Storm's End, 283 AC
Maekar Targaryen watched from horseback as the gates of Storm's End loomed ahead, the banner of House Baratheon snapping sharply in the wind. The fortress was a looming beast upon the coast, and outside its walls, Rhaegar's host had gathered. The Prince of Dragonstone, with the strength of the Reach at his side, was rallying the dragon's strength for one final march.
Maekar tightened his grip upon Blackfyre, resting it across the pommel of his saddle as he watched the lines of Reach knights and dragon-clad men-at-arms shift and ready themselves. From where he stood, he could make out the deep green and gold of House Tyrell, the crimson dragon upon Rhaegar's banner, and in their midst, the figure of his elder brother.
A messenger announced Maekar's arrival, and soon Rhaegar emerged from the tent. The Prince was as grave and noble as ever, though a shadow weighed upon him. Yet when their eyes met, a faint smile passed between the brothers, a wordless bond of loyalty and understanding.
"Maekar," Rhaegar called, voice carrying over the noise of the camp. "I thought you would remain in King's Landing. Yet here you stand stubbornas always."
Maekar pushed himself down from the saddle, leaning upon Blackfyre as he walked closer. The dragon prince was broken but neverfinished.
"The realm burns, brother," Maekar said quietly. "A dragon can do no less than rise from the ashes. The men of the Crownlands are with me. The Red Keep is safe for now. So I came." He glanced toward the host of the Reach, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We have one chance to end this rebellion. Together."
Rhaegar placed a hand upon Maekar's shoulder, a rare warmth in the dragon prince's voice. "Then together we shall. Our forces must move quickly. The rebels rally at the Trident, and this realm will rise or fall upon its banks."
Maekar nodded, looking out at the sprawling army. The host was a dragon with many heads now — Crownlands, Reach, and those still loyal across the realm. Whatever came, the Broken Dragon would march with it.
"Then let us give them a song worth singing, brother," Maekar said, voice rising as he tightened his grip upon Blackfyre. "A dragon break, but it will never bow. To the Trident, for House Targaryen."
A cheer rose from the gathered host, filling the misty air with a thundering sound. Together, the prince's turned their horses, and the army surged forth, banners flying as it began its long march towards the Trident — and towards the moment that would shape the fate of Westeros.
The Trident — Late Evening, 283 AC
The march felt like a lifetime. The dragons host had crossed sodden fields and mist-clung hills to arrive at the Trident. Now, as the sun sank low, the army gathered upon a ridge overlooking the river. The sound of water rushing over stone mixed with the crackle of campfires and the low hum of wary men.
Maekar pulled Blackfyre closer to him as he stood beside Rhaegar. The wind pulled at their cloaks, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and churned earth. The Trident shimmered darkly under the waning light, a vein of silver cutting through a land soon to be soaked in blood.
Rhaegar was quiet, pale as mist, but in those tired eyes burned a dragon's flame. The prince glanced towards the far bank where the rebel banners — stag, wolf, and falcon — stood tall. They were outnumbered, but not broken.
Maekar tightened the scabbard in his grip and spoke low enough for only Rhaegar to hear.
"A dragon can be crippled, but it doesn't forget how to breathe flame. Whatever gods watch tonight, brother, I'll stand with you until the end."
Rhaegar didn't reply for a moment. Instead, he laid a hand upon Maekar's broken, scarred one — a rare gesture between them.
"I am grateful you came, Maekar. The realm needs more than songs tonight." He glanced towards the river and the growing fires upon its banks.
Maekar gave a faint, grim smile.
"Then let the gods witness it."
Behind them, the army stirred. Knights tightened their girths, archers strung their bows, and grim-faced men tightened their grip upon pikes and spears. The Red Keep, the burning ruins of old grievances, and the whispers of betrayal felt very far away. Here, upon the misty shores of the Trident, the world shrank down to steel and honor.
As darkness deepened and the mist rose from the river, the dragon host settled into position. The river would run red by dawn. Whatever came, Maekar the Broken would stand beside Rhaegar until the end.
"For House Targaryen," he said quietly, voice almost lost to the sound of the water.
And as the stars winked faintly above, the dragon host made ready for the major battle ahead.
The Trident — next morning before the battle, 283 AC
The air was thick with tension as Maekar and Rhaegar stood atop the ridge overlooking the Trident. The distant sounds of their armies preparing for battle echoed across the valley below. The river glimmered cold and dark beneath the fading light.
Rhaegar's face was pale but calm, his eyes heavy with the weight of the war and the burden he carried beyond the battlefield. Maekar studied his brother carefully. Here stood the crown prince — a man forced to make impossible choices.
Rhaegar turned to him, voice low but steady.
"Maekar, the realm needs more than a sword this day." He hesitated, then added, "Aegon… my son… he grows weaker. His sickness worsens. I fear he may not live to wear the crown."
Maekar's heart clenched. The boy prince, caught in the shadows of a war not of his making.
Rhaegar continued, "I cannot leave the field today, but the crown must be guarded. I name you my heir. You will return to King's Landing. Protect the city, protect the realm, and when the time comes…" He reached out and grasped Maekar's arm, the grip firm and full of unspoken trust.
"… you will take the throne."
Maekar swallowed hard, the weight of those words settling like stone in his chest.
"Brother, I will do as you command. But this battle—"
Rhaegar shook his head gently.
"This battle is mine to fight. But the crown belongs to you, if fate allows." He looked Maekar in the eyes.
a rare softness breaking through the hard mask of a prince at war.
"Go. Ride for King's Landing with all haste. The realm depends on you now also got to the tower of joy for me Lyanna there."
Maekar nodded, swallowing the bitter taste of leaving his brother and the fight behind. He bowed his head.
"For the realm brother ."
Rhaegar stepped back, his gaze drifting to the river below, where the fires of the rebel camp burned bright in the coming night.
"May the gods watch over us all."
As Maekar turned to leave, Blackfyre heavy in his hand, the sounds of war began to rise but his path was clear. He was the Broken Dragon no longer. He was the heir. The future of the throne.
He mount up his black steed and rode hard back to kings landing.