Capítulo 1: Chapter 01: The 'Daring Dragon Prince'

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Harrenhal - 281 AC / Maekar Targaryen Pov (After Midday):

The vast expanse of Harrenhal loomed like a blackened shadow over the tourney grounds, the castle's five twisted towers standing sentinel against the sky, which churned with heavy, brooding clouds.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of mud, sweat, and horseflesh, and the banners of a hundred noble houses snapped in the wind, each vying for dominance as they whipped about, fierce as the men they represented. Crimson and golden lions of Lannister, grey and white direwolves of Stark, the black and crimson dragon of House Targaryen,— each sigil spoke of ancient bloodlines, of power, and of ambitions stoked to the point of fire.

The crowd itself was a churning sea of faces, lowborn and high alike, eyes glimmering with anticipation.

They had come from every corner of Westeros, drawn by the promise of blood and glory, and the ground thrummed with the force of their restless fervor. Four days had passed since the tourney's commencement, and now all eyes were fixed upon the last two matches that would decide the finals of the jousting of the greatest tournament ever held in living memory.

Maekar Targaryen, second son to King Aerys II, sat astride his silver warhorse, feeling the beast's every breath tremble through his legs. The stallion was restless, sensing the mounting tension in its rider, and Maekar leaned forward to stroke its neck, whispering soft words to calm it. Beside him walked Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Commander of the Kingsguard, resplendent in his white enameled armor, his cloak snapping in the wind like the wing of a great bird.

The knight's face was granite, impassive, but there was a flicker in his eyes that betrayed the weariness of the long day.

"A dark sky for dark deeds." Maekar murmured, his violet eyes sweeping over the glowering heavens. "Seems the gods themselves wish to cast shadow upon our triumphs, wouldn't you say so, Ser Gerold?"

The Kingsguard turned to him, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "The gods seldom care for the games of men, my prince. Whether under sun or storm, blood spills all the same."

A wry smile ghosted across Maekar's lips then, but it did not touch his eyes. Eyes which had the pale, cold light of an early morning frost, and there was a fire that smoldered behind them, banked but never extinguished.

Ahead, the dirt-fouled tilt-yard awaited, a crucible where legends would be forged and dreams would be shattered, and beyond it, the royal box, where his father sat, the Mad King himself, crowned with a circlet of twisted iron and gold.

The herald's voice rang out, echoing through the grounds. "My lords, my ladies,— now, at last, we come to the matches that shall decide the champion of this tourney, the greatest ever held in our realm. Raise your voices for the first two combatants! On my right, Ser Arthur Dayne, the 'Sword of the Morning'!"

The roar that erupted shook the air, and even Maekar could feel the force of it, thrumming through his bones. Ser Arthur, a man bound in shining silver armor, astride a charger as pale as moonlight. His visor was already lowered, his face hidden behind a mask of steel, but there was no mistaking him. Here was a legend made flesh, and the smallfolk cried his name as if he were one of the old gods come to life.

"And on my left..." the herald's voice boomed, "Prince Maekar Targaryen, the 'Daring Dragon'!"

The crowd's voice surged like a wave, and for an instant, Maekar felt the heat of it, the raw, desperate adoration of those who pinned their hopes and dreams upon the red dragon emblazoned on his chest. He raised his lance in acknowledgment, feeling the weight of the world upon his shoulders, and nudged his horse forward, moving to face his foe.

Arthur, met his gaze across the tiltyard, and though his face was hidden behind the steel of his helm, Maekar could feel the weight of those pale, star-kissed eyes upon him, as sharp and unyielding as Dawn itself.

"Are you ready, my prince?" The voice was low, almost lost beneath the wind, but there was an edge to it, a whisper of warning, of danger yet to come.

Maekar nodded with a grin, his fingers tightening around the haft of his lance. "I was born ready, Ser Arthur."

The flags dropped, and the world narrowed to a single point. There was only the thunder of hooves, the earth trembling beneath the fury of their charge, and the glittering point of Arthur's lance as it lunged toward him.

Maekar leaned into his horse's motion, feeling the power of the beast's muscles coiled beneath him, and brought his own lance to bear.

Wood met steel with a crack that split the air, and splinters flew in all directions. Both men rocked in their saddles, but neither fell, and as they wheeled about to face each other once more, Maekar caught a glimpse of Arthur's eyes behind his visor,— cold, implacable, and wholly unconcerned by the broken lance in his hand.

Again, they charged, and again, the lances shattered upon shields and armor. The crowd roared at that, a living beast of a thousand heads, but the wind tore their voices to tatters and carried them away.

Then came the third pass, the fourth, and then the fifth. All with the same result.

But it was them that came the sixth pass, and Maekar could feel the ache alreadu building in his arm, a dull, throbbing pain that threatened to unseat him. But he pushed it aside, focusing only on the man before him, on the way Arthur's horse moved, the slight tilt of his head, the angle of his shield.

The flags dropped one final time.

This time, Maekar did not aim for the shield.

He saw the opening, a flicker of movement as Arthur adjusted his grip, and he drove his lance forward with all the strength that remained in him. The impact jolted through his body, and he felt the lance bite deep into the joint of Arthur's armor, just below the collarbone.

Arthur was lifted from his saddle as if by an unseen hand, his body twisting in midair, before he crashed to the ground, the breath driven from him in a great, shuddering gasp.

A silence fell over the tourney grounds, a silence so deep that even the wind seemed to hush, as if the very gods themselves held their breath.

Then the crowd erupted, and the noise was a living thing, clawing at Maekar's ears, but he heard none of it. He swung from his saddle, his boots sinking into the mud, and strode to where Ser Arthur lay. The man's breathing was ragged, but his eyes were clear, and he took Maekar's offered hand without hesitation, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet.

"Well fought, my prince!" Arthur said, and though his voice was strained, there was no bitterness in it, only the simple acknowledgment of a warrior bested.

"I had the better luck today, Ser Arthur." Maekar replied, and there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes now. "Perhaps another day, it will be you who unhorses me."

Arthur's smile was faint, but it was there, a ghost of warmth that chased away the chill of the day. "Aye, perhaps. But that day is not today."

Together, they bowed to King Aerys, who watched them with eyes that glittered like molten gold, his lips twisted in a smile that held no warmth, and as they turned to leave the field, Ser Gerold fell into step beside them, his armor clinking softly with each step.

"Come, my prince." the White Bull murmured, "The evening banquet and ball are nearing, and we need to have you rested before then."

And as the wind howled through the broken towers of Harrenhal, Maekar felt it, that burning desire, coiled tight within his chest.

He would face his brother tomorrow, and gods be good, he would win.

The evening and then night, had come with all the swiftness of an assassin's dagger, plunging itself into the heart of Harrenhal's grand hall,— and alongside it, the memory of the previous jousts vanished, as the castle's high-vaulted ceilings swallowed the laughter and chatter of the gathered nobility, their words echoing through the stony chamber like the ceaseless murmur of a restless sea.

Everywhere one looked, silks and velvets spilled in shades of crimson, emerald, and sapphire, the wealth of seven kingdoms stitched into every stitch and seam. This was a gathering of lords that knew excess, and all drank deeply from that well, as if by drowning in luxury, they might forget the storm clouds gathering beyond these ancient walls.

At the center of it all stood the royal family, the blood of Old Valyria made manifest in hues of black and red. The three-headed dragon of Targaryen blazed from every banner, a crimson specter against the darkness of Harrenhal's stone.

King Aerys II watched it all with eyes that burned like wildfire, his fingers wrapped around the iron armrests of his chair with a grip that threatened to turn his knuckles to bone. His gaze darted, quick and feverish, from one noble to the next, dissecting each nod, every whispered word exchanged beneath the cover of false smiles and polite gestures. Distrust curled around his heart like a serpent, constricting tighter with every passing moment.

His eldest son, Rhaegar, was speaking with his Dornish wife, Elia Martell, and the sight of them together set Aerys' teeth to grinding.

There was a softness to Rhaegar that repelled him, a gentleness that was unbecoming of a dragon, and the King's lips twisted into a snarl that he did not bother to hide. Rhaegar had never known hunger, never tasted the bitterness of fear, and Aerys resented him for it. For the prince, life had been a song,— a beautiful, tragic ballad sung by the minstrels and poets who fawned over him like dogs at the heel of their master.

"The 'realm's darling'." Aerys muttered to no one in particular with a scoff, his voice a rasping whisper that carried the weight of a thousand grudges. "Beloved by all, and yet he knows nothing of the venom that flows beneath the surface. He would be king, and yet he lacks the iron to wear the crown…"

His words faded into a low growl as he turned his gaze elsewhere, and for a moment, the madness retreated from his eyes, replaced by something softer, something that might have passed for tenderness had it not been so twisted and tainted by years of rot and bile. There, amidst the dancing throng, was his second son, Maekar Targaryen, moving with the grace of a predator among sheep.

Maekar was all wild smiles and easy laughter, the very image of a dragon unbound. His hair, pale as molten silver, fell in loose waves about his shoulders, catching the light like shards of moonlit steel, and his eyes,— those eyes of deep Targaryen violet,— burned with a fierce, unyielding fire.

He was dancing with Lady Ashara Dayne, the purple jewel of Starfall, her dark hair cascading around her like a veil of shadow, and for a heartbeat, the hall itself seemed to dim, as if all light had bent to their union.

The sight stirred something deep within the King, something that had not moved in many years, and a smile tugged at the corners of his cracked, bleeding lips. It was not a smile of malice, nor one of cruelty. It was an echo of a smile that might have belonged to a younger man, a man who had not yet been consumed by the fires of his own madness.

"My dragon." he whispered, almost to himself, though the words tasted like ash in his mouth. "There is strength in you, my son, and a fury that will not be caged. Good."

He watched as Maekar pulled Lady Ashara closer, his hand resting at the small of her back, and she laughed,— a sound like silver bells in the dark.

She was beautiful, no doubt of it, with eyes as purple as the Targaryen themselves, and a smile that could steal the breath from a man's lungs. But there was steel in her as well, the kind of steel that did not bend or break, and that pleased Aerys. He saw in her the same fire that burned within his son, and he wondered, briefly, if the two flames might consume one another before the end.

Aerys' eyes drifted back to Rhaegar, who was still murmuring sweet nothings into his wife's ear, and the scowl returned, deeper and more feral than before. "He plots..." the King hissed, his fingers curling like talons around the armrests of his throne.

"Plots with his lords and ladies, whispering of treason and usurpation. They all think me blind, but I see them, I see them all. They would take my crown, take my throne… but they do not understand. They do not know."

He turned his gaze back to Maekar, and once more, that twisted, unnatural smile crept across his face. "But you, my son, you understand. You know the taste of blood. You know what it means to be a dragon."

There was a bond between them, a bond forged in fire and shadow, and though Aerys could never articulate the depths of it, he knew that Maekar would never betray him.

Rhaegar might speak of prophecy and destiny, but Maekar spoke the language of the sword and of the fire, and that was a language Aerys understood all too well.

"Burn them..." he whispered, his voice barely audible beneath the strains of the music and the laughter of the nobles. "Burn them all if they stand against you, my dragon. They would dare to clip your wings, but you will show them the fire that lies within."

As if hearing the unspoken command, Maekar turned his head, his eyes meeting his father's across the hall, and for an instant, they were the only two people in the world. The madness that flickered in Aerys' eyes found its mirror in Maekar's gaze, and the King felt a thrill of something not unlike pride.

The boy inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment, of understanding, and then he turned back to Lady Ashara, his smile as sharp as a knife's edge.

"Take her." Aerys thought, the words throbbing in his skull like the beat of a war drum. "Take whatever you desire, for you are a dragon, and dragons do not ask, they take."

He leaned back in his seat, the smile still carved into his face, and let his eyes drift shut, his mind awash in visions of fire and blood. There would come a day when his enemies would cower before him, when the realm would burn beneath the wrath of the dragon's flame, and in that day, Maekar would be at his side, his sword as fierce and unforgiving as the madness that burned within them both.

And gods help any who stood in their way.

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At the same time:

The music swirled around Maekar and Ashara ike a silken mist, rising and falling with the tempo of their hearts, quickened and restless. The hall was alive with movement, the nobility twirling about in their finery, but it all faded into nothingness as he pulled her close, her scent intoxicating, like lavender and the salt-kissed wind of Dorne. His hand rested at the small of her back, possessive, while his other hand clasped hers with a strength that was both commanding and gentle.

Ashara's violet eyes never wavered, meeting his gaze with a fire that rivaled the sun's last light before it dipped beyond the horizon. There was something in her eyes that called to him,— defiance and allure, mystery and promise,— and he felt the pull of it as surely as the tides answering the moon's call.

"You dance well, my lady." he murmured, his voice low, gravelly, and edged with a hint of desire. "The tales of Starfall's grace do you no justice."

A hint of a smile touched her lips, those full, inviting lips that seemed made for secrets. "And you are quick with your flattery and silver tongue, my prince. The Daring Dragon, they call you? It seems they should have named you 'the Bold Serpent' instead."

Maekar chuckled, and his breath was warm against her cheek as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear. "Flattery? No. I find little pleasure in empty words, Ashara. But if the truth offends, I can be false if you wish."

She laughed, a sound like bells tolling in a distant tower, and Maekar felt that laughter wrap around his heart, squeezing tight. "And here I thought Targaryens were masters of deception, with their dragon blood and silver tongues." she teased. "Yet you admit your failings so easily?"

His eyes glittered like amethysts caught in the sun, and he tightened his hold on her, drawing her closer, until she could feel the heat of him against her. "Oh, I have my deceptions, my lady. But they are saved for the battles that truly matter. This… this is not a battlefield. This is a dance, and I'd rather it be an honest one. If I may, I prefer my partners unmasked."

"And what of you, Maekar?" Ashara's voice was a sultry whisper now, her lips dangerously close to his ear. "Are you always so unguarded, or do you keep your own masks well-hidden, waiting for the moment they might serve you best?"

"I have no need for masks. At least with you, Ashara, I don't think I need them." he replied, his voice like velvet and steel. "After all, why would I wish to hide from a woman who does not flinch before a dragon's fire?"

Her eyes narrowed, and she smiled, but there was a wickedness to it now, a challenge that hung in the air between them. "And you, my prince, do you know what it is you seek in this dance? Should I be wary, I wonder? They say dragons burn all who draw too close."

Maekar's fingers traced along the curve of her back, slow and deliberate, savoring the way she arched into his touch. "Perhaps I am drawn to things that burn, my lady. Perhaps I wish to know what it feels like to lose myself in the fire."

Ashara tilted her head, studying him, and for a moment, the mask slipped, and he saw something raw and unguarded in her eyes. "You speak of fire so easily, but do you understand it,Targaryen? Fire does not merely consume. It devours. It leaves nothing behind but ashes."

He pulled her even closer, so close that his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "And what if I wish to burn? What if I wish to be devoured whole by the flames?"

Her breath caught, just for a moment, and then she was laughing again, though this time the sound was softer, tinged with something like sadness. "You are bold, Maekar, I'll grant you that. But boldness can lead a us to an early grave. Ruin may follow us."

His grip tightened, and the hand that held hers rose, lifting her arm as he spun her around in time with the music, watching the way her gown flared, the way her hair caught the candlelight. "And yet, ruin can be beautiful. Have you not seen the aftermath of a storm, when the world is washed clean, and the sky is painted with the hues of the sun?"

Ashara's eyes flashed and looked around her, and when she returned them to him, her body pressed flush against his, he felt the full force of her warmth, her softness, and it took everything in him not to claim her lips then and there. "You speak of storms and sunsets as if you understand them, my prince. But what do you know of a woman's heart? Have you ever truly touched one, or do you only seek to conquer it and leave it there afterward?"

"You are no simple conquest to me, Ashara.You are like a song waiting to be sung, a flame waiting to be set free, and I want you." Maekar said quietly, the words like a confession.

Her eyes softened, and for the briefest of moments, her hand rose to his cheek, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "And if I were to burn for you, Maekar, what then? Would you tend the fire, or would you let it wither and die?"

"I would tend it, of course." he breathed, his voice thick with the weight of his desire. "For as long as there is breath in my body, I would keep it burning."

The music slowed, the violins drawing out a final, lingering note, and the world seemed to fade away until it was just the two of them, entwined in a dance that felt as old as time itself. "You speak of things you cannot know..." Ashara murmured, her lips brushing against his, just barely. "You tempt fate, my prince."

"And what is life without a little temptation?" Maekar answered with a chuckle, his eyes never leaving hers. "If I am to fall, then let it be for you right here and right now, and let it be forever."

Ashara's smile was the only answer he needed, and as the last notes of the song faded into silence, she leaned in, her breath warm against his lips. "Then dance with me, Maekar. Dance with me until the fire takes us both."

And as they moved together, the world held its breath, waiting for the moment when fire and shadow would collide, and the night would burst into flame.

The final notes of the music soon faded into the air, the crowd's applause rippled through the hall, but Maekar and Ashara did not linger. Without a word, he led her by the hand, slipping through the throng of courtiers, past the whispers and the hungry eyes that watched their every step.

They moved like shadows, unseen and untouched, as if the world itself had turned away to grant them this moment. They stepped out into the cool night, the air crisp and biting against their flushed skin, and together, they walked toward the dark expanse of the woods that encircled Harrenhal.

The moonlight filtered through the canopy above, casting silver beams upon the forest floor, and the leaves whispered in the wind, as if sharing secrets older than time itself.

They wandered deeper, until the sound of the hall's revelry faded to nothing but a distant murmur. It was there, in the silence of the woods, that they stopped, their breaths mingling in the night air.

Unbeknownst to them, Ser Gerold Hightower watched from afar, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. The White Bull kept his distance, a silent guardian, but for once, he made no move to intrude. Whatever passed between the prince and the lady, it would remain their own, as secret and untamed as the forest around them.

What transpired in the shadows of those trees, only the gods would know, but as the wind swept through the branches, it carried with it the whispers of something unspoken, something that would linger long after the night had ended.

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