| Author's Note:
Blah blah blah.
— By yours truly.
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Maegor Targaryen, the second son of King Aerys II Targaryen and Queen Rhaella Targaryen, brother to the Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, was a Valyrian man through and through.
He bore the marks plainly, long silver hair, a bulky stature worthy of his namesake, at least as the histories liked to claim, and a height that set him apart even among his own blood. At six feet six, he stood taller than most members of the Targaryen line.
He could be called a beautiful man, as many Targaryen men were, though he knew well enough that he stood in his brother's shadow. Rhaegar possessed a softer beauty, one that drew eyes without effort, while Maegor's presence demanded notice rather than invite it.
Still, both brothers were desired by many of the ladies of the court, each in their own way.
Rhaegar, however, was already wed, and Maegor, though unmarried, was known as a man best approached with caution, his bearing alone enough to unsettle many.
There could be no starker difference between them. One had been shaped for the sword and war, the other for song and court.
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| With Maegor Targaryen, Harrenhall, 281 AC:
It was now night-time on the same day.
Dinner had long since passed, shared among his family, and now he walked the corridors alongside his sworn shield, Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. They moved side by side in silence, a quiet walk through the castle.
Maegor found himself fond of such moments. Despite the realm's view of him as a hard and dangerous man, he took a certain comfort in the calm peace that night brought.
The dark halls, the muted sounds, the sense of being briefly unobserved suited him well.
That peace shattered in an instant, however.
"Prince Maegor." The voice belonged to a grey-haired man standing squarely in their path.
Maegor recognized him at once as the lord of Harrenhal, Walder Whent. The man stood in the center of the wide, cold stone corridor, his eyes wide with unease at the sight of him wandering so late.
The difference in height between them was striking, almost absurd, yet Maegor had long since grown accustomed to it. Over the years, he had learned how to use it to his advantage, pressing lesser men into social or political corners when it suited him. The thought crossed his mind now, briefly, and lingered.
His purple gaze settled on the smaller lord, cold and detached. "Lord Whent." Maegor said at last, his voice calm and measured.
He shifted his weight and came to a stop an arm's length from the man. "A curious thing. I had intended to summon you on the morrow to speak, as it is long past time for us to be awake and discussing matters of importance. But since you are here, this will have to suffice."
Lord Whent appeared alarmed, for reasons Maegor could easily guess. He looked as though he had somewhere else to be, somewhere he would rather be, and Maegor took a quiet satisfaction in the apprehension written across his face.
"My prince?" Whent questioned him hesitantly. "I'm afraid I do not follow…"
Maegor did not answer him directly. Instead, he turned slightly and gestured for the man to follow, his expression guarded as he walked foward with the swagger of a man who knew not another man above him in all of his life. "Come with me, we have much to discuss."
In the end, Maegor was a prince. Whatever reluctance Lord Whent felt mattered little, for he did not truly have a choice. Not with Aerys as Maegor's father, and king of the realm, ruling with a cruel and unforgiving hand.
"As you say, my prince." Walder Whent finally replied, nodding with practiced obedience.
He fell into step beside Maegor, careful never to walk ahead of him. Now, there were many vices in Maegor's life, but one of the most pleasurable to the second prince of Westeros was basking in the weight of his family's legacy, in the fear and presence House Targaryen still inspired among the lords of the realm.
It was a bitter shame that the dragons themselves had died out, victims of the folly and weakness of his predecessors. And at times, he found himself wishing he could step back through time and personally murder every last soul responsible for the dimming of his house's former glory.
A thought for another time, perhaps.
Maegor continued walking, his steps measured, searching for a secluded corner of the vast castle, with Walder Whent and his Kingsguard close behind him.
As they neared what appeared to be a well-hidden balcony high within Harrenhal's walls, Maegor glanced back toward Gerold, tilting his head slightly over his left shoulder.
"Ser Gerold, ensure that no one but the ghosts of House Hoare hear our conversation, would you?" Ser Gerold, ever the dutiful Kingsguard, nodded without hesitation. "Of course."
With Gerold moving off to patrol the corridor leading to the dark stone balcony, Maegor leaned lazily against the arched window, his purple eyes drifting toward the waters of the Gods Eye and the isle with something close to distaste.
"So, Lord Whent…" he began, but was cut off abruptly by the older lord's voice, much to his annoyance. "Forgive me for asking, my prince, but have I done something to displease the crown? I...—"
Any lesser man would have been slammed against the stone, a hand locked around his throat, but Maegor restrained himself, his expression guarded. "Patience, my lord. I am certain you will soon understand exactly why we are having this conversation."
The effect was immediate, as Walder Whent fell silent.
Moments later, the sound of armored footsteps returned. "Gerold?" Maegor asked without turning. "No one will overhear your conversation, my prince." Ser Gerold replied, his tone firm, expression unreadable.
Maegor nodded and exhaled slowly, settling more fully against the cold stone. "Good."
Silence followed, heavy and drawn out, and Maegor watched Walder Whent seem to shrink beneath its weight. At last, he spoke again, his voice even. "Your brother has visited you recently, has he not?"
Walder looked startled, though not entirely unprepared. That alone told Maegor more than he liked. "Oswell? He has, Your Grace. It was a pleasant reunion with my kin. Our paths rarely cross, given the lives we lead."
Maegor scoffed softly, unconvinced. "I'm sure it was."
Nearby, Ser Gerold showed no reaction at the mention of his sworn brother, and Maegor continued, his gaze fixed on the smaller man before him. "The thing is, Lord Whent, I do consider you a clever man. And in truth, my father has grown concerned for one of his trusted Kingsguard." He paused his obvious lie, letting the words settle.
"Surely you understand when I tell you that His Grace believes Ser Oswell has been used by my brother in a manner unbecoming of a Kingsguard." Walder's face drained of color, pale as parchment, though he remained composed, no doubt trained in difficult conversations by those who came before him. "How so, my prince?" he asked carefully.
Maegor smirked openly. "As a messenger. To pass important words between my brother and you, in secret, and by extension between you and the lords of this realm."
He watched the lord before him squeeze his eyes shut, his breathing growing strained before he looked back at him. "I do not understand, my prince. Oswell came only to visit his family. To suggest otherwise,—..."
"I am not suggesting anything." Maegor interrupted sharply. "A Kingsguard does not, and is not allowed to abandon lifelong vows to enjoy a family visit on a whim. You know that as well as I. No, Ser Oswell came with instructions from my brother." His voice hardened. "And I ask you plainly, knowing my father is neither patient nor forgiving, though he does take great pride in his Kingsguard, what message did my brother send through Ser Oswell that could not be entrusted to a raven?"
Maegor's eyes were hard as stone, the purple within them lit only by moonlight, darker still than the night outside.
"My prince, I,—..." Walder began, stumbling over his words.
Maegor did not allow him to continue. "Why was a prized Kingsguard used at my brother's whim instead of a raven?" His tone dropped. "Do not make me repeat myself, or you will confess this directly to my father, and you know precisely what that would entail, being left to his whims."
At the mention of Aerys, Walder relented, as any man would. "Ser Oswell acted out of duty to the realm, my prince. Your brother wished the crown to maintain closer ties with the lords of Westeros. It was simply a more effective means."
A half-truth at best, but then again, Wlader Whent was never a man known for his political skills. "You expect me to believe that?" Maegor asked coolly.
"My prince, I speak only the truth!" Walder insisted, shrinking further, while Maegor closed his eyes briefly and turned away, his back to the man.
"Is that so?" he said quietly. "Convenient, then, that while your house is wealthy, it is nowhere near rich enough to fund a tourney of this scale." He tilted his head toward the half-shrouded moon, the wind stirring his pale hair, carving the image of a Valyrian heir in stone and shadow. "And equally convenient that I, as a concerned brother, noticed a steady withdrawal of gold dragons from the crown's accounts over the past few moons."
He turned back slowly. "Strangely enough, the sum matches precisely what would be required to fund a grand tourney such as this one my brother arranged."
Faced with the accusation, Walder Whent faltered. Words failed him, and he knew how easily favor could turn to ruin under the gaze of the Cruel Reborn. "I,—..."
Maegor clicked his tongue. "Did you truly believe that 'displaying your wealth' would suffice as an excuse to summon every lord of the realm under the pretense of celebrating your daughter's nameday?"
Ser Gerold allowed himself a faint smirk, and Maegor shook his head, unimpressed.
"I don't know what to say, my prince." Walder stammered. "I,—... I don't think I could,—..."
Maegor's eyes narrowed as he closed the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. "My father is not a good man, Lord Whent." he said softly. "But I can soften your involvement in this affair, if you speak plainly and truthfully about what Ser Oswell conveyed in my brother's stead. Continue to lie, and the only outcome will be the extinction of your house through my brother's schemes." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "Do you understand me?"
Walder nodded shakily. "I understand, Your Grace."
Maegor leaned back once more, savoring the fear and submission, one eyebrow lifting.
"And?"
At last, Walder Whent spoke. "Your brother, the Crown Prince… he wished me to call for a grand tourney. To gather the lords of the realm, so that he might,—..." He hesitated, heart pounding. "So that he might speak of convening a great council, like the one of 101 AC. He believes it the fairest way to remove your father from the throne, to prevent bloodshed and correct any wrongs yet to come."
Maegor exhaled slowly. "A council, then."
"My prince, please..." Walder pleaded, panic breaking through his composure. "I acted only for my family's safety. I fear what your father might,—..."
Maegor shook his head, dark amusement flickering in his gaze. "Be at ease, Lord Whent, for my father will not hear the full truth from me." He straightened. "In return, however, you will provide me with every detail of my brother's plans, and you will report to me anything else he shares with you, or with any lord under your roof." His eyes hardened. "You understand what will happen if you fail, and I learn of it."
Walder nodded vigorously. "Of course, my prince. I am your but humble servant."
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Night came and went in the blink of an eye, and a new day began once more, marked by the steady arrival of lords yet unaccounted for, alongside an endless stream of knights and smallfolk from nearby settlements.
All had come to witness what many were already calling the greatest tourney to ever grace the Seven Kingdoms.
With the tourney proper still a day away, save for its ceremonial opening with a night-time jousting display followed by the welcoming feast, the castle itself rested in an unusual state of calm. The anticipation lingered, but for now, things were slow.
Peaceful.
Inside his chambers, silence reigned supreme. Maegor lingered over his first meal of the day, unhurried, still dressed in his night clothes. A simple, oversized white shirt hung loose over black trousers, chosen for comfort rather than rank or the sharp lines of Westerosi fashion. It was rare, these moments where he allowed himself ease.
That peace did not last.
A firm knock sounded against the heavy wooden door, followed by Ser Gerold's steady, professional voice. "My prince, Princess Rhaenys and Princess Elia are here. Should I let them in?"
That was unexpected. Maegor had assumed they would have broken their fast with Rhaegar, especially given the hour. "Let them in." he replied, his voice calm as it carried through the thick door.
He shifted in his chair, straightening slightly, making himself more presentable just as the door opened. Rhaenys rushed in first, all warmth and energy as ever, her smile bright and unrestrained, and Elia followed more slowly, her own smile smaller, restrained, her attention lingering on her daughter before lifting to Maegor.
"Uncle!" Rhaenys nearly shouted as she reached him, throwing her arms around him without hesitation. "M-... Morning." she added, her face already buried against his chest.
"Morning, byka zaldrīzes." Morning, small dragon. He replied easily, using High-Valyrian.
Rhaenys beamed at the sound, and Maegor noticed, not without care, how some of the tension eased from Elia's posture at the sight. She inclined her head toward him, composed as ever. "Good morning as well, Maegor."
"Elia." he answered in turn. He lifted Rhaenys with little effort, settling her comfortably on one of his legs, gently urging her attention toward the table laden with food. There was more than enough to go around, even if it had not been prepared with multiple royals in mind. Such was the excess afforded to those who could eat their fill and still leave half untouched.
Once Rhaenys was thoroughly distracted by the promise of sweets and bread, Maegor turned his attention back to Elia. "I assume there is a reason you are both here." he said mildly. "Where is my brother?"
Elia hesitated, if only for a moment, but Maegor caught it. The pause unsettled him more than her words might have, for of all his kin, she was one of the few to whom he showed something softer, something unguarded, alongside Rhaenys herself, though he would rather not voice the reasons aloud.
The silence stretched, then broke. "Rhaegar left early this morning." Elia said with a sigh, a faint frown creasing her brow. "From what I understood, he and Ser Arthur went to the Isle of Faces, for reasons he did not share."
Her expression dimmed further, and Maegor suspected the cause well enough. Rhaegar had grown distant, more withdrawn than ever. "Rhaenys woke shortly after." Elia continued, "And with her father absent, I thought it best she and I not break our fast alone. I hope we have not intruded, good-brother."
Prophecies, damned dreams, and signs only Rhaegar seemed able or willing to follow.
Maegor exhaled quietly, there was little he could do about that. "You needn't worry." he said after a moment. "You are both welcome here, whenever you wish. That is a given already, Elia." The use of her name was soft, deliberate, and for a brief moment their gazes lingered longer than necessary.
Silence settled once more over the chamber, broken only by the quiet sounds of Rhaenys eating. Soon, she began to hum a tune under her breath, one neither of them could quite place, and for the moment, neither tried to interrupt it.
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The tourney ground was alive with sound and movement, as both knights, lords and common folk alike feasted, socialized and prepared for the nearing week long tourney.
However, there was now a grand gathering of people around both him and his kingsguard, circling each other, clearly amidst a spar.
Gerold and Maegor, both facing each other on packed ground, carried wooden swords and shields. No live steel, for this was but a simple morning routine for them, no need to add injuries to it, and no salutes were trade between both of them, clearly focused on the fight.
Maegor breathes in, hyperfocus working its magic, while they both step in ready to start.
He notices Gerold setting his shield forward with his left arm, left foot leading, and sword held high on his right side. His kingsguard blade angle is conservative, ready to fall into a descending cut or close to bind should he rush in without a plan.
Gerold's stance is narrow and balanced, as is his costume, and Maegor does indeed not rush in, as some more green knights or squires would've. No, Maegor mirrors his knight with his left foot forward, his Targaryen painted shield slightly lower, angled to "catch" Gerold's sword strikes rather than block them flat. His sword sits near his shoulder, tip aimed forward, while his body weight is light on his feet, his mind clear and at peace.
They circle eachother once, and Maegor's eyes narrow in concentration.
It's right then that Gerold advances, first with a measured step, throwing a controlled descending cut toward his head. The cut is not full power, and Maegor can tell that Gerold simply wants to tests their distance.
As such, he raises his shield and turns it inward, catching the blade near the rim, as steel scrapes wood. Maegor steps off line to his right and brings his sword across toward his mentor's sword arm, but Gerold withdraws his arm and drops his sword into a hanging guard, catching his cut.
The blades bind briefly, but Gerold presses down against him, testing his strength.
Maegor yields the bind and disengages, stepping back to reset distance, a smirk present on his face. There's a retort on his tongue, and yet no word leaves his mouth, such is his focus on this spar of theirs.
Gerold moves, and steps in again, this time with a short thrust aimed at his chest, using the shield to cover his line. Maegor however, knocks the thrust aside with his shield and immediately counters with a horizontal cut at the kingsguard's leg.
Gerold pulls his leg back just in time and drops his shield to intercept the cut. The impact is solid, and the experienced knight responds with a quick cut over the top toward Maegor's sword shoulder.
He scoffs and raises his sword to parry, edge on edge, and braces with his shield. The blades slide, while he rotates his wrist and cuts back along the same line toward Gerold's head. The latter ducks behind his shield and absorbs the blow with shown ease. He then pushes forward with the shield, closing distance. The two of them collide shield to shield, their swords crowded.
At close range, Gerold's uses his experience, keeping his sword tight, attempting a short thrust around the shield edge. But Maegor shifts his hips and traps Gerold's sword momentarily with his shield rim. He does not hold it long, however, and he steps out and frees both weapons.
They separate by two paces, breathing hard, while both of their eyes show exaleration.
Gerold breathes quickly steadies, unlike his, and the older knight advances again, feinting a cut towards his head and instead striking low toward his left thigh.
Fuck!
Maegor reads the feint too late, and with a curse, he drops his shield and barely catches the cut, Gerold's blade still scrapes his left leg armor.
With his leg now thrumming with pain, Maegor decides to answer with speed, which he has advantage in. He steps in with a direct thrust at his protector's face, and while Gerold lifts his shield just in time, the point glances just off the upper edge.
With a grunt, and the silence of the stunned ocean of onlookers, Gerold counters with a cut aimed at his shield side, trying to tire the arm. Maegor takes the blow on the shield and immediately rolls his wrist, cutting around the shield edge toward Gerold's forearm.
The latter twists his arm away and meets the blade. The bind is strong, and Gerold, as a more experienced knight, leans into it, trying to dominate the center line. Maegor, however, is also a monster in swordsmandship and strenght, and he steps sideways to disengages under Gerold's blade, cutting upward toward the torso.
The now slightly tired knight, though holding back against him, retreats a step and blocks with his shield. The impact forces him to give ground, and he smiles as Maegor presses foward, throwing two quick cuts, one high, and one low. Gerold blocks both, shield high then low, but his timing tightens on it.
Gerold attempts to regain his control of the spar, he throws a heavy descending cut, putting weight behind it. But Maegor, now flowing in the so called zone, now catches it on his sword and shield together.
Gerold then tries to force drive Maegor back half a step, while he does not try to counter immediately. He instead resets his feet, while Gerold moves in again, sensing an advantage.
Gerold thrusts again, shield forward, and Maegor deflects with his shield and turns his body, slipping past the line of attack.
As Gerold takes longer to recovers, Maegor strikes at his exposed side. Gerold still brings his sword across, though late.
The cut lands partially on the shield rim and partially on his sword. It would have struck his ribs without the shield, and while Gerold wanted to smile for him, Maegor knew that he would only get a grunt in approval during the spar itself.
They both paused for a heartbeat, still in motion, but catching their breathing as fast as they possibly can.
Gerold decides then to change tactics. He lowers his stance with a hard look on his expression, clearly taking this spar seriously now, and advances with small steps, cutting at the shield repeatedly.
He must be testing my endurance. Maegor thinks to himself with a knowing gaze, and blocks each cut, though his shield arm starts to slow down, fatigue kicking in earlier than he expected.
Maegor however, counters by increasing tempo, he steps in aggressively, using his shield to shove Gerold's own shield aside and thrusts his sword toward the older knight's chest.
Gerold, experienced, parries the thrust downward and attempts to strike at his head in the same motion. Maegor leans back and raises his shield, the cut scraping over the top, as his breath almost stops completly.
Maegor then immediately ripostes with a diagonal cut from his right toward Gerold's neck, and the latter meets it with his sword but the angle is poor.
The blades bind high, and he uses the leverage, as he steps forward and twists his wrist, forcing his sworn protector's sword wide. Gerold does try to recover with his shield, but Maegor has already shifted.
He cuts again, short and controlled, aimed at Gerold's shoulder, while the latter blocks with the shield, the impact staggers him greatly.
Gerold still attempts one last counter, face etched with fatigue and waning concentration. He thrusts from behind the shield, aiming for Maegor's midsection, though he simply bats the point aside with his sword and steps inside the line.
At close range, Maegor strikes with a tight cut to Gerold's sword arm, the latter's arm is checked by the blow, and his grip loosens.
Maegor then follows with a shield shove to the chest, creating space, and places his sword point at Gerold's throat, finally.
The spar ends there, and both older knight and prince breathe easier now.
"Suberb fighting, my prince." Ser Gerold offers his congratulations to him, and Maegor laughs freely, body raging in pain and mind in exasperation. "Thank you, Ser Gerold, back at you."
Gerold remains standing, he is breathing hard but steady, and Maegor lowers his sword after a moment. The win is clear to all around them, people shouting praises and words of support, but it took sustained effort, pressure, and careful timing to overcome the older knight's control and defense, and Maegor clearly prides himself in it.
A win, is always something to be pridefull of, no matter how its won.
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The clearing in which they had spared had gone eerily still again after the onlookers all took after their lives, and left after congratulating him on his hard-worked win.
The grass bore the marks of their boots,— scuffed earth and small torn roots. Maegor sat on a half-buried stone, rolling his wrist, his wooden sword laid across his knees. Ser Gerold stood beside him, helm tucked under one arm, watching the treeline in that calm, silent way of his.
The breeze carried the distant sounds of the tourney ground,— laughter, hammers, horses snorting,— and then, footsteps.
Measured, and oddly familiar, much to Maegor's displeasure.
"Brother, here you are." Came the new voice, and Maegor looked up to see his brother, Prince Rhaegar stepping from the trees, pale as moonlight even beneath the ever growing high, sun of the morning. His hair caught the sun like silver, and his eyes held that distant, searching calm that had once seemed wisdom to Maegor and now felt only like a hollow absence.
Ser Gerold inclined his head. "My prince."
Another shadow followed behind the crown prince,— Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, quiet as ever, his greatsword Dawn slung across his back.
"Arthur." Gerold said with the faintest nod.
"Lord Commander." Dayne replied, his gaze already sweeping toward Maegor. "My prince."
"Rhaegar." Maegor said at last, rising to his full height. The difference between them was plain as blood and bone,— the younger taller, broader, and the elder finer, and frailer.
"Fancy seeing you here so soon. Last I heard, you had ventured to the Isle Of Faces." He said with a smirk, and Rhaegar did not replied, but then his voice light, and his eyes fixed, he spoke. "I have been looking for you, brother,— we haven't had the chance to speak ever since you arrived with father yesterday."
Maegor tilted his head in mock confusion, "Is that so? You found me. What is it you want?"
Rhaegar hesitated, glancing at the knights as though to measure their discretion, then stepped closer. "You know the jousts are set to begin soon. Surely, you know that I have every intention of winning."
"What a surprise!" Maegor said with a smirk, and shook his head in false seriousness. "And I suppose you came to bless me with such important news?"
"No." said Rhaegar with finality, "I came to ask you to stay out of them." The words landed like a stone tossed into still water, and even the breeze seemed to die as maegor stared, before laughing loudly, thought without humour, before he stopped and looked dead in the eyes of his brother. "Are you serious?"
"Very." Rhaegar replied, his tone even, and eyes focused.
"Seven hells, brother." A dry laugh escaped him then, exasperation filling his mind. "And why would I do that? Has your harp finally rotted your wits?"
Rhaegar's tone however, hardened, as he looked up at him. "Because I ask it of you, brother. I need this victory, and my visit to the Isle of Face all but confirmed it."
"You need it?" Maegor's voice was a low growl now, as he nearer his brother. "For what, another dream of yours?"
The crown prince's gaze didn't waver, even faced with the full height and pressure of Maegor. "For the future, brother, the realm's, and mine. I must win this tourney, Maegor, I must crown the queen of love and beauty, and set the course that must be. If you ride, if you unhorse me, all of it changes, and I can't let that happen."
Maegor took a step forward, the sunlight catching the faint sweat from his previous spar on his throat. "And you think I'll bow out so you can play at whatever the hell this is, are you as mad as our father now?"
"I think." said Rhaegar, closing the distance between them. "You will respect my command. I am your elder, and the prince of dragonstone. I will not have my will defied, Maegor, not even from you."
Maegor's lips curved, though there was no humor in it. "Respect? You come to me, with your pet knight at your side, to order me from the lists like some stableboy, and speak to me of respect? After your failed attempt at gathering the lords for a great-council? You must think yourself very clever, brother."
Rhaegar's hand shot out suddenly, barring his path as Maegor had already moved to leave this stupid farce. "We are not finished, Maegor." His brother's voice remained level, but something feverish flickered behind the calm of his eyes, and Maegor frowned in suspicion as Rhaegar's eyes shone white for a moment. "You will do as I say,— or you will find me most displeased with your defiance."
Arthur Dayne shifted, just barely, while Gerold's eyes narrowed in suspicion, his hand firmly positioned at the pommel of his sword.
The air between them and the brothers seemed to thicken, and Maegor's jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to his brother's hand on his chest. "Remove your hand, Rhaegar." he said softly.
"Not until you,—..." Rhaegar began, but was cut off. "Remove it." Maegor repeated, his voice had dropped to a whisper now, but it carried the sharpness of drawn steel. "Or I swear by every dragon buried beneath our family's name, you will lose it."
Arthur's hand went to his hilt, and Gerold's followed such an act with a sharp release of his sword from its scabbard, though slow and reluctant. For a heartbeat, all stood poised on the edge of violence.
Then Rhaegar's hand fell away, his face unreadable. "You are blinded by pride." he said, quietly now.
"And you..." Maegor replied, "By your own fucking reflection." Rhaegar said nothing more, simply turned, his cloak stirring faintly in the grass, and walked back toward the castle. Arthur followed, his eyes lingering a moment on Maegor before he disappeared between the trees.
When they were gone, Gerold exhaled, long and low. "That was unwise, my prince. Rhaegar is still your brother, and the crown prince..."
"Perhaps." Maegor said, retrieving his wooden and steel sword from the base of the tree, the steel caught the light like a living thing. "But satisfying nonetheless." He watched the shadows where his brother had gone. Then, with his eyes narrowed in mockery, he questioned his kingsguard, thinking in distaste of the many times his brother had spoken of dreams and prophecy in the past few moons. "Tell me, Ser Gerold, what do you call a prophecy that needs the world to kneel for it to come true?"
Gerold frowned. "A well crafted lie."
Maegor nodded. "I thought so as well." He turned back toward the castle then, steel sword on his belt, and wooden sword resting across his shoulder, his thoughts dark and clear.
The tourney would come soon.
And one way or another, his brother's face would end in the ground for the disrespect showed.
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| Author's Note:
This was a long one, no? I appreciate comments above all <3
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| Game Of Thrones: The Dragon's Shadow |