259 AC. King's Landing
Maegor
Crowds of smallfolk gathered around the large marbled steps in front of the Great Sept, cheering for the coronation of their soon-to-be king. They laughed and revelled in the celebration, utterly forgetful of how they wept for the previous one but weeks before on those exact same steps.
Inside the ornate entrance hall aptly named The Hall of Lamps, globes of leaded glass reflected bright sunlight onto the porcelain walls and the tiny faces of men and women, casting a sense of radiance to anyone in attendance. Small nobles, rich merchants, and landed knights stood in conjunction with one another, forming two sides with a long path in the middle. The carpeted path led toward the main hall where banner lords and aristocrats of great significance stood, eventually leading to a large circular dais.
The silver-haired man clad in a black and crimson cloak knelt down before the white-robed High Septon.
" Is your grace willing to take the holy oath?" The High Septon spoke in his gentle, silvery voice.
I am willing.
The elderly man nodded at the response. " Will you solemnly swear to govern the peoples of the seven kingdoms according to their respective laws and customs?"
I solemnly swear.
" Will you judge fairly in the name of the father, and show mercy in the name of the mother?" His slow words projected loudly through the Sept.
I will.
" Will you to the utmost of your power protect the people of the Seven Kingdoms, shelter, and guide them in times of peril? Will you to your utmost power maintain the rights of nobles and smallfolk alike?"
All this I promise to do.
" Then rise, now as Jaehaerys, the second of his name, King of the Andals, The Rhoynar, and The First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."
Maegor looked on enviously as the crown of Maekar was placed upon Jaehaerys' head. There was nothing he could do but clench his fist in jealousy. He could not draw his sword and slay his cousin right there, for he was no warrior. He could not rally the lords by his side and usurp the throne, for he was no schemer. An observer. That's all I will ever be.
" Long Live the King!" The people roared in joy. Maegor remained silent.
…
The feast in celebration of the coronation was a relatively muted affair in comparison. Consisted of twenty-some courses and wine hailing within the walls of King's Landing. Maegor was displeased with his seating especially, he was near the end of the high table!
He looked bitterly to his left, the old man Darklyn was certainly enjoying himself, looking at the dancing jesters in front of them and cheering occasionally.
The life of the party.
" I see that you are enjoying yourself," he said bitterly.
The tipsy Darklyn turned at him. He just finished his cup and waved the cupbearer over from another, " Drink, be happy, the world has more to offer than being a king."
" Isn't a prince's purpose to become a king?"
" Then don't think of yourself as a prince, just Maegor. Maegor, who happened to be born into a wealthy and powerful family, where he could hunt and party and drink and jest as he liked. Not a single worry on his shoulder. Now, are you gonna drink that arbor gold or not… Maegor?" Darklyn pointed toward Maegor's cup.
" Do you think that fool Tytos will loan me some gold?" Maegor looked at the Jovial man surrounded by a group of lords, they all japed to him, but their smiles and laughter were not sincere, filled with greed, that much is true. They all must want his gold.
" I suppose it depends on what for really. Why? Got a rebellion in mind? Not a great place nor time to talk about this you know. "
" Then when is the best …" He couldn't help getting frustrated with the Master of Whispers. The man took Maegor into his home, taught him lessons, watched him grow into a man, then abandoned him when he needed him the most.
" Do you not have any other aspiration at all?" Darklyn asked. His cheeks were lightly flushed from the wine.
To bring glory to House Targaryen? What else is his purpose? Maegor thought. His father told him, as mad as he is, that this once great house has slowly declined, the loss of dragons being a clear sign that they have lost our ways.
But what were the dragons for? For conquest? There is no more land worth conquering. Westeros was theirs. For pride? To show that we hold superiority over these westerosi? But old Aegon died like all beings, same as his father, burned to a crisp, to ashes, to nothing, now people remember him for his cruelty and stupidity.
" Maegor, hear this if you will hear nothing else. Do not let history repeat itself, the lies your father lived are not worth a reenactment. His was one of delusion, that man, thought himself a dragon. I was there when it happened… and he definitely was not one. " Darklyn's eyes lost focus as he told the story.
Maegor wanted to retort, but he couldn't find words. But then what? To live a life of purpose he had to start somewhere. What does he have, five guards loyal to Jaehaerys and the main house of Targaryen, and a Yronwood squire who's closer to the guards than to him? I should have talked to him more, gotten to know him. Maybe that would have done something.
" I am going back to my chambers." he stood up quickly. The jesters' laugh was starting to grate on his ears. The clinging of forks, the sound of conversion, and the noise of servers' footsteps, all were beginning to become overwhelming.
" Sit back down, the king has something to announce." Daeved took a sip of his wine without looking up. Maegor instead kept his stride, walking past various nobles he knew, most avoided his gaze, some looked him in his eyes and dared him to start a confrontation. All imbeciles anyways. His chambers seemed the only pleasant place to him right now.
…
The hallway to his chambers stood bleak against the lights and noise of the feast. With each turn there was a pathetic candle that burned a scarce light, flicking at the slightest of winds. But the darkness consumed all, inching at the corner of his eyes. His footsteps were all he could hear, nay, the echo of his footsteps as well, or perhaps more, did he dare listen more. A shadow flinched behind him, he dared not to look back.
Another turn. The familiar wooden double door was a welcome sight to him. He barged in without reluctance. A relief. In their chamber, their son slept on his small cushioned bed, his breathing rhythmic as his chest rose and fell to it. Maegor walked to him. The babe opened his eyes, sensing his presence perhaps. Brown eyes, the boy had, not the usual purple or lilac of a Targaryen. Passed down from Vaella's mother perhaps, who was the daughter of an Archon of Tyrosh. Or maybe from Daeron the good's Dornish queen. He poked his finger at the babe to play with it, it cooed in return and tried to grab him with those tiny hands. This boy was his heir.
Was this I, when the council deposed my throne to my uncle? Useless, and ignorant, and small, and utterly fragile to the touch. Was this I, when my father, the mad man he was, looked at me, and thought the very same thing. Did he ever think of his wife, or his son when he drank? When he consumed his own death? When he dreamed himself a mighty dragon? Who would smite his enemy with his everburning flame? Daevad Darklyn had denied those thoughts, he told him that Aerion died screaming in pain. It was pain he felt, but was it pain he thought as he burned?
" Maegor." A voice called to him. Maegor turned to the call. A figure leaned on the stone wall. It was him, yet it was not, a reflection perhaps. The figure wore a fiery robe of crimson, the cuffs were sewn in the shapes of flames, colored bright yellow and orange. armed with a longsword by its side. Maegor walked closer to it, examining its visage intently. No, The brows of the mirrored shadow were too long, the lips too thin, the nose too sharp.
" Maegor" It called again. A whisper. But he chose not to answer, chose not to listen. Be gone! Be gone! He thought. It lingered, it lingered, it lingered and whispered its nothings. That night, he had lain with his wife again, not of smoldering passion, but of comforting solitude. When he fell into his slumber, he dreamed. Of a knight against a dragon. But the dragon was ill and deformed, a sorry little thing barely breathing. And the knight was he, who wore his crimson and black armor and donned his sword, who slew the ill-born drake in its cradle.
…
The next morning, Maegor was summoned by Jaehaerys. The last time Maegor was in the king's study was when he became of age. A small tourney was held in his name, what a time it was, back when his mind was filled with the naivety of the world, hoping he would make something of himself. Old king Aegon invited him to the room and asked him about what he wanted as a gift. At the time, he asked for a stallion. But what he really wanted to say was that he wanted to be king, and that Aegon can kindly give him the crown and go drown in a cesspool somewhere.
Sometimes Maegor rethought this moment and fantasized about what could have happened if he gave the honest truth, would he have garnered more respect?
This time three men were present, the new king in his gold framed seat, The hand Lord Ormund Baratheon to his right , and Ser Gerold Hightower, the new commander of the King's guard, to his left.
"Cousin Maegor." Jaehaerys's calm presence served as constant annoyance to Maegor. He wished Jaehaerys was more confrontational.
" Your grace." He bowed as shallow as possible to stay polite.
" Have you heard the news concerning the stepstones?" The Stepstones? Why would he care about a shithole like that?
" No, Your Grace."
" The band of nine is on the move, Maelys Blackfyre and the golden company sailed from Tyrosh a week ago. They grow fearless with my father's untimely passing. Reports say that he intends to take the stepstones first, then use it as a vantage point to invade Westeros." Jaehaerys said with an even tone.
" Lord Hand Ormund will be taking command of the vanguard, twenty thousand men. I wish for you and Ser Gerold to represent the Targaryen contingent, will you accept this task?"
" Of course, your grace." This time he bowed deeper. Glory awaits.