282 AC – The Red Keep
Maekar Targaryen, younger twin to Rhaegar and dubbed the Broken Dragon after Duskendale, stood in the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, his father's silent sentinel. The name clung to him like a curse. Once, he had been Maekar the Warrior, a dragon of tourneys and battlefields, his blade an extension of his will. Those days were now a bitter memory, shattered by the ambush at Duskendale.
He could still feel the morning mist, the chaos of steel clashing, and the searing pain of arrows piercing his shoulder and leg. A sword had carved a deep gash across his arm. He had fought back-to-back with his father, King Aerys, until a blow sent him sprawling, darkness claiming him. The captivity that followed was worse—months of torment, his sword hand severed, his leg snapped like kindling, his other hand broken when fire failed to burn his dragon's blood. Maekar the Warrior became Maekar the Broken.
Now, leaning on a dragon-headed walking stick, he stood in the Red Keep's throne room, where chaos festered. Whispers of rebellion filled the air—his brother Rhaegar, it was said, had kidnapped Lyanna Stark. Maekar knew better. Rhaegar's heart burned with love, not cruelty, but the realm cared little for truth. War was coming.
At his feet lay two charred corpses, one hand outstretched as if reaching for salvation. Maekar's voice was a low rasp, meant for no one but the dead. "How did it come to this, brother? You sent letters… didn't you?"
A small voice broke his reverie. Viserys, his young brother, barely more than a boy, puffed out his chest, eyes bright with hero-worship. "Maekar, tell me how you defeated fifteen knights single-handed!"
Maekar's lips twitched in a faint smile, his grip tightening on the stick. "Not now, little dragon."
Viserys huffed, stomping off with exaggerated dignity. Maekar watched him go, then turned toward the door, his voice cutting through the silence. "Ser Barristan, rally the men. War awaits us."
With a slow, deliberate gait, the Broken Dragon stepped into the courtyard, where the clamor of steel and shouts signaled preparations for battle.
The courtyard buzzed with urgency as Maekar emerged, his stick tapping rhythmically against the stone. Ser Barristan Selmy, tall and unyielding despite his years, approached swiftly and dropped to one knee. "Your Grace."
"Rise, Ser Barristan," Maekar said, waving a scarred hand. "No time for formalities." His eyes, a pale violet, met the knight's. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "One more order."
Barristan stood, hand resting on his sword hilt. "Name it, my lord."
"Have the men armed and ready by nightfall. Steel for every hand. And…" Maekar's voice grew firm, "bring my old armor from the vault—the black and purple plate, with the amethyst-encrusted Targaryen sigil."
Barristan's brow lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his weathered face. That armor had not seen light since Duskendale's horrors. "My lord, you need not bear such weight. Let younger men—"
"No," Maekar interrupted, his tone unyielding. "A dragon leads, or he is no dragon at all. This realm burns because too many have faltered. I will not." His gaze locked with Barristan's, and for a moment, the old knight saw the prince who had once felled foes with ease. "Polish it. Make it ready. Whatever strength I have, I give to this kingdom—for my family."
Barristan bowed deeply, pride thickening his voice. "It will be done, Your Grace. May the gods grant you strength to meet this storm."
Maekar nodded sharply, watching the knight depart. Alone, he gripped the dragon-headed stick, exhaling the weight of old wounds and new wars. The Broken Dragon would rise, one last time.
The throne room's air was heavy with the scent of ashes and oil as Maekar approached, his stick echoing against the stone. The Iron Throne loomed ahead, its jagged blades glinting in the torchlight. Upon it sat King Aerys II, the Mad King, hunched forward, his tangled hair brushing the steel, his long fingernails clawing at the armrests. Yet when Aerys raised his eyes, a rare clarity gleamed in their lilac depths.
"Maekar," Aerys rasped, voice trembling with memory. "My Broken Dragon. My boy."
Maekar's chest tightened. He sank to one knee, the dragon-headed stick grounding him. "Father."
Aerys rose, gripping the throne's edges with bony fingers, and descended the steps. The Mad King, feared for his cruelty, placed a trembling hand on Maekar's scarred shoulder. "Duskendale," he whispered. "I hear your screams still. The stench of burning flesh. You stood for me when all others fled, and the gods cursed you for it." His voice cracked, guilt and madness entwined. "Forgive me, Maekar. Forgive a broken fool."
Maekar swallowed the ache in his throat, meeting his father's gaze. "There is nothing to forgive. You are my king, my father. I stand for you—for House Targaryen—always."
Aerys's grip tightened, and a faint, hopeful smile broke through the madness. "Then rise, Broken Dragon. Make them remember the fire in our blood."
Maekar stood, pain lancing through his leg, but he refused to falter. "I will, Father," he vowed, a smile flickering. "Though you know I've always hated the pampering."
Aerys chuckled, a rare sound, and sank back onto the Iron Throne, fingers tracing its sharp edges. Maekar turned, his stick tapping as he made for the courtyard, where war's shadow loomed.
In the courtyard, Maekar gripped Blackfyre, the ancestral sword of House Targaryen, its blackened blade and dragon-shaped crossguard gleaming in the torchlight. The weapon was more than steel—it was a legacy, reclaimed from a Blackfyre loyalist in a brutal duel years before Duskendale. The old knight's fanatic eyes had burned with defiance, but Maekar's blade had ended the last embers of that lost cause.
Now, as he moved through the gathered troops, Blackfyre served as both crutch and symbol. The soldiers quieted, their eyes on their broken prince. Maekar raised the sword, its jagged edges catching the firelight.
"Men of the realm!" His voice, hoarse but commanding, carried over the crowd. "I am Maekar Targaryen, the Broken Dragon—yes, broken, but still your prince, your king's son, your sword."
He paused, drawing strength from the blade and the fire in his blood. "The realm burns. Enemies gather in the shadows. But fire does not die—it transforms. Like this sword, we are forged in hardship, rising stronger from ashes."
The troops stirred, their murmurs rising into cheers, fueled by hope and defiance.
"We fight not for crowns or glory, but for our home, our kin, and the dragon's blood that binds us!" Maekar thrust Blackfyre skyward, a blazing beacon against the darkening sky.
The courtyard erupted, steel clashing in salute. Maekar, battered and broken, stood tall. The Broken Dragon was ready to lead, one last time.
I fix this chapter and rewrite it