The Tower of Joy, Dorne, 283 AC
POV: Maekar Targaryen
The Dornish sun hung heavy over the red mountains, casting the Tower of Joy in a merciless glare. Maekar Targaryen stood at its base, leaning on Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel blade's scabbard driven into the crimson earth to brace his crippled leg. The old wound in his thigh burned, a searing reminder of the rebel's axe that had stolen his strength years ago. His violet eyes, shadowed with grief, locked on Eddard Stark, who stood before him with six grim-faced companions, their hands resting on sword hilts. The air crackled with tension, the silence of the mountains broken only by the faint clink of steel and the distant cry of a hawk.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, stood resolute, Dawn's pale blade gleaming like a star. Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Gerold Hightower flanked him, their white cloaks stark against the dusty ground. They had delivered the news days ago—a raven's scroll bearing word of Rhaegar's fall at the Trident, his chest shattered by Robert Baratheon's warhammer. The dragon host was broken,
King's Landing under Tywin's treacherous banners, and Maekar's heart bled for his father, Aerys, and nephew, Aegon, left to the lions' mercy. Yet Rhaegar's command bound him here: "Go to the Tower of Joy. Lyanna is there." And so he stayed, guarding Lyanna Stark and her unborn child, Rhaegar's legacy.
Ned Stark's grey eyes met Maekar's, heavy with sorrow but unyielding. "Prince Maekar," he said, his Northern voice steady, "Rhaegar is dead. The war is done. I seek my sister, Lyanna. I would have her safe, and I would have her home."
Maekar's scarred hand tightened on Blackfyre's hilt, the blade's weight anchoring him against the pain in his leg and the storm in his chest. "She is under my protection, Stark," he said, his voice a low growl. "Rhaegar named me his heir and bid me guard her and her child. You'll not take her without passing us."
Ser Gerold's voice rumbled. "We are the Kingsguard, sworn to Rhaegar's will. The lady and her child stay."
Ned's jaw tightened, his gaze flickering to Maekar's blade, propped like a crutch. "Her child?" he asked, the words sharp with pain. "What child does Lyanna carry?"
Before Maekar could answer, a faint cry echoed from the tower above—a woman's voice, raw with anguish. Lyanna. Maekar's heart lurched, his eyes darting to the stone spire.
The Kingsguard stiffened, hands on swords, but Ned's face paled, his resolve cracking. "She's in pain," he said, stepping forward. "Let me see her, Maekar. I beg you, as her brother."
Maekar leaned harder on Blackfyre, his leg trembling under the weight of his choice. Rhaegar's command was a vow, but Lyanna's cry cut deeper than duty. He saw his own failure in Ned's eyes—the guilt of leaving kin to fate. Aerys and Aegon haunted him, but Lyanna was here, now, and her brother's plea mirrored his own unspoken grief.
He glanced at Ser Arthur, whose gaze softened, a silent nod passing between them"Stand down," Maekar said to the Kingsguard, his voice steady despite the ache. "Let him pass. He sees her alone, unarmed."
Ser Oswell's brow furrowed, but Ser Arthur raised a hand. "As you command, my prince." The Kingsguard stepped aside, their eyes wary as Ned handed his sword to one of his men and approached the tower.
Maekar hobbled after him, Blackfyre's point tapping the stone steps with each agonizing climb. His leg screamed, but he pushed on, following Ned into the dim chamber at the tower's peak. The air was thick with the scent of blood and lavender, the single window spilling golden light across a simple bed. Lyanna Stark lay there, her dark hair matted with sweat, her face pale as winter snow. A Dornish midwife knelt beside her, murmuring softly as Lyanna gripped the sheets, her breath ragged with the pains of childbirth.
"Ned," Lyanna gasped, her grey eyes finding her brother's. Tears streaked her face, but her voice held a wolf's strength. "You came."
Ned knelt beside her, taking her hand, his stoic mask crumbling. "Lyanna," he whispered, "I'm here. You're safe."
Maekar stood by the door, leaning on Blackfyre, his heart a storm of grief and duty. He watched in silence, an outsider to their reunion, yet bound by his vow to Rhaegar. Lyanna's gaze flicked to him, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes, before another contraction seized her. She cried out, her hand tightening on Ned's.
The midwife's voice was urgent. "It's time, my lady. Push."
Time blurred, the chamber filled with Lyanna's strained cries and the midwife's steady encouragements. Maekar's leg ached, but he remained, Blackfyre's point braced against the floor. Finally, a new cry pierced the air—a babe's wail, fragile yet fierce. The midwife lifted a small, squalling child, wrapped it in a cloth, and placed it in Lyanna's arms.
Lyanna's face softened, her pain giving way to a radiant love. She looked at the child, then at Ned, her voice a whisper. "His name is Jaehaerys," she said, her eyes shimmering. "For Rhaegar. For the dragon he dreamed of."
Maekar's breath caught. Jaehaerys. A Targaryen name, a king's name, born of fire and ice. The child was Rhaegar's legacy, the spark he had sworn to protect. Ned's eyes widened, a storm of emotions crossing his face—grief, love, and a dawning understanding.
Lyanna's gaze met Maekar's, her voice weak but resolute. "Protect him, Maekar. As Rhaegar's heir, swear it."
Maekar hobbled forward, Blackfyre's tap echoing in the quiet. He knelt, the effort sending fire through his leg, and placed a scarred hand over his heart. "I swear it, Lyanna. For Jaehaerys. For House Targaryen."
Ned's eyes met his, a silent question hanging between them. Maekar saw the weight of his own choice reflected—kin left to fate, a new duty born in blood. The red mountains stood silent outside, guarding the tower where a dragon's hope was born, even as the realm burned.
After lyanna death Ned stood, his face carved with grief, and turned to Maekar. His voice was low, raw with pain. "There's more you must know, Prince Maekar," he said, his grey eyes meeting Maekar's violet ones. "King's Landing has fallen. Tywin Lannister sacked the city. Aerys is dead, slain by Jaime Lannister, his own Kingsguard."
Maekar's grip on Blackfyre tightened, the blade's-glint of pain shooting through his leg. "My father…" he whispered, the words a wound.
"There's worse," Ned continued, his voice heavy. "Elia… Aegon… Rhaenys…" He faltered, his jaw tightening. "They're dead. Tywin's men… the Mountain… they were butchered. Robert…" Ned's voice broke, his eyes burning with disgust. "Robert laughed when he heard. Called them 'dragonspawn.' He did nothing to punish the murderers."
The world tilted, Maekar's vision blurring with rage and grief. Elia, Aegon, Rhaenys—gone. His nephew, his niece, his sister-in-law, slaughtered like beasts. And Robert, the usurper, laughing, naming them dragonspawn. Maekar's scarred hand trembled on Blackfyre's hilt, his leg nearly buckling under the weight of his fury. "He laughed?" he growled, his voice a dragon's roar.
Ned nodded, his face grim. "I was there when the bodies were presented. I swore to bring justice, but Robert… he sees only victory." His voice held a quiet shame, a fracture in his stoic mask.
Maekar's heart was a pyre, burning for his lost family, for the realm torn apart by betrayal and blood. He looked at Jaehaerys, cradled in the midwife's arms, a tiny dragon in a world of wolves and lions. Rhaegar's son, Lyanna's son—the last of House Targaryen's hope.
Ned followed his gaze, his expression softening. "Lyanna wanted him safe," he said quietly. "I'll take him north, to Winterfell. He'll be raised as my own, hidden from Robert's wrath."
Maekar's eyes narrowed, his vow to Lyanna a chain around his heart. "He's a Targaryen," he said, his voice low and fierce. "Jaehaerys is my blood, Stark. I swore to protect him."
Ned stepped closer, his voice steady but not unkind. "And how will you protect him, Maekar? You can barely walk, and the realm hunts you.
Robert AIM: Robert will kill every Targaryen he finds. Jaehaerys needs a home, not a fugitive's life."
Maekar leaned on Blackfyre, his leg aching, his mind a storm. Ned's words were a blade, cutting through his resolve. He was the heir, bound by duty, but a crippled prince on the run was no match for a king's army. He looked at the child, then at Ned. "He's Rhaegar's son," he said, his voice breaking. "I cannot abandon him."
Ned's grey eyes held his, a shared grief binding them. "You're not abandoning him. You're giving him a chance. I'll keep him safe, as my son, my bastard. No one will know his true name."
Maekar's heart roared, but his mind saw the truth. He was a broken dragon, hunted and hobbled, with no army to shield the child. He nodded slowly, his voice a whisper. "Jaehaerys Targaryen… he must live. Swear you'll protect him, Stark."
"I swear it," Ned said, his voice a vow. "On my honor."
Maekar hobbled to the cradle, looking down at Jaehaerys's tiny face. The child's eyes, still newborn-blue, held a spark of Rhaegar's fire. Maekar's scarred hand rested on the cradle, a silent promise. "For Rhaegar," he murmured. "For Lyanna."
Outside, the wind wailed through the red mountains, mourning the fallen.
Maekar turned to Ned, his voice steel. "Take him north. But know this, Stark I swear if something happens I'll find away."
Ned nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. The midwife handed Jaehaerys to Ned, who cradled the child gently, his face a mask of grief and resolve. Maekar hobbled back to the door, Blackfyre's tap a steady rhythm, his heart heavy with the weight of a broken house and a newborn hope.