I cannot promise what your father would say, nor what the court would think, but I would see you again before the Stranger comes for me.
Your mother,
Alysanne
Saera read the words, her face an unmoving mask of stone.
She did not feel sadness.
She only felt irritation.
“The rambling of an old woman.”
She picked up the parchment and held it over the small candle on her table.
The flame caught the edge of the royal seal, melting the wax and turning Alysanne’s words to ash.
Saera dropped the burning paper into a silver bowl and watched it turn black.
She had built her own empire here.
She did not need their pity.
She only wanted what was rightfully hers, and soon, her sons would finally take it.
A hurried knock interrupted her thoughts.
Before she could answer, the door was torn open.
“Mother!”
It was Marxes, her youngest son, ten years old.
He looked worried.
“What is it?
Is there trouble downstairs?” she asked.
Marxes nodded.
“A visitor has come.
He scared away all the customers.
Everyone left.”
For her son, the business the family worked in was already normal.
He had barely heard anything about their Targaryen origin or Westeros.
Saera stood up.
“What?!
I will handle this.
Have you called one of the uncles?”
Marxes shook his head.
So Saera quickly left her room and descended the stairs.
She knocked on a door.
For a long moment no one opened.
“Belicho!” Saera shouted.
A groan came from inside.
After another full minute the door opened.
“What is it?!” a hoarse voice answered.
The man before her smelled strongly of alcohol and sweat.
He was tall, his head slumped beneath the doorframe.
“There is someone making trouble downstairs.”
The man sighed with annoyance as he opened the door further.
He was clad only in underwear as he slipped on a pair of pants.
He quickly grabbed a small knife.
In that manner they descended onto the first floor.
A larger group than before had gathered, filled with rough men, most of them owing Saera something.
When she saw the soldiers, she panicked for a moment.
Was this an official visit?
But why?
As she reached the last step, she could see her son Aegon talking with someone.
But the soldiers stood in the way, blocking her view.
“Halt!” the guard captain called out, raising his hand while the other rested on the hilt of his sword.
“Captain.
What is the meaning of this?” Saera asked.
The group of men behind her shifted nervously.
“You don’t have to answer,” a childlike voice stopped the captain, who had already opened his mouth.
The soldiers parted and revealed a boy.
Silver haired, purple eyes, expensive clothes.
Saera stepped closer, her eyes narrowed.
“Who are you?” The words came out quieter than she intended.
Behind her, the guards stopped anyone else from approaching.
“Hello, aunt.”
The boy said it with a voice so utterly unfitting for a child that a shiver ran down Saera’s spine.
Her past had finally caught up to her.
“Maekar?” she asked carefully.
The old woman had written of him once, but that was years ago.
The boy nodded.
“Are you not happy to see me?
To see your family?”
Saera saw her youngest son’s confused gaze in the corner of her eye.
Maekar stepped forward.
“How about we speak privately.
As a family,” he repeated.
Saera looked at him for a long moment before gesturing toward a door.
“Will you not drink?” Aegon asked as Maekar glanced at the tea before him.
“I am not thirsty.
What about you, conqueror?” he asked, his sarcasm evident as he looked around.
Saera sat opposite him, with Aegon beside her and a young boy named Marxes.
Two sellswords stood behind them, closely watching Maekar and the guards standing behind him.
“Where is your third?” he asked.
“He is preparing our voyage,” Aegon answered, leaning forward.
“Right.
The Great Council, is it?”
“Indeed,” Aegon answered.
“But we do not intend to simply beg for votes.
We wish to assume our rightful place.”
Maekar smiled as he looked at him.
“The lords of Westeros might not share your view on what is rightful.”
Aegon chuckled.
“Volantis is a city of immense wealth, little Prince.
We have the gold to make sure our claim is recognized.”
“Prince,” Saera interrupted.
“Did Alysanne send you to spy on us?”
For a moment Maekar shifted his gaze between Aegon and Saera, before it finally landed on Marxes, who seemed confused by the situation.
Disgusting.
He stood, lifting the cup, smiling at them before turning to one of the guards and offering it to him.
After a moment’s hesitation, the guard accepted the cup and drank.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened and Maekar took the cup once more.
“To the blood of the dragon,” Maekar said, turning back to them, his voice filled with the warmth of a proper toast.
“That runs so strong in your family, aunt.”
He watched his guard in the corner of his eyes.
The man swayed, just slightly.
His eyelids grew heavy.
“The blood that you will no doubt pass on to many more sons.
All silver-haired.
All purple-eyed.”
He tilted the cup, as if to drink.
“All-”
“Bastards.” This story is hosted at g.com.
Maekar turned his wrist and let the tea spill onto the floorboards.
Silence.
Saera’s head snapped from the sleepy guard towards her son.
She had obviously understood.
“Aegon.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Aegon said nothing.
His jaw was clenched, his eyes fixed on the table.
“You didn’t tell her,” Maekar said, tilting his head.
“How disappointing…conqueror.”
“I ask you once.
Remain here, live out the rest of your lives, and die of old age.”
Suddenly Aegon’s fist landed heavily on the table.
The guard behind Maekar, as well as the sellsword, grew tense.
“Do not speak to us like that!” Aegon raised his finger.
“Never will I bow to you, little boy!
I am of the true blood!
So is my mother!
So are my brothers!”
“We are fire and blood, and we will press our claim.
If you try to stop us…”
Maekar smiled, gesturing for his guards to sheathe their half-drawn swords, before stepping past them.
“And you are free to do so,” he said.
They seemed confused.
Maekar was not.
He understood all he needed to.
Let’s see how much fire your blood can take, he thought as he left the place.
As the night drew closer, Saera could finally rest.
The visit had been tense.
For a moment, she had thought the boy would kill them.
But it seemed that no matter how eloquently he spoke, a boy remained a boy.
She looked at her sons eating dinner at the table.
“Children.
You will depart to Westeros first thing in the morning!” she announced.
Aegon raised his head, looking confused.
“What?
Why so suddenly?
Is it because of Maekar?”
Saera nodded.
“The boy gave me a bad feeling.
Travel to Harrenhal.
You will be as safe as you can get there.”
A bright lantern was illuminating the room, its light spilling outside onto the dark streets…
Maekar glanced into the distance, his eyes focused on a small, fleeting light.
One of many.
“My Prince.”
It was Kinvara.
“Have you found what you have been looking for?” Maekar asked, not turning around.
“I have.
Or to be precise, I have confirmed my suspicions.”
“A catalyst is necessary.”
Maekar finally turned around.
His face was tense, his eyes dark.
“A catalyst?”He asked, the distrust painted all over him.
Kinvara nodded slowly.
She stepped closer, her voice careful.
“I know of the last time Your Grace sought the aid of a witch.
It ended in failure.
“This time I will not disappoint you…”
“Maegor.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Maegor is gone.”
“His corpse long dissolved into nothingness,” he added, his voice filled with emotions he refused to acknowledge.
There was another moment of stillness.
Kinvara lowered her head.
“Dragonblood,” she said gently.
“You need dragonblood to recover what you have lost.
Your memories.
Perhaps even more…”
“More?” Maekar asked.
“Abilities Maegor once possessed.
Magic.”
“I see.”
Maekar laughed quietly.
He turned around once more, his eyes focusing on the same spot.
But it was not difficult this time.
The light had grown far brighter.
Far bigger.
“Maegor is gone,” he whispered.
“Yet the necessity remains.”
Horonno was panting.
But he continued running, careful not to spill any of the water he was carrying.
If he stopped or spilled something, the masters would surely punish him.
He was running in a long row with others.
All of them bore a wave tattoo on their faces and all of them carried big buckets of water on their shoulders.
A distant bell rang continuously as they finally reached their destination.
Horonno raised his head slightly.
His brown pupils reflected a bright, red-orange fire.
It was large, illuminating the dark night.
Slowly he stepped forward, lowering his buckets.
He stopped.
He looked down.
A hand had stopped him.
It was a soldier of the city.
The man shook his head slowly.
So Horonno simply stood there, watching the house burn.
He could hear knocking and loud hammering, but no one stepped forward.
Even screams…Yet no one dared and no one was allowed.
After a long while, with the fire threatening to spread to the other buildings, the slaves were finally allowed to use the water they had brought.
As he threw his water onto the raging flames, Horonno saw something in the corner of his eye.
A small boy with silver hair, grabbed by two guards and towed away.
He was shouting, tears running down his cheeks, as they dragged him away into the night.
Horonno gulped as he turned back toward the fire.
Whatever happened here tonight was nothing for a slave to meddle in…
A quiet night in Volantis…
Thanks for your support, everyone.
I’ll keep writing this fanfic because of you and because of my love for the story.