She was seven when she first dreamed the throne would cut whoever tried to hold it.
She was nine when she stopped telling anyone.
She was thirteen when she learned that love does not save you, that loyalty is a performance, and that the gentlest fla...
Maesters write as though they were present for every whispered word, every quiet betrayal, every moment that mattered. They were not. They write from towers of stone and call it truth, ink bleeding across parchment like it knows anything of fire.
They have written of me, of course.
They always do.
Maera Targaryen. Daughter of the Mad King. Called the Merciless. The Mad. The Monstrous.
Such titles, given so freely by men who never stood close enough to feel the heat.
I have read what they say.
That I was a cruel person. That I delighted in pain. That madness took me early, as it did my father, Aerys Targaryen, and that I wore it more gracefully than he ever could.
That is the kindest version of me they have ever told.
Others are less generous.
They say I was too close to him. That he favored me beyond reason. That I stood at his side while the realm whispered, and that I listened—gods, how they love that word—listened—as though a daughter hearing her father speak were a sin.
They say many things.
None of them were there.
I was not born evil.
I was not born cold.
I was born in summer.
The singers were not wrong about that, at least. I smiled easily then. I was soft and gentle like my brother, Rhaegar, whom they called the last dragon.
My father however called me his bright one.
Not his heir. Not his weapon.
His bright one.
He said I dreamed as dragons did.
He was the only one who believed me.
They will tell you that my father was already lost by then.
Perhaps he was.
But they do not tell you how a king becomes a thing to be feared in his own halls. They do not write of the way men smile with their mouths and hide daggers in their loyalties. They do not write of how often I stood beside him and watched those same men bow, only to whisper treason the moment his back was turned.
I saw it.
In dreams, at first.
Fire and ash and a throne that cut those who tried to hold it.
Voices that did not belong to me.
I told him.
And he listened.
You wish to know when I became what they call me now.
It is written—poorly—that it was madness.
It was not.
It was understanding.
It was the day I learned that love does not save you. That loyalty is a performance. That mercy is a door left open for the knife.
It was the day my house began to die.
Piece by piece.
Smile by smile.
So they may write their histories.
They may call me what they wish.
Maera the Merciless. Maera the Mad. Maera the Monstrous.
Let them.
Ink is a fragile thing.
Fire is not.
And I have always been better with fire.
Maera Targaryen
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"Maera Targaryen had once been the gentlest flame—and like all gentle flames, she learned how easily the world could snuff her out." "There was a time when her laughter filled halls. Now only the echoes remembered how it sounded." "She was the last warmth of a dying season—and when it faded, winter did not come gently."
