Chapter Text
Maekar stared at the black and red silk doublet resting upon the chair, the garment he was meant to wear at dawn to swear his life before the Seven. His mother’s words lingered there, drifting through the stale air of the room like incense smoke: "Someone like your brother deserved more. I cannot believe your father approved of this. You are not worthy, Maekar. I expect you not to fail and bring shame upon this family."
Those words, coming from his own mother, pierced his mind and heart. Maekar was weary of her constant hatred, but this final drop of venom forced a decision. Maekar, escaping? The prince who cared nothing for others' opinions? But he was fed up. He threw his silk cloak over the chest and, with trembling hands, began to stuff a coarse wool tunic and a pair of old boots into a worn leather satchel, along with a few coins. He needed to get away from his mother’s poison and the agony of leaving Baelor behind.
The sound of the chest closing, the heavy thud of wood and the creak of metal, told Maekar there was no turning back. He approached the heavy oak bookshelf that dominated the far wall. His fingers, calloused by the sword, searched for the hidden spring that he and Baelor had discovered when they were barely two spans high. Back then, the passage was a path to freedom from the maesters' lessons; today, it was the path to his voluntary exile.
The wood groaned as it gave way, revealing a blackness that smelled of dust and forgotten memories. Maekar swallowed the lump in his throat as he remembered Baelor’s laughter echoing in that very tunnel years ago. Without looking back, he stepped into the dark.
He knew the stableboys would be sleeping in the hay at this hour, and the duty groom would have lowered his guard. His horse, a black stallion as surly as he was, was his only chance. Maekar knew that without his horse, he wouldn't get far; with him, he would be a ghost vanishing before the first ray of sun could illuminate his empty wedding.
The silence in the stables of the Red Keep was deathly, broken only by the rhythmic munching of hay and the occasional snort of the royal stallions. To Maekar, every crunch of straw beneath his boots sounded like a thunderclap of treason. He knew the stableboys were sleeping nearby in the loft, and that the Gold Cloaks' shift change was about to cross the outer ward.
With expert but frantic hands, Maekar threw the blanket and the heavy saddle over his horse’s back, a warhorse as imposing and sullen as himself. There was no time to adjust every buckle with ceremonial precision; only enough to ensure the saddle wouldn’t slip during the gallop. He mounted in one leap, feeling the cold leather against his thighs, and spurred the animal without mercy.
The thunder of iron-shod hooves against the stone pavement alerted the guards immediately. "Halt! Identify yourself!" a sentinel cried from the drawbridge outpost.
Maekar did not answer. He ducked his head, leaning into the horse’s mane, and lunged like a bolt of lightning toward the main gate's arch. The guards, confused at the sight of a royal figure fleeing at such an hour, hesitated for a fatal second before reacting. "Close the gate! Drop the portcullis!" shouted the Captain of the Gold Cloaks.
The heavy iron frame began to descend with a terrifying metallic screech that sliced through the night air. Maekar felt the wind lashing his face and the horse's sweat splashing his boot. With agility born of years in the tilts, he leaned his body until he nearly touched the animal's neck, forcing one last desperate effort. They passed through like a fleeting shadow just before the iron teeth of the portcullis slammed into the ground with a dull thud that shook the earth, leaving the useless shouts of the guards behind.
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He tore through the city streets at a full gallop, crossing the Street of Silver like a soul chased by the Stranger. Only when he managed to pass through the Gate of the Gods and the sound of hooves became rhythmic upon the dirt did Maekar pull the reins.
The horse came to a halt, huffing white vapor into the freezing pre-dawn air. Maekar turned to look back at the silhouette of the capital. From there, the Red Keep rose upon Aegon’s Hill like a crown of thorns lit by the moon. He could make out the tower where Baelor surely still rested, unaware that his brother, the man who should have been standing beside him at the altar at dawn, had just turned their love into an exile.
For a moment, the weight of his decision hit him harder than any warhammer: he had abandoned the only man who loved him because he believed the woman who despised him. He looked at his hands, trembling and empty of his brother’s touch, and realized that from that moment on, he was no longer a Prince of Westeros; he was merely a fugitive from his own happiness.