| Author's Note: So, I have been on a small vacation ever since I got laid off, and I'm currently sick, and trying hard as hell to bring myself to write again. It's like my whole body and mind simply stopped having the capacity to write ever since I stopped working. I have more free time now than ever before, and yet I can't seem to use it at all...
*** Also, please comment on this chapter, I feel the need to receive feedback on my story, on my writting and on the lore/character representation. This will interwine with any future chapters and writing that I will be doing.
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| With Maegor Targaryen, During The Tourney Of Harrenhal, 281 AC:
In an empty clearing on the outskirts of Harrenhal, again, the sky was painted blue, with a few clouds drifting aimlessly high above, a peaceful sight. Below, however, Maegor Targaryen sidestepped an arcing sword slash from his right, twisting hard and deflecting the incoming attack, though slower than normal.
Ser Gerold Hightower, his usual training partner, noticed this and took a step back, lowering his sword tip to the ground.
A single bead of sweat rolled from his brow.
"Let's stop our training here." he said, voice deep, as his silver armor rose and fell with quiet fatigue. That seemed to bring Maegor out of his mind for the first time that morning, as he refocused on his sworn shield's face, breathing heavily. "Why?" His gaze searched for answers on Ser Gerold's expression, tracing the man's features with concealed brooding.
"Your mind is elsewhere, my prince, unusually so, even for you." replied the aging Kingsguard, sheathing his sword in one smooth, near-silent motion.
"And what exactly gave that away?" Maegor deadpanned, clearly abandoning any attempt to mask his unguarded emotions.
Gerold shook his head softly, stepping closer as Maegor sat down on a fallen tree trunk.
"Perhaps the constant brooding? Or the unfocused gaze while we spar with real steel, might I add?" A fair point, and Maegor simply let his head fall forward, eyes closing for a beat. "If you think we should stop, then let's do that. Whatever lets you sleep at night, Gerold." he said tiredly.
The older knight clicked his tongue. "This is not about me, my prince." Gerold began pacing slowly around him, armor clinking with each step, his white cloak stirring in the morning breeze. "But you don't seem to wish to speak of what troubles you any longer, if your expression is anything to go by. Do you know who does that? Those who hide behind their own minds, craven men, who let their minds rot in doubt and many other negative emotions." That made Maegor look up sharply, clearly displeased at the word choice.
Somewhere above, a bird of prey shrieked, faintly, unnoticed in the wild. "Why would I want to speak of it any more than I already have?" Maegor countered, searching his mentor's eyes again. A habit of his today, it seemed, before he kept on speaking.
"Honestly, I'm just trying not to care at all, to no avail,— if you really must know. " He spoke more to himself than to Gerold, though the older man heard him clearly. "To be truthful, I hate this. Yesterday, I felt more certain about distancing myself from my family than ever before, thought I could simply ignore whatever happened,and yet, I don't think it will be so easy anymore." He groaned softly, it was far too early to have his mind working overtime, trying to drown his own thoughts with action instead of words.
Gerold nodded slowly, understanding his plight. "Right. Well, you are still a prince, are you not? You could always try to simply… live life." Maegor side-eyed him, but Gerold went on. "Ask your father for a marriage. Rule a keep, have a family of your own, free from your family's chaos." That earned him a short, quiet chuckle. "That would sound like a proper plan, if my father weren't leading the realm toward a future darker than ever."
Their conversation paused, leaves and branches rustled softly nearby, the sounds of nature blending with silence to create a strange calm over the two men.
Finally, Gerold sat beside Maegor, his gaze warm. "And you feel entitled to be the one to save it? Is that it, my prince? Do you feel important enough to be — what, a hero to the realm? To history books?"
Maegor turned his mentor's words over in his mind, yet seemed unmoved. "I understand what you're trying to say, Gerold. But would you not feel the need to act, if you saw your own family driving the realm into chaos, building it slowly toward ruin?" He drew a breath, hands clasped as his gaze drifted toward the horizon. "Would you not wish to be the one to break that kind of wheel yourself?"
The question lingered, and Gerold hummed quietly. Maegor continued. "And yet, I never aimed to be a hero, far from it. I just find myself spiraling down a path that will likely lead me to… controversial actions in the future."
Silence fell again, until Gerold broke it, careful with his words. "I don't know if I'd feel entitled to act. Though, had I lived during Viserys I's reign, perhaps I'd think as you do. But these actions you speak of, what would they be?"
"…Kinslaying, for starters." Not a sound followed, as even the forest seemed to take the cue and fall still.
"My prince! Surely you must not be thinking of,—..." Gerold began, but Maegor cut him off, his gaze went distant, recalling a memory perhaps, though his body was rigid, gauntleted hands trembling with the force in his fists. "You, as a Kingsguard, should understand this feeling better than most." he began, voice hard as steel, and Gerold might have flinched, were he any other man.
"Do you have any idea how many times I've willed myself to sleep hearing my father rape innocent women, or burn men alive, day after day, for years that seemed to stretch time itself?" He paused to breathe. "Hearing my mother cry for help as he ravaged her against her will, hoping someone would be brave enough to save her, though no one ever did?" Apart from me, once. He thought, as he nearly spat the words, and Gerold closed his eyes briefly in shared pain. "I… yes. I understand, and I remember."
Maegor's jaw tightened. "Then you know how I feel! Sometimes I wish I could just, I don't know... push my father down a flight of stairs, or drive a sword through his back and be done with it. And yet… it wouldn't end there. I know it damn wouldn't."
Gerold hesitated before asking, almost against his will, "Why is that?"
Maegor turned to face him. "Do you really think my brother would be much better than my father? Perhaps at first, yes, but for how long? How long before his prophecies mean more to him than his people's lives? No. It wouldn't end with my father…"
Gerold swallowed dryly. "Those are dangerous thoughts, my prince. Let them go, for if you ever follow that path, you'll find only misery." Maegor looked up at the sky again, counting clouds to quiet his thoughts.
"Perhaps…" Or perhaps I'd find peace, and freedom. That was Maegor's last thought in that moment.
...
A few hours after...
It was near noon when the tent flap opened, Maegor was half-dressed, fastening the last piece of his legs' armor, when a young woman stepped in. Blonde, proud, dressed in red and green silk, Cersei Lannister, her beauty matched only by the forced and unserious frown she wore as a mask.
"My prince." she said softly, stopping at what she judged a proper distance for an unmarried lady before a Targaryen prince.
Maegor didn't turn, he kept his back to her, bare and broad. "I see you were let in, Lady Cersei. To what do I owe the pleasure?" His voice was calm, while the shadow on his face hid his amusement. He knew the look it gave him, brooding and unreadable, and he liked to use it to his advantage when it came to the opposite sex.
"Indeed, I was." she said, steady but tense.
Cersei was no fool, she had been raised at court, she was the daughter of the Lord of Casterly Rock, the King's hand. She knew the games people played, and she knew she must be precise and unfaltering in hers.
Yet in Maegor's presence, her confidence faltered slightly.
While his older brother, Rhaegar, had married the Dornish woman, dashing her hopes of a crown, she still dreamed. Dreams of being queen were now gone, but the dreams of becoming part of the royal family didn't die easy. And perhaps, she thought, there is another prince worth the trouble.
"And why are you here?" Maegor asked again, finally turning. He sat down at the table between them, leaning foward.
If Cersei had known how much of his aloofness was calculated, done purely to test her, she might have cursed him. But she didn't, and so the game continued.
"My father remained in King's Landing, as you know, acting in the king's stead." she said, "But my brother and I traveled here, with my uncle Kevan." He already knew that, of course. He also knew her uncle had been sick for the past few days, absent from the lists and feasts alike.
Cersei went on, her eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders. "My uncle wished to speak with the king regarding your… killing of Gregor Clegane, being a lord of the Westerlands. And yet the king refused him, which made my uncle quite uncomfortable."
Maegor chuckled, stood, and crossed the space between them. "And you come to me why?" He questioned again, wondering where her mind was taking her.
She hesitated, a flicker of doubt, but didn't retreat. "Reparations." she said finally. He arched a brow, circling her like a hawk. "So you come before my joust to remind me I killed your father's dog, and now your uncle sends you to me for reparations he couldn't get out of my father?" He stopped just behind her, voice low, as his fingers brushed her hair, knuckles grazing the bare skin of her back.
She shivered hard, "Yes." she breathed.
He almost laughed at that. She was beautiful, no doubt, one of the finest highborn women in the realm. But that wasn't reason enough for him to cross Tywin Lannister.
"And why should I offer such reparations? Gregor Clegane tried to kill me, and I simply defended myself. Isn't that right?" His words brushed her neck like heat, and her eyes met his as she looked back at him, green against violet.
He could see the strain, the control, and the wanting behind those green orbs of molten desire, and he knew she'd kept herself untouched, no, he had no doubt about it.
Tywin Lannister guarded his daughter's virtue like a kingdom's vault, and it would bring him pleasure to no end, to be the one to take it from her, oh it would.
"You see, Gregor was my family's enforcer, and my father quite prized that 'dog'." she said quietly. "And it seems only fair that something be given in return." He laughed then, a low sound that broke the tension.
He then caught her chin, tilted her face up to his. "Your uncle didn't send you, did he? No, you came of your own will." And Cersei smiled wide, sharp, and daring. "Whatever do you mean, my prince? I came only because my uncle wished it."
He grinned at her, his hand lingering at her throat, gentle but sure. "Is that so? And what kind of reparations does your uncle imagine I could give?"
She took a step back, eyes locked on his, as her fingers played with a curl of gold hair. "I couldn't really say, my uncle wasn't that clear. But perhaps…" She paused, her tone softening, and a rose hue gaining ground on her expression. "Perhaps I could show you what you could give." Her meaning was obvious, and damn her, she was stunning in that tight, jeweled dress.
He weighed it for only a moment before deciding. "Well..." he said, sitting back in a nearby high-backed chair. "I wouldn't want to disappoint your uncle's expectations of your visit to me, would I?"
Cersei smiled, pleased that her plan was working. She didn't show it, but Maegor saw the triumph in her eyes. She crossed the space between them slowly, using every ounce of her confidence and youth, hips moving deliberately, lips wet as she gave him a look meant to daze.
"No, I don't think you would want to disappoint my uncle." she said, but the words meant nothing. Kevan Lannister had never sent her here, and they both knew it.
None of this was about Gregor Clegane or family politics. It was about her, her hunger for power, her need to be seen, her desire and dreams laid bare. She climbed into his lap in one swift motion, pulling her dress just enough to move freely.
The silk if her dress brushed the steel on his legs, and Maegor didn't stop her, barely smirking. Her hands slid around his neck, fingers in his hair, faces so close that their breaths met in the still air between them.
Neither spoke for a moment, while her pulse raced and his stayed steady. He held her gaze, calm and sharp. "Are you sure about this? Your father would want your head for this folly." he said, amused but with a low heat in his tone.
She didn't hesitate. "Or yours. Don't forget you're part of whatever this is too." He smirked wider than ever, eyes dropping to her lips. "And yet yours would be the only head he could take."
Something flickered in her eyes at that, fear, defiance, or both, but she didn't back down.
It only pushed her further. "Who cares? My father's not here, and he'll never know." she breathed, and Maegor didn't waste another word. He kissed her hard, one hand gripping her waist, the other tracing her spine. She shuddered against him, a soft moan escaping her throat, her fingers digging into his hair and back as she pressed closer.
Maegor deepened the kiss, his grip firm as Cersei pressed harder against him. Her perfume filled his nose, sweet. She was losing herself to the moment, he knew that, but Maegor's mind stayed clear.
He could taste her hunger, her calculation beneath it, and it almost made him laugh.
Then a voice broke through the air outside.
"My prince." Ser Gerold called, his tone steady and unbending. "Your next match is about to begin."
Cersei froze, her hands lingered in his hair, then fell to her lap. Maegor didn't move, he looked past her bare shoulder toward the tent flap, silent for a moment, then smirked.
"Duty calls, it seems, my lady." he said quietly, and her eyes searched his, uncertain whether to pull away or push further. "Will you..."
"Later." he cut her off, voice low but final. He lifted her from his lap, her legs briefly locking on his back, before allowing him to set her on her feet with careful ease. She looked momentarily unsteady, anger flickering behind her controlled expression as she dusted her dress.
From outside, Gerold called again, "My prince?" Maegor fastened his chestplate, movements precise, though quite unworried.
"I will be right there." he called back, before he glanced once at Cersei, her lips still flushed, her composure quickly rebuilding.
"You should go before someone sees you leave besides me and Gerold." he said.
Cersei hesitated, then nodded and turned toward the flap. Before leaving, she looked back once, her face half-shadowed. "Win the tourney, and we might just finish this." she said, and Maegor smiled faintly, inwardly smirking at her daring mannerisms. "I will."
When she was gone, he exhaled through his nose, expression unreadable. The game, as he liked to call it, would continue later, it seemed.
...
| Author's Note: Just so we're clear, again, I'm not, in any possible way, English,— and neither is my language, obviously. Any mistakes in this chapter were made out of pure hatred for the English language,— deliberate and precise. The English have taken enough of the world, they're not taking my tongue too. (Much love, and of course, I'm just joking around. I love english, the Uk and the english.)