Look Up

Maekar sat slumped in a chair within his tent, his head cradled in his hands. He felt utterly drained; a dizzying weakness coursed through him, and he couldn't shake the unease gnawing at his core. Basil stood nearby, watching him with concern etched on his face.

"Perhaps it's a fever, my prince," Basil suggested, his voice laden with worry.

Maekar let out a humorless chuckle, lifting his head to reveal a wry, pained smile. "Maybe the one-eyed bastard was right," he muttered. "Skinchanging into a man is dangerous."

Skinchanging into Gerold Dayne's during the melee had exhausted him in ways no physical exertion ever could. He had done it to further his plans—to have Gerold attack Joffrey, allowing him to step in as the hero. It had worked perfectly. He'd played the savior, and now all that remained was to meet Cersei face to face. From the last report he'd received, Joffrey was barely alive, which was even better.

He recalled the sensation—wearing another man's skin, feeling his rage and hatred. The human mind was far more complex than any animal he'd skinchanged into before. What he had accomplished today was impressive, even by the standards of the most experienced skinchangers.

With a grunt, he stood up, swaying slightly before regaining his balance. His head still pounded, and a deep ache resonated within his very soul, but he wouldn't let weakness win. He had work to do.

Maekar blinked, trying to focus. "Basil, any updates?" he asked.

"The young Lannister still lives," Basil reported.

Maekar tilted his head, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. "And Cersei? Is she by his side?"

Basil nodded. "Yes, my prince. She hasn't left him."

"Good," he said. "Make sure my horse and equipment are prepared for the joust."

Basil frowned, his gaze dropping to Maekar's pallid face. "My prince... you don't look well. Perhaps it's not wise to use your 'ability' during the joust."

Maekar shook his head, his expression hardening. "Basil, you know how terrible I am at jousting." He gave a wry smile. "I made a promise to someone that I would crown someone today, and I intend to keep it."

Basil nodded, though his lips pressed into a tight line. He seemed as though he wanted to protest, but he bowed his head instead. "As you wish, my prince. I will see to it."

Maekar steadied himself, trying to suppress the exhaustion that clung to him. He took a deep breath, attempting to dispel the lingering fog clouding his mind. "I'll be visiting Lady Cersei before the joust," he said, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he headed out of the tent.

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Maekar made his way through the sprawling Lannister camp. The golden banners of House Lannister fluttered above, their lion sigils catching the wind, but the mood was anything but grand. A quiet, tense atmosphere hung in the air, heavy with unease after what had occurred at the melee.

He reached the tent where he knew Joffrey was being kept. The guards posted outside straightened, crossing their spears to block his way.

"My prince," one of them said respectfully, his voice wavering slightly, "we were told no one was to enter."

Maekar stared them down, his eyes narrowing. "Even for a prince?" His voice was calm, but the threat in it was unmistakable.

The guards exchanged glances, then quickly lowered their spears, stepping aside. "Your Grace," one stammered.

Maekar brushed past them, entering the tent. A thick, somber silence filled the space, the oppressive air disturbed only by the soft flickering of candles.

Cersei Lannister sat beside Joffrey's bed, her eyes fixed on her son's face, her fingers ghosting over his bruised and bloodied hand. Her face was a mask of barely contained fury and fear. Joffrey lay pale and motionless, his breaths shallow, his features marred by cuts and dark bruises.

Maekar approached quietly, pausing just within her line of sight. "How is he?" he asked softly, his voice laced with faux concern.

Cersei, startled by his sudden appearance, turned to face him. Her wary expression softened, and she looked momentarily vulnerable—a mother in distress.

"The maesters say he'll live... but they can't promise he'll recover fully..." Her voice faltered, breaking slightly, and she turned her gaze back to her son. Beneath her grief, Maekar could see the anger simmering, barely contained.

She muttered, her voice low and laced with venom, "That savage Dornishman... he broke my perfect boy."

Maekar said nothing, letting the silence stretch. He waited for the right moment. When Cersei stood, moving away from Joffrey's bedside and stepping closer to him, he knew it had arrived.

She looked at him, her eyes glistening with emotions she could barely keep in check. "Thank you," she said, her voice trembling but her gaze steady. "You saved him. If not for you, my son would have died." There was raw gratitude in her eyes, and Maekar seized upon it.

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, his grip both firm and comforting. He allowed himself to appear sincere. "There's no need for thanks," he said, his voice low and calm. "I only did what any true friend would do."

"Why?" Cersei whispered, her voice filled with confusion, her eyes returning to Joffrey. "Why would he do this to my son?"

Maekar kept his gaze steady on her, then spoke slowly, almost hesitantly. "Perhaps... perhaps I bear some fault in this, my lady."

She looked at him, shock flickering across her face. "What do you mean?" she demanded, her tone perplexed.

Maekar sighed, casting his eyes downward for a moment, as if regretful. "You've noticed how Aegon and I have been..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "We haven't been on the best of terms for some time. There is no love lost between us."

She nodded slowly, her gaze growing more intense, urging him to continue.

Maekar took a step closer, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper. "Joffrey... your son came to me not long before the tourney. He offered his support. He saw the madness in Aegon and wanted... to ensure the realm would be safe." He paused, letting the words sink in.

Cersei's eyes widened, a gasp escaping her lips. The implication hung heavy in the air.

Maekar watched her face, the anger beginning to surface again. He continued, his voice a touch more cautious. "You know where Gerold Dayne's loyalties lay..."

Cersei's face twisted, her eyes blazing with fury. "That cripple... that monster." Her voice shook with rage. "He did this to my son. I knew it... I knew there was something wrong." She clenched her hands, her fury almost palpable.

Maekar remained silent, observing her, his expression a mask of regret. It was what he needed her to believe, and the seeds were sprouting beautifully.

"I'm sorry, my lady. If it weren't..." Maekar began.

Cersei suddenly turned to him, her eyes filled with something akin to desperation. "No. No. It wasn't your fault," she said quickly. "Joffrey wanted to help you. He saw it too. He saw what I saw—a true prince. A true protector of the realm." Her voice trembled, but there was conviction there.

Maekar allowed a small, humble smile to touch his lips. He walked over, taking her hands in his, his touch warm and firm. "Joffrey will recover," he said softly. "I will make sure of it."

Cersei's face hardened again, her eyes darkening with hatred. "He must pay," she whispered. "Aegon... he must pay..."

Maekar nodded, his voice solemn. "I promise you, Cersei. I will help you get your revenge. But," he added, his voice tinged with regret, "your lord father... he supports Aegon."

Cersei's eyes narrowed dangerously. She looked at Joffrey, her expression cold and calculating. "Not after this. He won't."

"And if he does?" Maekar probed gently, his eyes searching her face.

Cersei's gaze didn't waver, her voice turning icy. "Then there will be a new Lord of Casterly Rock... no... a Lady." Her tone was final, and she spoke with chilling certainty as her eyes remained fixed on her son's battered face.

Maekar offered a small, satisfied smile, barely visible. He squeezed her hands lightly before releasing them. "I will be by your side, whatever may come," he promised before stepping back.

He turned and made his way out of the tent. The West was his now; he had ensured that. The Lioness would fight for him.

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Maekar stood near his horse, his breath coming in uneven gasps. He wasn't feeling well. His vision was slightly blurry, and his muscles ached with every movement. The weight of his armor bore down on him more than ever, as though it was slowly crushing him.

Lyonel was at his side, looking at him with concern. "My prince, are you well?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

"I'm fine," Maekar replied, though he wasn't so sure himself. He had only two opponents left to reach the final, but he had weakened as the day went on. Whatever effects of the skinchanging should have been gone by now. He could feel his energy draining, a deep weariness taking hold of him.

He shook his head, trying to refocus. He had made a promise to crown Rhaenys. He could not falter now. Maekar mounted his horse, gripping the reins tightly, ignoring the throbbing in his temples.

He looked down the lists at his opponent—Harrold Hardyng—his armor polished and his horse snorting with impatience.

Maekar urged his horse into position. He felt a wave of dizziness come over him as he grasped his lance. He closed his eyes, reaching into that dark part of his mind, drawing on his power to skinchange.

The tilt began. They urged their mounts forward, lances leveled. As his opponent drew closer, Harrold's horse staggered, suddenly losing control. Maekar's lance struck with perfect accuracy, shattering on impact and sending the knight sprawling to the ground.

The crowd roared in approval. The announcer called out his name—victorious again. He turned his horse around, returning to wait. He felt his heart pounding harder, his headache worsening. His muscles ached, and sweat trickled down his back, but he gave no sign of weakness. There was only one more opponent to defeat.

His next opponent was Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning himself.

As the trumpet blared, Maekar kicked his horse into a gallop. The ground seemed to sway beneath him, his vision blurring at the edges. His focus shifted, and once again, he pushed his consciousness forward, feeling the world tilt around him as he entered Arthur's mount.

But Arthur was no ordinary opponent. He recovered quickly, shifting in his seat and regaining composure. The first pass ended inconclusively, both lances glancing off without harm.

The trumpet blared again. Both horses leapt forward, racing down the lists. Maekar tried again; this time, Arthur could not recover from his faltering horse. Maekar's lance struck him squarely, and Arthur was thrown off his horse, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. The crowd erupted in stunned amazement, many unable to believe that Arthur Dayne had been defeated so quickly.

Maekar raised his lance, acknowledging the cheers. His eyes scanned the audience, finally falling on Daenerys. Her expression was full of expectation, her eyes bright. He knew what she believed would come later—that he would crown her, declare her the queen of love and beauty. But Rhaenys' words echoed in his mind, her demand to be crowned instead.

He sighed, turning his horse back. Only one opponent remained, one last tilt—the Red Viper, Oberyn Martell.

He rested for some time, but he did not get as much time as he wanted. He was only getting weaker, but he persisted.

Maekar rode onto the grounds again with lance in hand, his eyes locked onto his opponent—the Red Viper, Oberyn Martell. The Dornish prince was resplendent in his gilded armor, his horse adorned with vibrant silks. Oberyn's confidence was evident, his posture poised and elegant. Maekar tightened his grip on the lance, his hands faltering for a moment, but he forced them to steady.

He was confident. After all, his opponent did not have the abilities he had—abilities that gave him an edge over even the most skilled knights. He adjusted his stance, exhaling slowly. He had to end this, he thought. He had to end it quickly.

The blare of a horn echoed, and the tilt began. Maekar felt an unexpected surge of energy as he drove his heels into the flanks of his horse, urging it into a gallop. Oberyn's lance was held low and steady, the man's form perfect, composed—a master of the joust. But something was off. Maekar felt his own horse falter, the first signs of a slight hesitation that jarred him, and his stomach twisted. He could sense that his strength was waning. Each attempt to concentrate, to use skinchanging, seemed to slip away like sand between his fingers.

The distance between them vanished in an instant. Their lances collided with a deafening crack, the force of impact shuddering through Maekar. He heard Oberyn's lance shatter, but he stayed on his horse, sheer determination keeping him upright. His arm throbbed with pain, but he gritted his teeth, ignoring it.

Round after round, they clashed. Each time, Maekar felt himself slipping, the edge of his awareness blurring, his focus becoming more elusive. He tried once, then twice, to reach into the horse beneath Oberyn—to slip into the beast's consciousness—but his thoughts scattered, his mind barely able to hold on.

His chest felt tight, his breaths were short, and he knew, somewhere deep inside, that this weakness was not merely the result of skinchanging.

He breathed heavily, preparing for another pass. His heart raced, his vision swayed. Then, a cold realization struck him, chilling him to the bone: poison. He was poisoned.

Panic threatened to overtake him, but he quickly calmed himself. He had prepared for this. He had taken precautions—that was the reason he still stood, the reason he had lasted this long despite the poison running through him.

He forced himself to find strength. He had to finish this now.

Maekar narrowed his focus, reaching out, finding that thread of control, forcing his way into Oberyn's horse. He made the horse falter—just for a heartbeat. That was all he needed.

With newfound resolve, Maekar angled his lance low, targeting Oberyn's shield with brutal precision. He drove the tip forward as their horses charged. The lance connected with a powerful crash, the wood splintering as Oberyn was unseated, knocked backward off his horse in a cloud of dust and sand. He tumbled to the ground, and the crowd erupted in cheers.

Maekar let out a triumphant shout, raising his lance in victory. The jubilant cheers of the spectators swelled around him, echoing from the stands, but suddenly, the cheers became distant. His vision began to swim as a wave of dizziness crashed over him.

The world seemed to shift, everything tilting at an unnatural angle. He felt himself slipping, losing his grip on his horse's reins, his fingers going numb. The strength he had relied upon deserted him, leaving nothing but the unbearable weight of fatigue. His body gave way; his muscles refused to respond. He felt himself falling, his armor hitting the ground with a bone-jarring crash. The pain was distant, numbed by the overwhelming exhaustion that enveloped him.

The noise of the crowd ebbed and flowed, distant and muffled, as though he were underwater. He tried to blink, to stay awake, but his vision grew dark, fading into the blur of the melee field, dust, and distant faces.

Someone was calling his name. He thought he heard it, faint, somewhere above the roaring noise. He was losing consciousness, the world slipping away entirely.

Then, amidst the darkening haze, he felt something. A pull. The connection—the bond he had formed. He felt Neferion reaching out to him.

As his eyes began to close, he heard it—a deep, earth-shattering roar that echoed across the tournament grounds. Screams, gasps, and shouts erupted from the stands. And just before the darkness claimed him, he saw it—the massive silhouette, a shadow descending from the sky, wings spread wide, blotting out the sun.

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Rhaegar stood up abruptly, his eyes wide with shock as he watched Maekar fall from his horse. "Oswell! Barristan!" he called urgently, his voice cutting through the noise of the arena. "Go now! See if my son is unharmed!" The Kingsguard leaped into action, their white cloaks billowing as they rushed toward the melee grounds.

Rhaegar turned, his gaze catching the worried expressions of Daenerys and Rhaenys, their faces pale with concern. Daenerys stormed off in the direction of the field, his daughter following closely behind.

His son had won, defeating the Red Viper. He should have been cheering, celebrating, but instead, his mind raced with worry. Maekar had fallen off his horse—had he been injured? A thousand thoughts and fears shot through his mind, overwhelming any sense of triumph that had come with his son's victory.

The grandstands were deafening with their cacophony of cheers and shouts—too loud, too chaotic—until suddenly, they were silenced. A sound broke through it all—a roar.

The noise echoed through the grounds, a roar that sent shivers down Rhaegar's spine, so deep and resonant that he stumbled back, his heart skipping a beat. It was not just any roar; it was the roar of something ancient and powerful, something that had not been heard in the Seven Kingdoms for over a century. The cheers of the audience fell to a stunned quiet as that bone-chilling roar resounded once again, louder and more menacing than before.

"No…" Rhaegar whispered to himself, his hands trembling. "It can't be..." But deep down, he knew. His mind refused to accept it, but his heart recognized that sound—a dragon's roar.

Another roar came, and with it, a shadow swept across the grounds, blocking out the sunlight. Rhaegar's eyes were drawn skyward, his breath catching as he saw it—an enormous silhouette, wings outstretched, descending toward the melee grounds.

The panic began almost immediately.

Screams erupted from the audience; shouts of "Dragon!" and "Monster!" filled the air. People began to push and shove, frantic to escape the grandstands. The once-ordered rows of nobles and spectators became a throng of chaos—women screamed, men shouted orders, children were pulled away by their parents, and guards rushed to restore order. Banners were torn down, chairs and benches overturned in the rush to flee.

But Rhaegar heard none of it. He was transfixed. His gaze was locked on the creature in the sky, descending with each powerful flap of its colossal wings.

"A dragon..." he whispered, his voice breaking. The word felt heavy on his tongue, as if saying it aloud made it all the more real.

"Your Grace!" Arthur's voice cut through the noise, desperate. "We must leave! The dragon—it's not safe!" He pulled at Rhaegar's arm, trying to move him, but Rhaegar stood rooted to the spot, his eyes wide in awe and disbelief.

It was majestic, terrible, beautiful. It was everything he had imagined. Its wings were vast and dark, each stroke pushing gusts of wind down into the grounds, scattering everything below. Banners flew wildly, robes and dresses whipped around, and the shadow of the beast blanketed the earth beneath it.

Time seemed to slow for Rhaegar, the entire world fading as he stared at the dragon descending upon them. A fierce, almost desperate joy swelled within his chest, his heart pounding as he thought of the prophecy—the prophecy that had driven him, the dream of a dragon to fulfill destiny. The dragon was here. The dragon had descended upon them, and it had come for Aegon. It had come for the promised prince.

This was the sign he had waited his entire life for. This was the confirmation that he had been right—that his sacrifices, his choices, all of it had been leading to this moment.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, each beat harder than the last. He felt lightheaded, the edges of his vision blurring. His body felt as if it were losing all its strength, folding in on itself. His limbs grew heavy, his knees weakened, and he swayed where he stood.

"RHAEGAR, we need to go," Arthur's voice was filled with urgency, the concern in his friend's eyes clear, but Rhaegar barely heard him. He looked at Arthur, tried to form words—to tell him that everything was as it should be, that this was destiny—but the words would not come. His throat felt tight, his mouth dry.

The world spun around him, the sound of the crowd fading into a muffled hum. He tried to steady himself, to keep his balance, but his vision darkened, Arthur's face growing blurry.

Rhaegar fell backward, his legs giving way beneath him, and Arthur moved swiftly, catching him just before he hit the ground.

The last thing Rhaegar saw before his vision failed entirely was the massive silhouette of the dragon ascending back into the sky, its roar echoing once more across the tournament grounds. Then, everything faded into darkness.

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Read up to chapter 94 here :

p.a.t.r.eon.com/Illusiveone (check the chapter summary i have it there as well)

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