The clash of swords rang through the courtyard of Dragonstone.
It was a wide space, the stone walls dark and ancient around it, the sound of steel bouncing off them.
Daemon Targaryen stood in the center of it.
He was clad in a dark leather outfit, no armor.
His hair was already sticking to his face.
He didn’t bother pushing it back.
Then he turned, his eyes squinted, his body tense.
One of the household soldiers was circling him to the left, sword held low, watching for an opening.
Daemon tracked him without fully facing him.
He turned again.
There was another one behind him.
Circling the other way, slower, waiting for his companion to move first.
Two of them.
One prince.
The first attacked.
Daemon parried without turning, spun, and sent the man stumbling back with a hard counter.
He was already on the second soldier before the first had caught his footing.
They clashed.
Daemon drove him back with three quick strikes, but the soldier parried the last one and shoved him sideways, right into the first man who had risen again.
Daemon swung around fast.
The soldier hadn’t expected it and went down hard.
But before he could turn back, a roar split the sky.
Both Daemon and the remaining soldier looked up.
Vhagar passed overhead, vast and green, her shadow swallowing the entire courtyard for a moment before moving on.
Daemon could make out his father in the saddle.
And someone smaller in front of him.
“Maekar,” he muttered.
He stared after the dragon for a moment.
Neither his father nor his brother were welcome here right now.
They had shattered whatever remained of his carefully laid out plan with their presence.
With a grunt he tossed his training sword aside.
It rang against the stone.
“Prepare a bath,” he called to one of the maids at the far end of the courtyard, already walking inside without waiting for an answer.
Daemon had welcomed his father’s absence.
It had given him freedom to venture into the Dragonmont as he pleased, and that was exactly what he intended to do again tonight.
His father’s presence on the island changed nothing.
He had decided.
Daemon balled his fist.
“Tonight I carve out my place in this world.”
Maekar looked down at the fortress below as Vhagar banked slowly over the island.
He liked it far more than the Red Keep.
Dragonstone didn’t pretend to be anything other than what it was.
No gilded halls, no silk banners, no carefully maintained image of comfort and civility.
Just ancient dark stone rising from the sea, built by people who had no interest in making it look welcoming.
It commanded presence the way very few places did.
Raw and cold and entirely Valyrian.
A true seat of House Targaryen.
Maester Gerardys was already waiting for them when Baelon landed Vhagar outside the gates, directly upon the narrow stone road leading up to the fortress.
Dragonstone rose behind him.
Father and son climbed down, Baelon offering Maekar a hand.
“Prince.
Prince,” Gerardys greeted them, bowing his head.
“Gerardys, good to see you,” Baelon replied.
He patted Vhagar’s neck affectionately.
The old dragon let out a low rumble before spreading her vast wings and taking to the sky once more.
“I received your letter.
Is the situation critical?”
Gerardys shook his head.
“The dragon has been sighted closer to Dragonstone and its inhabitants than ever before, but there have been no notable incidents thus far.”
“You did not mention which wild dragon,” Baelon pressed as they began walking toward the castle.
Maekar followed behind, listening attentively.
“Is it Grey Ghost again?”
Gerardys pressed his lips together.
“No.”
For a moment, only the sound of the wind and crashing waves accompanied them.
“The one they call the Cannibal.”
Baelon’s eyes widened slightly.
He stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“I see.”
Maekar, meanwhile, felt his blood stir.
The Cannibal.
Few dragons inspired as much fear.
Even in his previous life, stories about the beast had circulated among dragonriders and Dragonkeepers alike.
They continued toward the castle.
As they passed through the gates, Maekar quietly observed the changes that time had brought upon Dragonstone.
There were not many.
A few tapestries had been replaced.
Some furniture had been moved.
New paintings adorned several walls.
But otherwise, the ancient fortress remained much as he remembered it.
The black stone corridors still twisted like the insides of a dragon.
Gargoyles and dragon carvings watched from every corner, while narrow windows offered glimpses of the sea below.
“How is it?” Baelon asked, attempting to start a conversation with his son.
“Incredible,” Maekar answered honestly.
It was the truth.
Dragonstone was unlike any other castle in Westeros.
It had not been built by Andal masons or First Men builders.
Its walls had been shaped by the dragonlords of Old Valyria through arts long lost to the world.
“I had the same reaction,” Baelon said with a quiet laugh.
“How about you and I take a bath first?
We reek of dragon.”
Maekar nodded.
A maid stepped forward and led him toward his chambers.
They were spacious.
Unlike the luxurious apartments of the Red Keep, these rooms felt older and more primal.
Dark stone walls surrounded him, some portions appearing almost melted, as though forged by dragonfire itself.
One side of the chamber opened toward the sea through a large arched opening carved directly into the mountainside.
Beyond it stretched the Narrow Sea, endless and blue beneath the afternoon sun.
Far below, waves crashed against the cliffs of Dragonstone.
Positioned before the view stood a great bronze bathtub.
Steam already rose from its surface.
For a moment, Maekar simply stood there, taking in the view.
He had already felt it atop Vhagar, but only now did he fully grasp it.
In his previous life, he had spent years pursuing power.
Not for glory.
Not for wealth.
Not even for the realm.
He had pursued freedom.
For himself.
The freedom to make his own choices.
The freedom to walk his own path.
The freedom to never again bow his head to another man’s will.
That had been the true reason he had taken the Iron Throne.
Yes.
Others had called it ambition.
Some had called it greed.
His enemies had called it usurpation.
They had all been wrong.
At least partly.
Maekar simply could not endure living beneath another’s command.
Especially someone weaker.
It was against his very nature.
His gaze wandered across the sea.
Even now, in this new life, he found himself surrounded by people who held authority over him.
For the moment he accepted it.
He had little choice.
But one day that would change.
One day he would possess enough power that no one could tell him what to do ever again.
Only then would he be truly free.
“Freedom,” he muttered.
The word felt strange.
For so long, he had mistaken it for power.
Or perhaps it was the same all along.
A light breeze entered from the sea, stirring his silver hair.
It had grown noticeably longer over the past months.
His gaze remained on the horizon.
With that thought in his mind, he lowered himself into the hot water.
The warmth spread through his body.
And for the first time since arriving on Dragonstone, he felt at peace.
The sun had nearly vanished when Baelon, Daemon, and Maekar sat down to dine together.
The fire crackled softly behind them while servants moved quietly through the hall, refilling cups and replacing empty platters.
For a time, the conversation drifted between mundane matters such as the island’s fishermen, Dragonstone’s stores, and the endless repairs required to maintain the fortress.
Eventually, Maekar spoke.
“Father, how many dragons live on Dragonstone?”
Baelon looked up from his cup and considered the question.
“Quite a few.
Vermithor and Silverwing are here, though your grandparents rarely ride them these days.
Then there is Caraxes, your uncle Aemon’s dragon, riderless since his death.”
Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Maekar noticed.
“And of course the wild dragons,” Baelon continued.
“Grey Ghost, Sheepstealer, and the Cannibal.”
“The Cannibal,” Maekar repeated.
Baelon nodded.
“A dangerous beast.
Larger than the other wild dragons and far more aggressive.
Some have spoken of killing it, others of claiming it.”
“And?”
Baelon chuckled.
“And none have been foolish enough to try.”
“Or brave enough,” Daemon muttered into his wine.
Maekar glanced across the table.
“Would you?”
The question earned him a look from both Daemon and Baelon.
Daemon smirked.
“Perhaps.”
Maekar tilted his head.
“You do not even have a dragon yet.”
Silence settled over the table.
Baelon slowly lowered his cup.
“Maekar.”
“What?” Maekar asked innocently.
Daemon leaned back in his chair, his amusement already fading.
“You think that makes you clever?”
“No,” Maekar replied.
For several moments neither brother looked away.
Then Daemon rose abruptly, his chair scraping loudly across the stone floor.
“I’ve had enough of this.”
“Daemon,” Baelon warned.
The prince ignored him, as his gaze remained fixed on Maekar.
“We shall see each other on the training grounds soon enough.”
Without another word, he turned and left.
The doors slammed shut behind him.
For a few moments, only the crackling of the fire remained.
Baelon sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead, while Maekar rose from his seat.
“Where are you going now?” his father asked.
“I’ve lost my appetite.”
Baelon shook his head as he watched his second son leave the hall as well.
Maekar looked down at his feet.
Dark volcanic sand was there.
Above, the moon bathed Dragonstone’s shores in silver light, illuminating the restless sea as waves rolled onto the beach and broke softly.
He turned and glanced back.
The castle loomed above him.
Indeed, he had managed to slip past the guards.
Following Daemon had not been particularly difficult.
His brother had apparently been just as eager to escape the castle as he was.
Maekar continued onward, his boots sinking into the sand with each step.
Beside his own trail was another line of footprints, larger and deeper, leading along the shoreline.
Daemon’s.
A gust of sea wind swept across the beach.
Maekar pulled his dark cloak tighter around himself and raised the hood over his silver hair.
Beneath it, his familiar red doublet remained hidden from view.
Then he pressed onward, following the tracks deeper into the night.
The footprints ended at the foot of the cliffs, before a medium-sized opening in the black stone.
A cavern.
Dragonstone’s coastline was riddled with them.
Some were little more than cracks in the rock, while others stretched deep beneath the island itself.
Warm air drifted from the entrance, carrying the scent of sulfur.
Maekar stepped inside.
Darkness immediately swallowed him, though some moonlight still reached into the tunnel from behind.
The passage twisted through the stone, bending left and right as it descended deeper beneath the island.
The walls around him were Dragonglass.
Fortunately, this was not his first time here.
In another life, he had walked them often.
He had simply entered through a different opening this time.
The main entrance lay elsewhere, higher up the cliffs and connected directly to the castle itself.
Whether it was still considered the primary entrance, Maekar did not know.
Nor did it matter.
Both paths led to the same place.
And if his suspicions were correct, Daemon was already there.
From behind he could hear voices and a faint shimmer came through.
A patrol probably.
Hopefully his father wouldn’t notice the absence of his two sons.
After some time, Maekar had finally descended into the main Dragonmont.
A massive space stretched out before him.
Only recognizable through the few torches lit here and there.
Some far in the distance.
A warm wind moved through Maekar’s hair, as he stood atop a higher point.
“There you are, brother, “he whispered, the shadow of a silhouette in the distance.
Quickly he made his way down, following Daemon who had brought his own torch.
Daemon clenched his jaw.
Where was Caraxes?
This was not the first time he had ventured down into the caverns beneath Dragonstone.
Whenever he sought solitude, or wished to escape the endless expectations, he often found himself here.
More often than not, the Blood Wyrm could be found somewhere within this particular area.
Yet tonight there was no sign of him.
Daemon had searched for several minutes, even calling for him.
“Gods be damned,” he muttered.
Then he heard something behind him.
Immediately, his head snapped around.
Was it Caraxes?
Hope surged within him as he raised his torch.
“Caraxes?” he called.
His voice echoed beneath the vast ceiling.
For a moment there was nothing.
Then a figure emerged from the darkness.
A boy.
His hands were raised slightly in surrender.
Daemon’s hope vanished and anger took its place.
“Maekar?” Daemon hissed through clenched teeth.
“What are you doing here?”
His brother looked at him calmly.
“I was going to say I followed you.”
“But I suppose I should tell the truth.”
The boy stepped closer.
“The same as you.”
Daemon blinked.
For a moment he wondered if he had misheard him.
“No.”
Maekar said nothing.
“No,” Daemon repeated, more firmly this time.
“This is no place for a boy, and certainly no place for whatever foolish idea is forming in that little head of yours.”
He pointed toward the tunnel behind them.
“Go back to the castle.”
Maekar did not move.
Daemon felt his irritation rising.
Normally he would have threatened him.
Perhaps even dragged him back himself.
But beneath the anger was something else.
Concern.
The realization annoyed him almost as much as Maekar’s presence.
His brother was five years old, almost six.
Far too young to be thinking about claiming a dragon.
Because that was exactly what this was.
Daemon knew it instantly.
And if Maekar actually tried it, he would die.
A dragon would tear him apart, burn him alive, or simply swallow him whole.
The thought made Daemon’s stomach tighten.
He did not truly wish him dead.
Not like that.
And if Maekar died down here, Baelon would skin him alive for allowing it to happen.
“Did you hear me?” Daemon asked.
His voice had become noticeably harsher.
“Go back.”
But instead of answering, Maekar pointed past him.
Daemon frowned and turned.
The moment he did, his eyes widened once more.
Far in the darkness, barely illuminated by the torchlight, he could make out the silhouette of a dragon’s head.
Massive and watching.
His heart immediately began to race.
“Caraxes,” he whispered.
At that very moment, his resolve hardened.
No more waiting.
Tonight, he would claim him.
“No.”
Daemon blinked.
“What?”
“You are mistaken.”
He turned to find Maekar walking past him.
“Your dragon is over there.”
The boy pointed into the darkness behind them.
“I saw him.”
Daemon stared.
Then his gaze slowly shifted back toward the silhouette.
Caraxes was lean.
Long.
Almost serpentine.
This dragon’s head looked broader and heavier.
Bigger overall.
Suddenly, Maekar smiled.
A shiver ran down Daemon’s spine.
He hated it.
Hated that, for a brief moment, standing in the darkness beneath Dragonstone, his little brother frightened him.
“This one…” Maekar said, as his voice had lowered.
Daemon had heard ambitious men speak before.
None of them had sounded like this.
“This one is mine.”
Then the dragon opened its eyes.
Two venomous green slits stared back at them through the darkness.
Second favorite chapter so far