Maegor's POV
Driftmark, 106 AC
The salt-laden breeze of Driftmark swept through the high windows of High Tide's great hall, carrying the scent of the sea and the promise of war. Maegor Stone sat at a long table, his bronze-colored eyes fixed on his half-sister, Rhaenys, as she played with her children, Laena and Laenor, on a woven rug by the hearth. The sight warmed him, a rare moment of peace in a life defined by struggle. Rhaenys's laughter, bright and unburdened, reminded him of their father, Aemon—his strength, his kindness. She saw Aemon in Maegor, she'd told him, and those words lingered like a talisman against the world's disdain for his bastardy.
The heavy oak doors swung open, interrupting the moment. Lord Corlys Velaryon strode in, his sea-green cloak billowing, followed by Daemon Targaryen, whose dark eyes glinted with restless energy. The Sea Snake and the Rogue Prince—two men more different could scarcely be found, yet both burned with ambition. Maegor rose, sensing the weight of their arrival. Rhaenys glanced up, her smile fading as she registered the purpose in their steps.
"Maegor," Corlys greeted, his voice warm but laced with urgency. "I'd hoped to find you here." The Lord of Driftmark had always treated Maegor with a measure of respect, not as a bastard but as a man who'd claimed Vermithor, the Bronze Fury. Their friendship, though not deep, was built on mutual recognition of ambition—Corlys for his house's glory, Maegor for his own name.
Daemon, however, fixed Maegor with a stare that could cut steel. "The bastard dragonrider," he said, his tone dripping with mockery, though a flicker of something—respect, perhaps—lurked in his violet eyes. Daemon despised Maegor's existence, a living reminder of Aemon's indiscretion, yet he couldn't deny the feat of taming a dragon as mighty as Vermithor. Maegor met his gaze, unflinching. He'd faced worse than Daemon's barbs.
"What brings you both here?" Maegor asked, his voice steady, though his hand rested lightly on the hilt of the dagger at his belt.
Corlys stepped forward, his weathered face grave. "The Stepstones. The Triarchy's pirates grow bolder, choking our trade routes. They've taken ships, spilled Velaryon blood. King Viserys dithers, but I'll not stand idle. I mean to take the fight to them."
Daemon smirked, leaning against a pillar. "And I'll burn their fleets to ash with Caraxes. The Stepstones will kneel, or they'll burn." His eyes flicked to Maegor. "The question is, will the bastard join us, or does he prefer to linger here playing nursemaid?"
Rhaenys's eyes flashed, but Maegor raised a hand to forestall her retort. "Mind your tongue, cousin," he said coolly. "Vermithor's fire burns as hot as Caraxes's. If there's a war to be fought, I'll not shy from it."
Corlys nodded, a glint of approval in his eyes. "Good. Two dragons will turn the tide faster than one. The Stepstones are a proving ground, Maegor. A chance to show the realm what you're made of."
Maegor's gaze drifted to Rhaenys, who stood now, her children clinging to her skirts. "And you, sister? Will Meleys join us?" He knew her answer before she spoke—she was the Princess of Dragonstone, but also a mother, and her duty to Laena and Laenor came first.
Rhaenys shook her head, her expression resolute. "I'll remain here, with my children. The Stepstones are your fight, not mine. But Maegor…" She stepped closer, her voice softening. "You carry Father's fire. Make him proud."
Her words struck deep, kindling the ambition that had driven him to claim Vermithor. He nodded, a silent promise. To Corlys, he said, "I'm with you. Vermithor and I will fly for the Stepstones."
Daemon snorted, pushing off the pillar. "Then we ride together, bastard, as Jaehaerys and your father once did. Don't expect me to hold your hand when the arrows fly."
Maegor's lips curved into a grim smile. "I'd sooner expect Caraxes to sing me a lullaby, cousin."
Corlys laughed, a deep, rolling sound that broke the tension. "Enough. We sail at dawn. Maegor, ready your dragon. Daemon, see to your own preparations. The Triarchy won't know what hit them."
The Skies Above Blackwater Bay, Dawn
The first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of gold and crimson as Maegor climbed onto Vermithor's back. The Bronze Fury's scales gleamed like molten metal, his massive wings unfurling with a thunderous crack. Below, Corlys's fleet stretched across the bay, sails snapping in the wind, a testament to Velaryon might. Maegor's heart pounded, not with fear but with the thrill of what lay ahead. The Stepstones would be his proving ground, a chance to carve his name into the songs of Westeros.
Caraxes swooped low, his blood-red wings slicing through the air. Daemon, astride his dragon, cast Maegor a challenging glance. "Keep up, Stone," he called, his voice carried by the wind. "Or Vermithor will be picking your bones from the sea."
Maegor gripped the reins, his blood singing with the fire of his ancestors. "Lead on, Targaryen," he shot back. "Let's see if Caraxes can match the Bronze Fury's flame."
As Vermithor launched into the sky, the world fell away below. Maegor felt the dragon's power thrumming beneath him, a living furnace of rage and pride. He thought of Rhaenys, her faith in him, and of Aemon, whose shadow he still chased. This war would be his chance to step out of that shadow, to prove he was more than a bastard's blood.
Ahead, the Stepstones loomed, a jagged scar on the sea. With Daemon and Caraxes at his side, Maegor urged Vermithor forward, the wind roaring in his ears. Like Jaehaerys and Aemon before them, they would fly into battle together—two dragons, two riders, bound by blood and fire, if not by love. The Triarchy would learn to fear the name Maegor Stone.