Time moved swiftly for the man now reborn as Maekar Targaryen. Days blurred into weeks, and weeks into months, his new life reduced to the simple rhythms of an infant: drinking milk, sleeping, and soiling himself. In his past life, such helplessness would have been humiliating for a grown man—but Maekar felt nothing. No shame. No frustration. Only a hollow acceptance, as though he were simply observing his own existence from afar.
His father, King Viserys, came to see him only a couple of times after his birth. The King entered the chamber beaming, his golden crown slightly askew, and lifted the small, swaddled Maekar into his arms. He cooed over his son for a moment, speaking fondly to Alicent and thanking her for her "hard work and sacrifice." But just as quickly, a servant arrived, bowing low and whispering of a summons to the Small Council.
Viserys handed Maekar and aegon back to Alicent without hesitation, pressing a fleeting kiss upon his newborns brows before departing. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, already fading into matters of state.
Maekar, nestled once more in his mother's arms, stared blankly up at her face. The warmth of her embrace, the love shining in her eyes—these things should have stirred something in him. Gratitude. Comfort. Love. Yet all he felt was the faintest flicker in his chest, gone before it could even form into anything real.
'So this is what it means to live cursed, he thought dully. 'Even a mother's love feels… hollow.'
Alicent, of course, never noticed. She simply smiled down at him, whispering soft prayers to the Seven for both her sons.
And so, Maekar's early days passed in the Red Keep. Days of quiet observation, of watching through blurred vision as Alicent fussed over Aegon, as nurses bathed and clothed them, as servants bowed low at the mere sight of the Queen's children. All the while, Maekar endured the motions of infancy with a soldier's detachment, waiting patiently for the time when his body would grow strong enough to stand—and when fate would begin to move.
Another matter of note came during one of King Viserys's rare visits. The King did not arrive empty-handed but bore with him a velvet-lined box, within which lay two dragon eggs. One was a deep crimson, veins of black streaking across its shell; the other pale green, mottled with flecks of gold.
Viserys's eyes gleamed with pride as he announced his intent.
"These shall be placed in the cradles of my sons," he declared warmly. "As is our tradition. Aegon and Maekar will rest beside dragon eggs, as all Targaryen heirs should."
But Alicent, sitting upright in her birthing bed, shook her head sharply. Her face, pale with weariness yet set with firm resolve, hardened at the sight of the eggs.
"No," she said flatly. "I don't want it."
Viserys blinked at her, taken aback. "It is tradition, Alicent. They are of my blood—our blood. A dragon's bond begins at birth."
Alicent's lips pressed tight before she spoke again, voice rising with unease. "Rhaenyra chose one of these very eggs for her child. And what if they do not hatch? What if they lie cold? Darkness would follow my boys all their days. I will not see that shadow over them."
Viserys frowned, but in the end he yielded, waving the dragonkeeper to carry the eggs away.
Maekar, though his vision remained clouded and unfocused, heard every word. He understood enough to grasp what was being denied him.
'This foolish woman,' he thought coldly. 'She denies me the most important gift out of fear and superstition.'
He wanted to feel irritated, even furious. Yet all that came was silence. A hollow stillness where anger should have burned.
By this time, Maekar had already recalled what fragments he could of the show he had once watched so avidly before the war consumed his old life. His memory was not perfect, but he remembered enough.
'The unbonded dragons… Vhagar, Vermithor, Silverwing, and Dreamfyre.'
He thought carefully, piecing together what he knew.
'Vhagar will pass to Daemon's wife, Laena Velaryon, within the next two years—and after her death, to my brother Aemond. Dreamfyre will go to my sister Helaena, not yet born. That leaves Vermithor and Silverwing, the great old dragons, but they alwayes linger on Dragonstone. By the time I am old enough to travel there, Rhaenyra and Daemon will have claimed the island, and they will never allow me to bond with such mighty beasts. If I am to maximize my Dragon's Link, I must claim a dragon as soon as possible.'
The thought solidified like iron in his mind. And so, with his tiny body straining against swaddling cloth, Maekar stretched out his hands toward the blurred case where the two eggs had been placed. He let loose a piercing wail, louder than he had ever managed before, his cry carrying through the chamber.
King Viserys, already hesitating from Alicent's earlier refusal, turned his head at once. His eyes flicked between his crying son and the case of dragon eggs, and he wavered.
Alicent, weary but firm, started to speak. "Viserys—"
But the King shook his head, his expression soft yet resolute.
"I am sorry, Alicent," he said gently, yet with finality. "But you cannot deny a Targaryen his birthright."
With his own hands, he lifted the eggs from their case. The black-scaled egg, streaked with crimson veins, he placed beside Maekar's cradle. The pale green egg, speckled with gold, he set near Aegon's.
Alicent's lips tightened, her knuckles white as she clutched Aegon closer, but she said no more.
And Maekar, though his heart could not stir with triumph, thought coldly to himself:
'The first step is taken.'
No sooner had a week passed when the black egg stirred. Cracks spread across its surface with faint hissing sounds, and then the shell split open. From within, a small, lizard-like creature emerged, slick with egg-fluid and steam rising faintly from its body. Its scales glistened as the light caught them—black as ash, with scattered specks of red that seemed to smolder faintly in the dim chamber.
The moment the hatchling let out its first weak cry, something ignited within Maekar. He gasped softly, though his body was far too small to contain the sensation. A thread tugged at his mind, invisible yet undeniable, and the connection deepened with every heartbeat.
Suddenly, Maekar was no longer alone in his head. He could feel it—the hatchling's restless curiosity, the sharp pang of hunger, and a primal wariness at the world it had been born into.
'I can sense its mood… even its scattered surface thoughts. I know where it is without looking, and if I will it, I can see through its eyes.'
He tested it. For an instant his vision blurred, then shifted—the chamber came into focus from lower to the ground, colors sharper, scents more vivid, the air thick with the smell of blood and flame. Maekar quickly recoiled, his infant body shuddering.
'But he cannot sense me like i do him,' he realized. 'Not yet. The bond flows one way. he cannot feel my mind, nor hear my thoughts. Perhaps it never will.'
The young dragon chirped again, head tilting toward him with unsteady movements, its eyes glowing faintly like embers. The dominant feeling that flooded Maekar's mind was hunger, raw and untempered.
With great effort, Maekar lifted his tiny hand—clumsy, trembling, hardly his own to command. The dragonling's gaze fixed upon it, nostrils flaring, curiosity rising.
A name formed on Maekar's lips as he studied the hatchling's colors—the ash-black scales marred by streaks and flecks of red, as though fire burned just beneath the skin.
'Morghul,' Maekar thought, the word echoing in his mind like a whisper of fate. 'Death. A fitting name… You will be doing much of that for me, won't you, Morghul?'
His small, unsteady fingers brushed clumsily over the dragon's damp head. The hatchling hissed softly, then settled, its ember-bright eyes narrowing in something that might have been contentment.
The chamber door creaked. A maid entered quietly, intent on her duty of checking the princes. But her eyes fell upon the scene—an infant calmly stroking what looked to her like a scaled nightmare clinging to his chest.
Her breath caught. Then, with a piercing shriek, she stumbled back as if she had seen a ghost, fumbling for the door.
The sound drew the guard from his post outside. He rushed in, hand on the pommel of his sword, only to halt in place, jaw slack.
There it was—small, yes, but unmistakable. A dragon. Perched upon Prince Maekar's chest like it had claimed him, its wings twitching, its body tense as it fixed its molten gaze on the intruder.
"Seven save us…" the guard muttered. He motioned for the maid, who had not stopped trembling, to fetch the queen at once.
Moments later, Alicent hurried in from the chambers next door, her steps uneven, her face pale. She had not yet fully recovered from the strain of her labors, but fear drove her forward. Her eyes darted to the cradles, to her sons.
A thin, terrified cry filled the chamber—Aegon, woken from his sleep, clutching his still-warm egg tightly, screaming at the sight of the black-scaled creature hissing nearby.
The dragon arched its back, letting out a sharp, high-pitched snarl at the guard who had stepped too close to the cradle. Yet all the while, its body remained pressed protectively against Maekar's chest, as if declaring to all that he was its chosen.
Alicent's legs quivered as she reached the cradles, her breath shallow. She had prayed her children would be blessed with dragonrider's blood, but to see it—so soon, so violently—made her blood run cold.
Word traveled swiftly through the Red Keep. Before long, King Viserys himself entered the chamber, his robes hastily thrown about his shoulders, with Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand, close behind. The guards stepped aside at once, their eyes wide and uncertain.
Viserys halted at the sight before him—his son, barely days old, lying with a dragon curled upon his chest, its small black wings draped protectively over the babe as though shielding him from the world.
"Seven blessings…" the King whispered, wonder softening his voice. He took a step closer, almost reverent. "Never in my life have I seen an egg hatch so quickly. It must be fate itself. Look—how it guards him, as if the bond were forged in the womb."
He turned toward his Hand, his eyes gleaming with joy. "Do you see, Otto? Do you see what this means?"
Ser Otto Hightower inclined his head, his lips curling into a practiced, pleasant smile. "It appears so, Your Grace. A rare blessing indeed."
Yet behind that courteous mask, Otto's thoughts burned brightly. 'Not even a week past their birth, and fortune has doubled upon my blood. First two sons born to Alicent, and now… a dragon, hatched and bound already. The gods themselves could not have penned it better.'
His gaze lingered on the infant Maekar, one tiny hand clutching the hatchling's wing with surprising firmness. The Hand of the King felt a thrill stir within him, a mixture of pride and ambition he dared not voice. 'The realm will take note of this. They must.'