Storm's End, 283 AC
Maekar Targaryen sat astride his black warhorse, Blackfyre resting across his saddle's pommel, its blackened steel glinting in the salt-laden wind. Before him loomed Storm's End, its ancient walls rising like a slumbering beast against the storm-wracked coast. Beyond the fortress, Rhaegar's host sprawled across the fields—knights of the Reach in green and gold, Crownlands men-at-arms in crimson and black, their banners snapping beneath a bruised sky. At their heart stood Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, his three-headed dragon standard defiant against the Baratheon stag.
A herald announced Maekar's arrival, and Rhaegar emerged from his command tent, silver hair catching the fading light. His face was as noble as ever, but a shadow clung to his violet eyes—grief, perhaps, or the weight of prophecy. Yet when their gazes met, a fleeting smile passed between the brothers, a silent vow forged in blood and loyalty.
"Maekar," Rhaegar called, his voice cutting through the camp's clamor. "I thought you'd remain in King's Landing, stubborn as ever."
Maekar dismounted, leaning heavily on Blackfyre as a crutch, his scarred body protesting each step. "The realm burns, brother," he said quietly, approaching Rhaegar. "A dragon rises from ashes or is no dragon at all. The Crownlands march with me, and the Red Keep is secure—for now. I came to end this rebellion. With you."
Rhaegar's hand found Maekar's shoulder, a rare warmth softening his tone. "Then together we shall." His gaze swept the host—Tyrell banners mingling with Targaryen crimson. "The rebels rally at the Trident. The realm's fate lies upon its banks. We must move swiftly."
Maekar nodded, his eyes tracing the army's sprawl. A dragon with many heads—Crownlands, Reach, and scattered loyalists—united for one final stand. "Let us give them a song worth singing," he said, his voice rising as he gripped Blackfyre's hilt. "A dragon may break, but it never bows. To the Trident, for House Targaryen!"
A roar erupted from the host, steel clashing in salute. The brothers turned their horses, and the army surged forward, banners streaming as they began the long march to the Trident—and the moment that would shape Westeros.
The Trident, Late Evening, 283 AC
The march had been grueling, across sodden fields and mist-shrouded hills, until the dragon host reached a ridge overlooking the Trident. The river gleamed like molten silver under the dying sun, its rush mingling with the crackle of campfires and the low hum of restless men. Maekar stood beside Rhaegar, Blackfyre's weight steadying him as the wind tugged at their cloaks, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke.
Rhaegar was pale, his eyes burning with a dragon's fire despite the weariness etched into his face. Across the river, rebel banners—stag, wolf, and falcon—stood defiant, their fires dotting the far bank. The Targaryen host was vast, but the rebels were fierce, and the odds precarious.
Maekar tightened his grip on Blackfyre's scabbard, his voice low, meant only for Rhaegar. "A dragon may be crippled, but it never forgets its flame. Whatever gods watch tonight, I stand with you—to the end."
Rhaegar was silent for a moment, then placed his hand over Maekar's scarred, broken one—a gesture of trust rare between them. "I'm grateful you came," he said softly. "The realm needs more than songs tonight." His gaze drifted to the river, where rebel fires burned brighter in the gathering dark.
Maekar's lips curved in a grim smile. "Then let the gods bear witness."
Behind them, the army stirred—knights tightening armor, archers stringing bows, men-at-arms clutching pikes with grim resolve. The Red Keep, its intrigues, and the ghosts of Duskendale felt distant. Here, on the misty shores of the Trident, only steel and honor mattered. As darkness deepened, the dragon host settled into position, the river's murmur a prelude to the blood that would flow by dawn.
"For House Targaryen," Maekar whispered, his voice nearly lost to the water's song.
The Trident, Dawn, 283 AC
The air was thick with the weight of coming battle as Maekar and Rhaegar stood atop the ridge, the Trident shimmering coldly below. The distant clamor of armies—shouts, steel, and the snorting of horses—echoed across the valley. Rhaegar's face was a mask of calm, but his eyes carried the burden of more than war—a prophecy, a love, a dying son.
Maekar studied his brother, sensing the unspoken. "You carry too much, Rhaegar," he said quietly.
Rhaegar turned, his voice steady but heavy. "The realm needs more than a sword today, Maekar." He hesitated, then spoke words that struck like a hammer. "Aegon… my son… grows weaker. His sickness worsens. I fear he will not live to wear the crown."
Maekar's heart twisted, picturing the frail boy caught in war's shadow. He said nothing, waiting.
"I cannot leave this field," Rhaegar continued, his gaze fixed on the rebel banners. "But the crown must endure. I name you my heir, Maekar. Return to King's Landing. Guard the city, the realm—and Lyanna, at the Tower of Joy." He gripped Maekar's arm, his eyes fierce with trust. "When the time comes, you will take the throne."
The words settled like stone in Maekar's chest. Heir. King. Duties he had never sought, yet could not refuse. "Brother, this battle—"
"Is mine to fight," Rhaegar interrupted gently. "But the crown is yours, if fate wills it." His voice softened, a rare vulnerability breaking through. "Go. Ride with all haste. The realm rests on you now."
Maekar swallowed the bitterness of leaving Rhaegar to face the Trident alone.
He bowed his head. "For the realm, brother."
Rhaegar stepped back, his gaze returning to the river, where rebel fires burned like stars in the fading night. "May the gods watch over us all."
Maekar turned, Blackfyre heavy in his hand, and mounted his black steed. The sounds of war swelled behind him, but his path was clear.
No longer the Broken Dragon, he was the heir, carrying the weight of House Targaryen's future. With a final glance at Rhaegar, he spurred his horse and rode hard for King's Landing.