Maegor IV
Maegor woke in a cold sweat. The nightmare had come yet again to plague his dreams. He had started having it not long after arriving in King's Landing, but its occurrence had been infrequent enough that he could mostly ignore it. Now it comes every night. Sleep seemed to offer him solace no longer, for each night he feared closing his eyes and dreaming again. Unlike many of his other dreams, Maegor had no trouble recalling the details of this particular nightmare. Though he had spent much time trying to understand and parse some meaning from it, he had yet to make any sense of the dream.
The scent of smoke was acrid in his nose and throat, and his eyes watered and ran with tears as he staggered through the billowing fumes. Flames roared all about him, and he could feel their blistering heat as he searched desperately for an escape from the choking cloud of smoke. As he continued to stagger forward, Maegor began to see the corpses. Whole mountains of them, their eyes glassy and wide and mouths gaped in terror. The flames consumed them all, burning bright and hot. Their skin blackened and shriveled in the heat, eventually sloughing off to reveal naught but charred bones. And still, the flames burned ever hotter. The bones themselves were consumed by the flame, cracking in the extreme heat and turning to ash.
The flames began to crackle about Maegor, and to his terror, he began to burn as well. The sensation of the flames consuming his body began as an unpleasant tingling sensation, but rapidly became more and more painful. Writhing and twisting, Maegor staggered blindly forward as the pain grew worse and worse. Breaking free of the clouds of smoke, Maegor found himself standing in a wide field before the burned husk of what appeared to be a town in the distance. Its buildings were naught but charred stone, burned timber, and ash, and from their midst flew a black dragon, flying straight towards Maegor. Though its scales were black as night, when it opened its maw and let loose with a billowing jet of flame, the flames rushed forth green.
Maegor threw up his burning and blistered hands in a desperate and futile attempt to shield himself, and when he lowered them, he found himself standing a short distance before the Queen on flat and rocky soil. She stood alone, and Maegor was struck by the sudden sea-salt breeze blowing in the air. The world around them was cloaked in shadow, and great grey clouds hung listlessly in the sky. Maegor opened his mouth to call out to her, yet naught but ash tumbled forth from his lips. Queen Rhaenyra had a defeated and resigned expression on her face, and she looked to the sky. A bright and terrible golden sun revealed itself from where it had been hidden among the clouds, and its scorching golden light burned Queen Rhaenyra to ash. Looking upon it, Maegor fell to his knees, once again desperately raising his arms to shield himself from the painful light and heat. He was horrified to see that naught remained of his arms and hands but charred bones.
It was then that Maegor would awake from the nightmare every time, drenched in sweat as his chest heaved with panicked breaths. What did it all mean? Maegor wasn't sure, but he was certain that he was having no ordinary dreams. As far as I know, nobody has the exact same nightmare every time they close their eyes. He rose from his cot, and crossed his small quarters to a chipped stone wash basin. Taking a tarnished pewter jug full of cool water, he poured its contents into the basin.
Dipping his hands into it, he splashed his face with the cool water. Maegor enjoyed how its rivulets ran down his face and chest, refreshing him and washing away the sweat that he'd awoken with. He tried thinking through the dream bit by bit, as he had done many times before. He was certain that he'd never seen the town that had appeared as a burned ruin in his dream, but that realization did nothing to help him understand why it had appeared in his nightmare in the first place.
What bothered Maegor more, however, was the dragon that had almost surely burned the town in his dream. Jet-black scales, yet green flames. Maegor knew of only one dragon that exactly matched that coloration. Gaemon's dragon, the Cannibal. Maegor had no idea of how to even begin trying to understand the part of his dream that had pertained to Queen Rhaenyra. A golden sun burning her? What does that mean? It was all so confusing.
When he had dreamed of the Grey Ghost as a boy, the visions of the vent on the Dragonmont where it roosted and the dragon's own appearance had been exactly as Maegor had remembered them when he later visited them in person. He had later realized after the fight over the Gullet that his dream about the three dancing women and the dragon in the sea of pitch had been about that very battle. As well, he had also experienced both of those dreams multiple times, with them always happening in the exact same way with no variations or changes. Do they inform and warn me of the future? Or am I slowly going mad?
It seemed to him that at least some parts of his dreams were more metaphorical than exact, but they were frustratingly vague in their meaning. Was the dragon in the sea of pitch the Prince Jacaerys, the Prince Viserys, or both? Gritting his teeth, Maegor sank to his knees, resting his forehead against the washbasin's cool stone. If my previous dreams have shown me the future in at least a partially truthful way, then what horrors are we destined for based on these nightmares I've been having?
Maegor balled his fist and pounded it against the stone floor of his quarters. The dream makes little and less sense, and I'm so tired that I can barely focus on trying to understand it. He wished more than anything that he could sleep again in peace, without having to fear what horrors his slumber would bring. I'm just so tired. As exhaustion tried to force his eyes closed, Maegor shook his head and staggered to his feet, before dunking his head into the basin again. Opening the door of his chambers, he peered into the hallway beyond. The torches were burning, and the corridor was devoid of activity.
Closing his door, Maegor sat at the edge of his cot, cradling his head in his hands. It's as I thought. The dawn is a long way off still. He barely caught himself before slipping into an exhausted slumber, still slumped forward with his head in his hands. Maegor couldn't decide whether he felt more like raging or weeping in frustration. I can't sleep because of the nightmare, but I'm so tired when I'm awake that I can barely keep myself from nodding off into sleep. Maegor wished that he had something to read or someone to talk to in order to help him stay awake. Sitting up in his cot with his bare back leaned against the cool stone of the wall behind him, Maegor sat and silently waited for dawn.
When the new day finally came, Maegor wasted no time in starting his morning. Washing himself with fresh water brought in by a servant, Maegor then dressed and was helped into his armor. The seeds' presence in court that day had been requested by the Queen, for she wished to officially accept the fealty and swords of multiple parties that had arrived in the city throughout the past week.
The first group to arrive had been around one thousand men by ship from the Vale, sent by Lady Jeyne Arryn. Maegor had seen the army's triumphant entry into the city, with their proud knights in shining armor atop majestic warhorses, followed by grizzled men-at-arms and archers. I would've expected the Lady of the Vale to send more men to support the Queen's cause than that, Maegor had thought, but he hadn't stated those thoughts aloud. Some swords would make a greater difference than none, and with the Hightower army drawing ever closer, it was important that the Queen have as many troops as possible to fight on the ground in battle to support her dragonriders in the sky.
Later that same week, ships had arrived from White Harbor in the North, carrying several hundred knights and men-at-arms sworn to House Manderly, led by both of Lord Manderly's sons, Ser Medrick and Ser Torrhen. Maegor had been amused when he saw that many of the men-at-arms from house Manderly carried tridents instead of spears. I suppose they kill a man just as well as a spear, Maegor had mused.
Departing from the Dragonpit on his gelding, Maegor began riding towards the Red Keep, a route that he had taken so often that he was confident he could traverse with his eyes closed. It would be best that I don't, Maegor thought, for in my current state I'd likely fall asleep atop my horse. As he rode across the city, he lifted his helmet's visor, enjoying the warmth of the rising sun on his face, and the faint cool sea breeze. Atop the Hill of Rhaenys or Aegon's High Hill, one could smell the salt of the sea, but as soon as they descended down from either hill, such smells were replaced with far less savory ones.
Maegor had thought the refuse pile at the edge of his village on Dragonstone smelled strongly, but he had quickly realized that cities reeked as badly as a thousand refuse piles. It only gets worse the further you ride down any of the city's three hills. However, Maegor could guess at why. The city's poorest denizens scrabble out an existence at its lowest depths, and they can't spare the coin to have people clean some of the refuse from their streets. The rains weren't on the side of the poor either. Every time a storm came through King's Landing, much of the shit and other filth in the gutters was washed down the city's three hills, accumulating in the lowest wynds and alleys of the city.
As he reached the southern base of the Hill of Rhaenys, Maegor found himself in Flea Bottom. While many nobles and knights avoided this part of the city as though every person that lived there was infested with some sort of plague, Maegor found the grungy community fascinating. It was a dangerous place to be sure, but Maegor also found that he admired the tenacity of King's Landing's poorest denizens. They had little and less, but still they went about their lives with vigor, determined to scrape out their own little sliver of the world to call their own.
Maegor had made several trips out from the Dragonpit in his roughspun attire, and he had found that Flea Bottom was the most interesting place to simply walk about and observe. He always had a sharp eye on his coin purse, and a dagger ready to defend himself. Regardless, Maegor still found himself more at home amongst the grimy, shouting crowds of Flea Bottom than the perfumed, courtly residents of the Red Keep. They give me lands and titles, but in my heart I've always been Maegor, the fisherman's boy.
His journey eventually brought him to the top of Aegon's High Hill, and the raised large bronze portcullis that was the main gate of the Red Keep. Upon seeing his face, the knight presiding over the Gold Cloaks defending the gate waved Maegor through, and he rode into the yard beyond. Maegor dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a stableboy, before entering the Red Keep itself.
Maegor had some time before the ceremony that he was expected to attend, so he found himself walking in the direction of the training yard, rather than the Great Hall. Upon arriving, he was not surprised to see men already sparring, riding at rings, and firing arrows at targets. Maegor removed his helm and tucked it beneath his arm, leaning against an alcove and watching people train. Though he was tempted to join them, he did not want to dirty his armor before the ceremony he was to attend. It would not do for me to stand at attention near the foot of the Iron Throne covered in dust and dirt. The Queen's Lords and highborn knights are always looking for ways to say I'm still a bumbling peasant, despite my elevation in status.
Ulf White and Hugh Hammer were already the subject of rumor and controversy, and Maegor by no means wished to join them. After the feast celebrating Prince Joffrey Velaryon's investiture as the Prince of Dragonstone, both seeds had ridden out from the Keep into the city to continue their revelry. By the night's end, Ulf had ridden through Flea Bottom in naught but his golden spurs, and Hugh had beat one of the Queen's own knights to death during a dispute over a maiden on the Street of Silk. It's behavior like that which makes the Queen wary of giving us larger rewards, Maegor thought in annoyance.
At the sound of footsteps, Maegor turned to regard the man approaching him. Gyles Yronwood grinned at Maegor, inclining his head at him. "Though I'm used to having the ladies of the court watching us train, I must say I was not expecting you to join them today, Ser."
Maegor smiled back at the Dornish knight. "An audience is an audience, Ser. Shall I offer you my favor and swoon when you win a sparring match?" He fluttered his eyelashes in an over-exaggerated fashion.
Gyles laughed aloud. "Good gods. That won't be necessary, I should think." He nodded in the direction of the hallways leading away from the training yard. "Are you attending the ceremony today? I can only assume that the Queen would expect your presence."
Maegor nodded. "I will be. That is why I've not joined in the sparring. What about you, Ser Yronwood? I trust you've not tired of all the pageantry just yet?" Gyles was dressed in his armor built in the Dornish style, along with a fine silk doublet bearing the sigil of his house.
Gyles nodded. "I will be. As a knight in the Queen's retinue, I wish for her to look out into the crowd and see me standing there as often as possible. I owe her my fealty, but it couldn't hurt to remind her of my continued loyalty." He gave Maegor a sardonic grin. "Many in her court were none too happy that she accepted a Dornishman into her service, and would jump at any opportunity to see my head struck off." Hefting his goldenheart recurved bow, he nodded in the direction of the targets. "I too wish to not dirty myself before the ceremony. That's why I've been using this morn as a chance to brush up on my skills with the bow. You should join me." Before Maegor could respond, Gyles had already turned and began walking towards the targets.
Maegor smiled. It appears that his request is non-negotiable. He followed the Dornishman over to the archery range. Nocking an arrow, Gyles drew the string of his bow back and fired in what seemed to Maegor as one fluid motion. The arrow slammed into the dead center of the target, quivering slightly. Firing several more shots in quick succession, Ser Gyles made a ring of arrows around the first. Amazed, Maegor began to clap. With a grin, the Dornish knight gave Maegor a flourishing bow.
"Amazing, Ser!" Maegor began, "I've never seen such skill! You make it look so effortless." Looking at the placement of the arrows on the target, Maegor shook his head in amazement.
Gyles smiled. "I promise you, Ser Maegor, it is anything but effortless. I've trained a long time to fire with such precision." He stroked his bow lovingly. "This bow also helps. There is no finer material to make a bow than goldenheart wood. It cost my father a small fortune." Gyles frowned sadly after mentioning his father, but Maegor did not press for further details. I may have more in common with this man than I thought.
Shaking his head, he turned to Maegor. Gyles pointed at an empty target, with a longbow and quiver of arrows leaned against it. "Would you like to try, Ser Maegor? I can give you some advice, free of charge." Gyles grinned.
Maegor thought for a moment. "I'm not so sure, Ser. I've never fired a bow in my life before. As well, I haven't been sleeping well, so I'm not sure if I'd make a very good student in my current state."
Gyles looked more closely at Maegor's face, and his grin was replaced with a look of mild concern as he regarded the large dark bags that Maegor knew sat beneath his eyes. "You're telling no lie, that is for certain. I hadn't noticed before you mentioned it. Mayhaps you could speak to the Grand Maester about a draught to help you sleep?"
Maegor smiled sadly. If only going to sleep was my largest concern. It is what awaits me in my dreams that frightens me. "I appreciate your concern, Ser Gyles, but I am optimistic that these difficulties will pass in time. Besides, I believe that the ceremony's beginning is not far off now. I think I will make my way to the Great Hall now."
Gyles nodded at Maegor, and began making his way out of the yard. To return his bow to his quarters, I presume. Maegor turned and left the yard as well, re-entering the hallways of the Keep and beginning his journey to the Great Hall.
Standing at his place amongst the other seeds to the right of the foot of the Iron Throne, Maegor couldn't help but remember the rumors of the night that the remains of Prince Maelor were returned to the Queen. Maegor had not been there when it happened, but he had heard that when the riders presented the little Prince's head to the Queen, she had wept before ordering it burned. The usurper Aegon was undoubtedly a traitor and enemy to the Queen's realm, but his children? First the Prince Jaehaerys, and now the Prince Maelor. One had been murdered before his mother's eyes, while the other had died at the hands of a crowd seeking to collect a bounty from the Queen. Why must the children suffer for the sins of the father? The usurper Aegon was still at large. What fairness is there in the possibility that he still lives, while his two innocent sons suffered and died? Such were thoughts that Maegor did his best not to dwell on.
The Great Hall was bustling with observers, and the Queen sat atop the Iron Throne, with her consort Prince Daemon and her heir Prince Joffrey sitting on lower steps. The ceremony began with much pomp and circumstance, as the Manderly brothers approached the Iron Throne first, kneeling before the Queen and renewing their oaths of fealty and loyalty to her. Maegor supposed that they had been given pride of place because they were soon to be good-kin to the Queen through the marriage of their youngest sister to Prince Joffrey. Ser Medrick had the look of a strong and skilled knight, while it seemed that Ser Torrhen had a greater appetite for food than training in the yard.
When it was the turn of the leaders of the force of Valemen to present themselves to the Queen, several knights approached the Iron Throne and knelt, swearing their swords and fealty to the Queen. All bore different sigils on their surcoats. It appears that command of this force is split between men of several of the Vale's leading houses. Maegor was surprised that none bore the moon and falcon of House Arryn. It seems that none of Lady Jeyne's close kin sailed with this army.
The knight of greatest note was Ser Willam Royce, the youthful grandson and heir of Lord Gunthor Royce of Runestone. He was tall and handsome, with curly auburn hair and grey eyes. When he drew his sword as part of his oath to the Queen, Maegor saw that it was Valyrian Steel. Ser Willam easily lives up to all the vaunted tales of chivalrous knights from the Vale of Arryn. Maegor grinned. Ser Gyles will have some competition for the attention of the ladies of the court. As the Queen graciously accepted the support of the men from the Vale to her cause, Maegor took note of how Ser Willam seemed to glare at Prince-consort Daemon. What quarrel do the Royces of Runestone have with the Rogue Prince?
The ceremony came to an end not long after, and many began making their way out of the Great Hall. Ulf and Hugh had already begun making their way to the Great Hall's massive doors, and Maegor took note of the disdainful glances that each seed received from the Lords, knights, and other courtiers throughout the hall. They've both given all the highborn a reason to whisper behind their backs after their follies following the feast for Prince Joffrey. Maegor would not mourn the loss of whatever status the two men had garnered since taming dragons for the Queen's cause. Ser Hugh has always seemed a very cruel man, and Ser Ulf… that sot's downfall has been a long time coming. Maegor forced himself to stop glaring at the drunken seed's back and look elsewhere.
Looking in the direction of the Iron Throne, Maegor saw Gaemon still standing in its shadow. The Lady Baela walked past him, trailing her father, but Maegor did not miss the way she mischievously smiled at Gaemon as she passed. With his helmet's visor up, Maegor could see that Gaemon returned the Lady Baela's smile. What was that about, Gaemon? Maegor wasn't sure he liked the implications of what he had just seen.
Looking at his friend, Maegor was reminded again of his nightmare. Does the Cannibal have something to do with the burned town that I saw in my dream? The dragon in my dream had black scales and blew green flames. Maegor knew that Gaemon's dragon was as wild and cruel a dragon as any currently living, and he also remembered how Gaemon had struggled to bend the creature to his will in their time at Dragonstone. Will his dragon reject him and go rogue, wreaking havoc? Or will it cause such carnage under the control of its rider? Maegor forced himself to stop thinking in such a way. If Gaemon were to prove false and cause such great destruction with his dragon… I don't know what I'd do. Gaemon saw Maegor looking in his direction, and nodded at him with a grin. Please, let my suspicions be nothing more than paranoid speculation, Maegor thought, Gaemon is all I have left. His friend had always been as close as a brother to him, and with the deaths of Maegor's father and brothers, Gaemon was the only brother remaining to him.
Maegor was unable to bring himself to return his friend's smile, and began to walk from the Great Hall. Am I going mad? I suspect my closest friend of possible treason based on a nightmare? But the other dreams involving dragons and flame he'd had before had proved true, or at least in some way mirrored the truth. Maegor was torn between feeling extreme shame over suspecting his friend of treachery, and fear over what form the future might take based on his nightmare. Gaemon was the only person he trusted enough to talk about his dreams with, but Maegor was unable in this case to talk with even him about it. He felt as though the nightmare was inescapable, seizing his mind whenever he slept, and haunting his waking thoughts. I just need to think it through more clearly. But in his sleep-deprived state, clarity of thought was a luxury that he didn't have.
The city of King's Landing was in a festive state since word of a great victory had begun to flow into the city from the southern Riverlands. Ser Criston Cole, the traitorous Lord Commander of the usurper Aegon's Kingsguard and his Hand of the King, had marched his army into an ambush that was set by the same men who had annihilated the army of the Westerlands. It was a quick and bloody affair, and as devastating as the battle along the God's Eye had been. Ser Criston was killed, his army butchered, and its few survivors scattered to the wind. The Queen's fool Mushroom had gleefully called the slaughter the "Butcher's Ball", and the name had spread quickly, soon on the lips of every person in the city of King's Landing.
Such news is most auspicious, Maegor thought. Not long before the news of the Butcher's Ball had arrived, word of the brutal sack of Bitterbridge had reached King's Landing. Maegor had been appalled when he heard of the actions of the Hightower army; how they had burned, stabbed, and drowned the populace of the town, while driving its Lady to commit suicide and taking her children prisoner. An army of animals, Maegor had thought, enraged. He had initially heard whispers about whether the Queen should consider treating with the army before they continued on their brutal path northeast. Let myself and the Grey Ghost treat with them, Maegor had thought, and I'll send them all screaming and burning to the Seventh Hell.
However, the news of the Butcher's Ball had come not long after, bringing a much-needed sense of relief to the city. There were still nay-sayers who feared the Hightower army and Lord Borros Baratheon to the south, but with the end of Criston Cole and his men, there were no longer looming threats to the north of the city of King's Landing. All the same, Maegor hoped that the Queen would soon allow her dragonriders a more active role in the war. It is long past time that we brought all this bloodshed and suffering to an end.
Though he grieved for the people of Bitterbridge, Maegor had hoped against hope that its sack explained his nightmare. However, he feared that it was not the truth. The sack of Bitterbridge does not in any way explain the black dragon. Maegor still understood little and less about the part of the dream involving Queen Rhaenyra and the sun that burned her. Is Dorne going to invade? Maegor knew that the Martell family's sigil bore a sun. Mayhaps they mean to take advantage of the chaos and disorganization caused by the war to attack the realm? Maegor had no answers, and their lack had begun to deeply bother him. We seem to be on the precipice of something truly awful, yet I feel completely powerless to understand and prevent it.
He still suffered from a lack of sleep, yet Maegor forced himself to do so nonetheless. The nightmare came every time he closed his eyes, but Maegor was resigned to it. If I must needs suffer through it to have enough rest to try to understand it when I'm awake, then it is a burden I will bear. However, Maegor had also begun to realize the importance of finding ways in which to forget about the nightmare for a time. If all I did was sit and think about my dreams, then I would truly go mad. He had found that alcohol helped, but Maegor did not wish to end up a sot like Ulf. If I spend my time drinking away the dreams, I will only replace one problem with another.
Maegor had tried to find other ways in which to occupy his mind with other thoughts, and the mummer's show had provided him with a perfect opportunity. From what he had learned, the troupe of mummers were Westerosi, and specialized in tragedies based off of the tales and legends of Westeros. They had only recently arrived in King's Landing, and Maegor had missed their opening night, when they regaled the enthusiastic denizens of Flea Bottom with their own version of the tale of Florian the Fool and Jonquil.
As he stood amongst a packed crowd wearing his roughspun clothing, Maegor waited for them to perform the tale of Galladon of Morne. The place of their performance was a large and grubby winesink in the depths of Flea Bottom, and entry had cost a copper. The people around Maegor jostled and cursed as they tried to secure an ideal means of viewing the grimy stage in the light of the greasy tallow candles burning throughout the winesink's interior. Maegor allowed himself a small smile. My size can be bothersome at times, but I won't deny that it is helpful in situations such as these. Though he stood near the back of the crowd, Maegor had no problem seeing the stage because he stood taller than nearly everyone in the room.
"Watch it, ya little shit!" a voice spat, and Maegor turned in time to see a small boy in patched and dirt-stained clothes receive a clout on the ear from a man that he tried to squeeze past, falling on his arse. The boy stuck out his tongue in defiance as he scrambled back to his feet, and began hopping from foot to foot in a vain attempt to glimpse the stage.
With an amused smile, Maegor beckoned at the boy, and the small lad approached him slowly, a wary expression across his gaunt face. Taking a knee, Maegor pointed at his shoulders. "Hop aboard, lad. Unless you're a frog in disguise, I don't think jumping about will help you see the stage any better."
The boy considered for a moment, before his face split into a wide, crooked grin. "Thankee, master!" he said, and Maegor allowed the boy to climb onto his shoulders before standing back up.
"Seven Hells!" the boy yelped, "do ya drink tree sap?" Maegor turned his head to give him an inquisitive and altogether confused look. Grinning down at him from his perch atop Maegor's shoulders, the boy continued: "my ma used to say that little boys who drank tree sap grew as tall as trees!" With a small pout, the boy then crossed his arms. "We don't got any trees down in Flea Bottom, though."
Maegor snorted, and then began to laugh. How good it feels to just laugh. Smiling back at the boy, Maegor responded. "No tree sap, I'm afraid. But I did eat a lot of fish. Mayhaps that helps." The boy nodded his head gravely, as though Maegor had imparted upon him a great secret. It was then that a mummer ran onto the stage and blew a tarnished horn, catching the attention of all the assembled spectators. And so the show begins, Maegor thought.
What followed was an entertaining tale of honor, love, lust, betrayal, and just about everything in between. Ser Galladon of Morne, the Perfect Knight, was the younger brother of the Petty King of Morne, a seat on the eastern half of the isle of Tarth. His valor was so great that the Maiden herself fell in love with him and granted him an enchanted sword, the Just Maid. Ser Galladon used the sword but thrice in his adventures, once to kill a kraken, once to kill an evil King of Giants, and once to slay a dragon.
Though he returned home to Morne a hero, Ser Galladon's goodsister and the Queen of Morne, Morgana, lusted after him, and when spurned plotted her revenge with foul sorceries. She used her sorcery to force her husband and Galladon's older brother, the King of Morne, to challenge Ser Galladon to a duel to the death. Ser Galladon, the most puissant and honorable knight that he was, refused to raise a sword against his own brother in the duel, and was slain. His brother then woke from the evil Morgana's spell, and seeing that he had killed his brother and had become a kinslayer, fell upon his sword. Thus was the fall of the House of Morne. In her grief, the Maiden cursed Morgana to forever haunt the castle ruins as a ghost, never to find peace in the afterlife.
After he had let down the boy from his shoulders, Maegor left the winesink and began to ascend the Hill of Rhaenys, back towards the Dragonpit. He had thoroughly enjoyed the mummers' show, and Maegor wondered how much of the tale was rooted in any sort of truth. Maegor knew that the eastern side of Tarth was abandoned, for he remembered hearing tales from his father about the day that he learned that Prince Aemon of Dragonstone had died fighting Myrish pirates on Tarth. I wonder if the ruins of the seat of the Petty Kings of Morne still stand, Maegor mused.
As he continued on his ascent up the southern side of the Hill of Rhaenys, Maegor reconsidered his nightmare. My dreams of dragons and fire are in some ways like a mummer's show, Maegor thought, for they are full of metaphors and symbolism, and I will not understand the true meaning of it all until after something important has happened. The thought did not assuage Maegor's dread, however. If my nightmare is akin to a mummer's rendition of the future, I fear that the finale will please none but the Stranger.