The frigid air of Castle Black had never felt so heavy. Maegor stood before his father, the ancient Maester Aemon, whose presence seemed to ripple with a profound, weary power. Aemon's blind eyes, milky and ancient, nevertheless felt as though they pierced Maegor's very soul. "My son," Aemon rasped, his voice barely a whisper against the ceaseless wind, "my time here is nearly at an end. I am 101 years old, and the gods are calling me home."
Maegor felt a pang, sharp and unwelcome. For twenty-one years, Aemon had been his anchor, his secret keeper, his fount of wisdom. Now, that anchor was loosening its hold. He met his father's gaze, unflinching, the new presence within him – that of Maegor the Cruel – lending him a stoic resolve.
"The realm is broken, Maegor," Aemon continued, his frail hand reaching out to touch his son's cheek, feeling the dark, dyed hair. "Robert's reign was a fleeting breath, a hollow victory built on lies and stolen glory. Now, his legacy is tearing the very fabric of Westeros apart. The lion wars with the wolf, the stag with itself. Chaos reigns."
Maegor listened, absorbing every word. The Dragon Flame System, dormant since its initial flicker, remained a secret known only to him. He understood the chaos Aemon spoke of; even at the Wall, news from the South reached them, twisted and distorted but clear enough to paint a picture of a kingdom in turmoil. This was a realm ripe for the taking, exactly as the ancient Maegor within him silently affirmed.
"This war… it is but a prelude," Aemon said, his voice gaining a strange, prophetic cadence. "A mere skirmish compared to the true war that approaches from the north. But you, my son, you are not meant for the Night's Watch. You are meant for the world beyond the Wall, to mend what has been broken."
Maegor's jaw tightened. "And what am I meant to mend, father?"
Aemon leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The balance, my boy. The rightful order. You carry the blood of the Dragon, purer than any other left alive. But it is not yet your time to reveal yourself. Not yet. The realm must exhaust itself. The pretenders must fall."
He paused, then delivered the decree that would shape Maegor's destiny. "You must go to Essos. Find them. Find Daenerys and Viserys. They are your blood, lost and vulnerable. And you must build. Build an army, Maegor. An army forged in fire and loyalty. An army capable of retaking what belongs to us. What belongs to the Dragons."
The magnitude of the task settled upon Maegor. He was to gather a scattered family, raise an army in foreign lands, and then reclaim a throne from warring factions. It was a king's task, though Aemon never spoke the word directly. Yet, the conviction in Aemon's voice, combined with the stirrings of Maegor the Cruel's ambition, fueled a cold fire in his belly.
Over the next few days, Maegor prepared. Aemon moved with a renewed, albeit fragile, purpose, ensuring his son had what he needed. He gifted Maegor a worn leather satchel filled with maps of Essos, ancient Targaryen histories detailing their early conquests, and a small, intricately carved silver dragon, a subtle symbol of his lineage.
Commander Mormont, though unaware of the full truth, treated Maegor with the quiet respect he reserved for men of true capability. He presented Maegor with a sturdy Garrison horse, a beast of surprising endurance, perfect for long journeys. For defense, he offered a finely balanced longsword and a compact, powerful crossbow along with a quiver of bolts.
"You've learned well, Maegor," Mormont said, his eyes shrewd as he clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder. "The world beyond the Wall is far crueler than these frozen lands. Keep your wits about you. And may the gods, old and new, watch over your journey."
As a final, critical provision, Aemon reached into his robes and pulled out a small, heavy pouch. The clink of metal was unmistakable. "One hundred Gold Dragons," he whispered. "It is all I have been able to gather over the years, coin meant for a different life, perhaps. Use it wisely, my son. For your survival. For our House."
The farewell was brief, as all goodbyes at the Wall tended to be. Maegor shared a final, silent nod with Jon Snow, a young man with dark, Stark features, who watched him leave with a strangely intense, unreadable gaze. Maegor, still unaware of their shared blood, simply saw a diligent recruit, nothing more.
He headed south, leaving the imposing, grey bulk of the Wall shrinking behind him. The bitter winds slowly gave way to the damp chill of the Gift, then the softer, more familiar air of the North. Days blurred into a steady rhythm of travel, his black hair hiding his true identity from any prying eyes he encountered.
As he crossed the invisible boundary into the New Gift, a subtle hum resonated within his mind. The familiar, shimmering interface of the Dragon Flame System flickered into view.
[ Host has successfully departed the Wall. ]
Reward: The Birth of the Dragon!
Your hidden Dragon Egg has responded to the shift in your destiny. It is time.
Maegor pulled his horse to a halt. His heart surged. The Dragon Egg. He dismounted, fumbling with the satchel until his fingers closed around the familiar, scaly shell. The obsidian egg pulsed with a faint warmth, a vibrant scarlet light now bleeding through its veins. A thin, almost imperceptible crack snaked across its surface.
He watched, breathless, as the crack widened, a soft chipping sound echoing in the silent wilderness. A tiny, scaled snout emerged, followed by a wide, obsidian eye, blinking into the grey light of the northern sky. It was small, no bigger than his forearm, its scales the color of deep night, with faint scarlet hints along its wings. A true, living dragon.
The ancient voice of Maegor the Cruel resonated in his mind, a thrill of triumph. "Finally. A true companion. A symbol to shake the world."
Maegor knelt, his hand trembling as he gently stroked the hatchling's head. Its scales were surprisingly soft, yet undeniably firm. It let out a tiny, smoky breath, a wisp of heat that belied its size.
He looked into its intelligent, ancient eyes. "You shall be called Balerion," he declared, the name of the Black Dread, the Conqueror's dragon, rolling off his tongue with a profound sense of destiny. The small dragon seemed to stir, as if acknowledging the weight of its namesake.
The System flickered again.
[ New Mission: ]
Objective: First Steps
Go to Dreadfort.Hire 5 Mercenaries: Form the nucleus of your future army.
Find the Dragonseed: Seek out a man with brown hair, but undeniable Valyrian eyes.
Hint: His presence will feel… kindred.
Reward:
Ability Upgrade: Flame Adaptation (Tier 1)Loyalty of Mercenaries and the Dragonseed
Dreadfort. The seat of House Bolton, a grim, foreboding place, known for flaying. A strange choice for a first mission, but Maegor understood the underlying logic. The Boltons were ruthless, pragmatic, and operated outside the conventional honor codes. Hiring men from their vicinity would ensure a certain caliber of individual. And a hidden dragonseed… another piece for his game.
He looked at Balerion, now curled snugly in the crook of his arm, the tiny dragon a warm, living ember against the cold. The journey to Essos would be long, but Dreadfort was a detour he could afford. The world was a chessboard, and Maegor was finally ready to make his first move