The idea of this oneshot came from a question ariel2me asked, about why Maekar was given Summerhall despite being the youngest son. Admittedly, she did not ask it of me. I hope to keep this story short. In the best case scenario, it will be a twoshot. In the worst case scenario, it'll spread over... or remain a oneshot. I honestly can't decide which one would be worse!

A Dragon Awoken

The Hatchling

The raven came at noon but it was on torchlight already when the King finally had the time to read the parchment. His brows knitted and his mouth tightened a little but else, he gave no indication of being moved at all. Silently, he passed the letter to the dark-haired man at his right.

Baelor Targaryen, the young Prince of Dragonstone, started reading silently and intently. He had the makings of a great ruler but he had indeed seen too few namedays. His feelings were blatantly clear. His eyes flashed angrily, so wide that the black almost swallowed the indigo, making him look more Dornish than ever.

"So," he said. "They've really overreached so?"

"Oh yes," King Daeron confirmed. "Now, Carron and Selmy and giving me this contrived excuse as to why they cannot pay their taxes fully... because they've been practically reduced to beg their bread by the side of the road by those Dornish villains..."

Baelor looked away, refusing the dragon who roared inside him free reign. The double offense made his blood boil. Did the marcher lords think that this excuse would really fly? The hostilities were entirely two-sided and the men of the Marches had never made a secret of how profitable they found the enmity with Dorne. Did they believe their king was so weak that he'd let them undermine his authority with such blatant lies? Even Matarys won't believe this, Baelor thought, and that was quite something, for his new son was barely a moon old. And the insults against Dorne were another offense, against Queen Myriah and her children. Baelor was only too aware of the whispers trailing him like faithful hounds. He isn't a Targaryen, he's all Dornish, men spoke… and he could tell them by name.

"And Ser Rolen cannot keep our authority over the region," he said.

"Indeed," Daeron agreed and preempted his son's next words. "I am not replacing him if that's what you have in mind. We have to find a way to renew the authority Summerhall once held… but he stays. I won't humiliate him by stripping him of his office."

"I wasn't going to suggest such a thing," Baelor snapped. Was that what the King really thought of him, that he's suggest taking back the reward they had given to one of their most capable men simply because he had grown old and feeble? Once again, he pushed the dragon firmly down. He was not going to start an argument with his father. That would solve nothing and anyway, a future ruler should be beyond such petty offenses.

They had to restore the position Summerhall had once held, and immediately. The strategic location of the castle had allowed Daeron to keep the peace between the realm's own struggling lords of the Stormlands and the Reach and maintain the royal authority over them, something that even King Aegon had recognized as important and keep a relatively good relations with Dorne as well, but now, with Daeron having moved to King's Landing, the stirring pot that this region tended to become each time the Iron Throne looked aside was starting to boil again. How much time would pass before the unrest turned out into outright loot, everyone grabbing whatever they could at the expense of the Crown? The refusal to pay full taxes was a very bad omen.

"We have to send someone there," Baelor said. "Someone who is strong enough to teach those brigands their place. Someone of high enough rank to make it look like his presence is bestowing honour to the region and not replacing Ser Rolen at all."

Daeron nodded impatiently. All of a sudden, Baelor felt uncomfortable. Of course his father had already thought about that. He had a lifetime of experience compared to Baelor.

"I can't carry it out," the young man said defensively, just in case Daeron thought he could. "I can't be here, as well as Dragonstone, as well as Summerhall."

"I agree." The King's voice was soft, thoughtful.

Baelor went to the table and poured wine for both of them to give himself time to think. "Maekar," he finally said. "You intend to send Maekar there."

"And invest him as Prince of Summerhall." Daeron sipped at his wine. "I'll have to talk to Aerys and I have to say, I don't anticipate this conversation eagerly. But I don't think he could handle the Dornish Marches even if he wants to. He isn't this kind of man."

This kind of man. Maekar was barely a man. He had seen only seventeen namedays. Baelor felt himself smile quite maliciously. A childish part of him wanted to steal to Summerhall, so he could witness the amusement of the unruly lords at having Daeron's stripling sent to rein them in. And their later stupefaction at finding themselves actually biting the bridle they could find no escape from. Maekar had only recently returned against a punitive actions against outlaws that had become quite the bother… well, that only served to prove the notion that the reward for a job well done was a new task, harder.

Would Aerys mind? Baelor didn't really expect it but who could say? They didn't have this much castles to give away, so it would make sense for Summerhall to go to the King's second son. But in fact, there was no tradition for such cases. Summerhall was a new abode, built for Daeron's own needs. It could be arranged.

"I think that's the best solution," Baelor finally said. "But you have to warn me when you're going to tell Mother so I can leave the Red Keep in advance," he added, grinning.

Daeron also smiled, albeit reluctantly. Indeed, Myriah would mind sending Maekar, with his lack of experience, to deal with men who had spent their long lives stirring trouble. And she's most emphatically mind having him live out of King's Landing. She was determined not to see the unpalatable truth: that their youngest didn't feel good around them. That he was not happy here. Daeron didn't like it better than she did and hoped that sooner or later, he'd have the chance to rebuild the bridges ruined by politics. But keeping Maekar here, where he didn't want to be, preventing him from putting his abilities to some good use and making something of himself was not the way. Just this time, politics might actually do something for Maekar, instead of it running only one way.

They arrived at Summerhall in the dead of night. The preparations for their arrival were not completed yet but Maekar Targaryen did not care. He only demanded a comfortable chamber where his lady wife could rest. As soon as that wish was accommodated, he went to inspect the castle by the light of a torch.

"Are you sure you don't want to have the castellan awoken?" Ser Galend Highill asked.

Maekar moved slightly aside, so his friend could fall in line beside him. "What can he do right now? Let him have his rest. The next few days will be intense ones, I expect."

They went on down a long hallway, passed by a huge hall, down a gallery with magnificent columns… Everything was so beautiful, well-kept and abandoned. All of a sudden, the one-time Essosi captive remembered the day he had first come here, with the entire court, many years ago, when everything had been lit by sun and laughter. Summerhall had been a royal residence then, a place that had awed him. It had also felt like a home, albeit a sporadic one. Now, the calmness brought him fear, much like the smallfolk they had encountered on their way here – harassed people who had barely dared to approach the party and acclaim them. Tormented, like the region itself. Almost dead which the region – thanks to R'hllor – wasn't.

"So you intend to tackle the matter immediately?" Ser Galend finally asked when they climbed the long staircase of a high white tower. Maekar had always liked coming here, on this roof where in broad daylight, the entire land around lay in his feet and at night, he could reach for the stars and catch them, almost.

In the stark moonlight, the Prince's face was grim and determined. His white teeth gleamed in half a smile and half a menace. "Of course. What would you have me do? Sit around and become their puppet? Dance on their strings?"

The idea of Maekar Targaryen dancing on anyone's strings was so amusing that the young knight smirked. His eyes followed a ray of moonlight spinning a luminescent thread for as far as his look could reach and then tried to penetrate the darkness beyond. Take care, Marcher Lords, he thought to the invisible malcontents. The Prince of Summerhall has come.

On the very day after his arrival, Maekar summoned all the Stormlords and every Reach lord living in the dangerous region known as the Dornish Marches at Summerhall in the King's name. He knew he had to tread with the greatest caution. Summerhall, as elevated as it was, was fairly young compared to those thousand year old Houses with their thousand year old grudges. For all the fealty they proclaimed to the Iron Throne, both Stormlords and men of the Reach would rather settle their grudges alone in the manner they preferred. Prince Daeron had put a temporary stop in their dynamic but as soon as they had seen his back, they had returned to their old ways. Maekar held no illusions that they'd be awed by his own presence. If he had been at least twenty… but no maester could speed time up. Still, he wanted to examine the situation in person and choose his course accordingly.

When in the appointed hour he entered the council chamber, he found the summoned lords and knights dispersed in groups, conversing in loud voice. There were only six men who had taken their seats on the long table, silent and respectful. Maekar walked to his seat at the head of the table but those who rose to show deference to their King's son were few. The rest of them kept talking, laughing, clanking their swords on the stone floor, and pretending that they did not see the Prince of Summerhall. He silently took his seat and it was only now that the clamour started to abate, replaced by hidden and not so hidden staring. Maekar could read the men's minds: Is this who the King thought would humble us and bring us to our knees? This hatchling? He could have sent Fireball, at least. He must not prize this son of his very much if he's so willing to throw him to the wolves. We'll see how long this dragon lasts here before he runs away with his tail between his legs…

He met their eyes with expression that was so stony that some of them actually stopped smiling. There was even something that resembled worry on a face or two. At least, Maekar hoped it was worry.

But a moment later, the doors were thrown open to admit Lord Steven Dondarrion, a burly, strong man in his forties, one of the most unruly among the marcher lords. He entered noisily and instead of going to Maekar and beg forgiveness for being late for a summon made in the King's name, rushed at Lord Bryen Caron who had taken what Maekar could only presume was Dondarrion's own seat, a little closer to the head of the table. In the matter of moments, the altercation was in full force, the two lords hurling abuse and threatening each other in front of Maekar. They were still going when another brawl started, a little further down the table, between two other men. Soon, the entire chamber echoed with shouts and curses, men had risen from their seats once again, some were calling each other names, others encouraged them and roared with laughter. This was no council of lords, it was a gathering place of drunken brigands.

Maekar stayed where he was, taking in the ugly scene in front of him. No doubt it was an insult to him but the fact that it wasn't even the main purpose, just a minor advantage, was even more insulting. He was not considered someone worthy of being offended deliberately and grievously. He could hear the words of mindless anger, hatred and envy, gloating and laughter. Sweat started dropping from his forehead, turning his hot cheeks cold. He had seen and heard such brawls many times in King's Landing, in King Aegon's great hall where it had amused his grandfather. But he had never seen such lack of restraint in a council chamber. His eyes turned a darker shade of violet and then almost indigo, lit by a dark flame. He rose and raised a fist. "Out!" he thundered.

There was a sudden silence. Maekar repeated again, his voice even uglier, more dreadful. "Out of here, you rabid lunatics. Out!"

On the door, the guards appeared. They had heard Maekar's shout. The Kingsguard who had come with him from King's Landing gave him a troubled look. Maekar shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and turned to the guard. "Take them out. Send them away. To the last man."

No one had expected such bravery from Maekar, this boy who had spent so many years as a political pawn in the silent battle between his father and grandfather. The men gathered here were so stunned that the guards herded them on like cattle amidst clank of weapons and faint murmur of discontent.

"Do you want me to go as well?" Ser Galend asked softly.

Maekar looked at him. "No," he said. "I want you to stay."

They spent the day and a good deal of the night talking. At one point, they moved to Ser Rolen's chamber where the sickly old man offered them his insights of the situation. He was well aware of the tension. He simply lacked the ability to counteract it.

"Ability," Maekar mused. "If that means men at arms, you can forget about it right now. I won't summon more of those because they can do the same. I was sent here to restore peace in the region, not expand the battleground."

"Sometimes," Ser Galend pointed out, "the road to peace goes through the battlefield."

"I know," Maekar agreed darkly.

It was well after midnight when he entered his lady wife's chamber. Just as he expected, Naeryn had already gone to sleep. The child in her womb sapped her energy and she lay very small and pale. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. Little Daeron was sleeping next to her and Maekar reached out to move him to the crib, so Naeryn would have more room but the child woke up and Maekar decided that he'd rather leave him here than have him start crying and wake Naeryn up. Instead, he drew the cover over them and stood by the bed, staring at them. Once again,a feeling of responsibility and dejected helplessness fought a furious battle within him. His father's voice echoed in his head once again. Come back in one piece. Everyone else had been trying to offer council, voice an opinion, convince him of the reason of their own suggestion of how he should deal with the crisis. The King had been the only one who had refrained. It's up to you how you act, he had said. That's why I invested you and not your brothers. Act in any way you see fit. Just come back in one piece.

Maekar smiled grimly. Ah the irony! The only way he could see might well lead to him not coming back in one piece. It might lead to him not coming back at all…

Once again, he made sure that Naeryn and Daeron were comfortable and went on to his own bedchamber to have a few hours of rest before he started implementing his plan.