Maegor V
The early morning sunlight was just beginning to crest over the western battlements of Pinkmaiden as Maegor climbed atop the Grey Ghost, chained himself into his saddle, and took flight. Though Lord Stanton had insisted that Maegor remain a short while longer to break his fast along with him and his sisters, Maegor had declined his request politely. The Pipers were courteous hosts, but his was a journey that was best to be made with haste.
With the city of King's Landing under the Greens' banners, there was but a single certainty in Maegor's mind. We need an army. The Queen's city was in the hands of her enemies, and dragons alone would not be able to retake it. We have dragons enough to burn it. Maegor forced the thought from his mind as soon as it appeared. The traitors may now reside there, but the Queen's people, MY people, do as well.
Though the lords and knights of the Realm would mourn little and less for the fates of the smallfolk of King's Landing, Maegor had. When he had seen the state of the city as they approached from Tumbleton, his heart had sunk. The dull, ashen plumes of smoke rising into the sky had been visible long before the Queen's city itself was. Though he did not know how the city had come to fall into the hands of the Usurper's lackeys, it was plain to see the destruction and misery that had so recently occurred as a result of it.
I couldn't even keep my promise for the length of a fortnight. Beyond the ashen walls of Tumbleton, as Maegor and his comrades had negotiated the surrender of the Hightower army, Maegor had made a vow to himself. I will suffer no more Bitterbridges, no more Tumbletons. As long as I command the power of the Grey Ghost, I will not sit idly by and allow innocents to suffer at the hands of cruel, craven men. Men like Unwin Peake and Hobert Hightower.
Maegor was unable to decide which man disgusted him more. Though the life Maegor had led as a fisherman had taught him little of the ways in which Lords spoke and negotiated, he knew well the demeanor of a swindler and a cheat. Lord Unwin, despite being little more than a prisoner, had haggled with the tenacity of a fishwife, seeking to make demands even though he was in no position to be doing so. From the way he haughtily sat and spoke at the table, one could almost believe that he was the victor giving terms. He lived by our mercy, and yet treated us with the utmost contempt. If he felt any guilt for the actions of the army he marched with, Lord Unwin Peake had displayed no such contrition to Maegor and the other seeds.
Ser Hobert, on the other hand, had made clear that he knew the evils of his army all too well. When the old man wasn't guzzling his fine wines from a silver chalice clutched in a shaking hand, he was mopping his sweaty brow with an embroidered silk kerchief. He stammered, and wrung his hands fretfully. A pitiful display from a pitiful man. Maegor had no sympathy for the aged Hightower knight. He seemed quick to regret the actions of his army, and yet what had he done as he watched them burn, pillage, and rape?
When Maegor and the others had landed their dragons on the hill beyond King's Landing to discuss their next course of action, he had known what needed to be done. We should have ended the likes of Unwin Peake and Hobert Hightower right then and there. Maegor was no fool. He knew that the moment the surviving Lords and knights of the Hightower army learned that the forces of the Usurper had seized King's Landing, they would forget the vows they had sworn to Maegor, Gaemon, and Addam. They would instead march to stiffen the ranks of their monarch. However, Maegor had been outvoted, and was forced to fly north to Harrenhal, allowing the Hightower army an undeserved respite. Who will see them punished now?
Pinkmaiden had been the first castle Maegor had flown to, and it would not be the last. Though Maegor did not yet truly know of the fate of the Queen and her kin, he thought it unlikely that they would have evaded capture as the city fell, given the corpse of Syrax that he had observed in one of the many yards of the Red Keep. Despite this, he would continue to fight for her cause, and her rights. I will do so as thanks for the Grey Ghost. I will fly, and fight, to see the Prince Jacaerys avenged, and the Princes Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys rescued. I will rain fire upon the Greens to free the Lady Baela. Until the end of this gods-forsaken war, they will have a champion in me. Maegor frowned as cold winter winds buffeted his face. But I will no longer fight on Rhaenyra's behalf. On behalf of the Queen who had treacherously ordered the death of Nettles, and saw the dragonriders that fought and bled for her as little more than servants of dubious loyalty, to mistrust and withhold reward from.
Though he hid it from the people around him, there was an anger within him that would not be snuffed out, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it as he always had. War brings out the worst in men, and it seems I have not been spared. The rage had been unleashed initially at Tumbleton, and simmered as the defeated Green lords and knights haggled and prevaricated. It had flared at the sight of an ashen King's Landing, and his blood had boiled at the sight of golden dragon banners hanging from the walls of the Red Keep. At Maidenpool… It wasn't anger at first, it was shock. He had learned to expect deep reservation from the Queen when it came to her dragonseeds, but betrayal? Maegor hadn't believed it until Lord Mooton had shown him the missive with the Queen's own seal. Did she always mean to betray us? To put a knife in our backs when she no longer had a use for us? Maegor sighed. Methinks not. But I would be a fool to believe that she would care whether I lived or died, as long as she remained sitting atop the Iron Throne.
Even so, Maegor was a man of his word. Whether or not she cared for the vow of a lowly peasant that had been made into a knight, Maegor would maintain his honor. He would do what he could to ensure victory, and to do so, the seeds had to gather an army in Queen Rhaenyra's name. The northmen approached, yet Maegor knew that the support of the Riverlords was still needed as well. At his behest, the Pipers had agreed to scrape together what they could and march for Harrenhal. Though he had never doubted their loyalty, Maegor was relieved at the ease with which he had won the Pipers' support. Further along the Red Fork, however, was the seat of a House that had sat out of the war for far too long. Maegor flew for Riverrun.
The sun was setting as Maegor approached the burned-out ruins of Sallydance. From the map I observed at Harrenhal, Riverrun should not be too much farther up the Red Fork, at least by dragon. He wondered what the village had looked like before it became little more than charred, half-collapsed piles of timber coated in ash. The village was circled around the base of a hill, and at its top was a sept. Most village septs were humble structures of timber and mortar, hardly more than a humble space to pray to the Gods, or to listen to a Septon's sermon whenever such a holy man passed through. However, Sallydance's sept was a grand affair, made of cleanly cut stone with a bell tower on its northern side. It had windows of leaded glass, though the majority were shattered ruins. The sept was likely the charity of some long-dead River King, from one era or another.
Like the village beneath it, the sept was now a charred ruin. Part of its roof had caved in, and as Maegor circled around the village's north side atop the Grey Ghost, he could see that the sept's bell had fallen from the tower when its steeple had toppled. The bell sat like some great hunched being on the hillside, covered in snow. Gone was its polished metallic luster, replaced by the scrapes and dirt that tarnished it. The Kinslayer's work, Maegor thought darkly. Yet another one of my failures.
Maegor was relieved that the Usurper's monstrous younger brother had died, and yet such relief had proved short-lived. We should have caught him, Gaemon and I. How many villages burned while we conducted our fruitless search? Sallydance had been one. The last time Maegor had flown above this village, the ashes had been new. Dull red embers glowed, and Maegor and Gaemon had been able to make out charred corpses here and there amongst the village's ruins. Recent snowfall had begun to cover the village's ruins like a shroud. A burial shroud for a dead village..
Landing the Grey Ghost beyond the ruined sept at the top of the hill, Maegor made his way to what remained of the sept's oaken doors. One door was lying on the ground, and covered in a thin layer of snow and ice. The other hung by a single hinge, twisted grotesquely like a broken limb. What caught Maegor's attention, however, were the footprints. A single set of them, trailing all the way up the hillside and to the sept's entryway.
With a hand hovering near his sword's hilt, Maegor crept into the alcove just beyond the sept's doors. Peering around a soot-stained column, Maegor observed the sanctuary beyond. Snow covered the floor and debris that were beneath the collapsed portions of the sept's roof, and the other areas of the sept were hidden in the gloom of the coming nightfall, as the last red rays of sunlight melted away. At the sanctuary's far end, a man clad in torn clothing and a fur-lined cloak was attempting to start a fire. Not far beyond him and his kindling, stone statues of the Seven stood atop pedestals, standing a serene vigil over their silent parish. Part of the roof above them had collapsed, leaving some of the statues covered in snow.
Without turning to face him, the man began to speak to Maegor: "No sense in tryin' to hide. I saw that dragon o' yours long before ya' landed outside this sept." He turned to regard Maegor with a haggard visage. "If you're meanin' to kill me, then be quick about it." He then turned back to his kindling.
Stepping out from behind the column, Maegor approached the man slowly. "I don't mean you any harm, goodman," Maegor began. "I'm merely surprised, and cautious. I didn't expect to find anyone still in this village."
The man let out a humorless chuckle. "Still alive, ya mean." He didn't look up from his kindling. A small flame began to crackle, and the man let out a soft grunt, before beginning to stoke the growing flames with a brittle branch. Having reached the man and his fire at the sept's opposite end, Maegor sat down across from the man, leaning his back against one of the Seven gods' stone pedestals. Maegor's flight had been miserable and cold, and he didn't even bother to begin fussing with his armor straps. He was far too exhausted. He did however, remove his helm.
Maegor reached into the satchel he carried with him during his journeys atop the Grey Ghost, and pulled some hard strips of salt beef out from within. The Pipers had insisted that he at least refill his provisions before leaving Pinkmaiden earlier that morning. Leaning to the side so as to avoid the small fire, Maegor offered the man some of his salt beef. After a moment, the man nodded dully in thanks and took a piece.
They both sat in silence for several minutes, chewing their food. Maegor looked into the flames of the campfire, unsure of what, if anything, he should bother to say. Eventually, he decided to speak up. "Is this your home?" He looked at the man. His tattered garb revealed nothing of the life he may have led before his encounter with Maegor. A soldier, a tanner, a septon? None of that seemed to matter. All he seemed to be now was a gaunt man with a greying beard, and sad eyes that seemed to gaze everywhere at once while comprehending nothing.
The man nodded slightly. "Yes," he began. "It was. I was the groundskeeper of this sept." The man stopped speaking, and took another bite of his strip of salt beef. He chewed and swallowed, and continued to sit in silence.
Maegor wasn't sure if he should press the man, but he spoke up once more: "Did anyone else survive Aemond the Kinslayer's attack? I am Ser Maegor, a dragonrider for the Queen Rhaenyra, and I would be more than willing to try to arrange a place for you and any other survivors to go, to wait out the winter." Mayhaps Pinkmaiden. The Pipers lost much and more of the menfolk in the war, I'm sure they would be able to resettle survivors on their lands.
Maegor was pulled from his thoughts by the man's response. "Nay, just I," he began morosely. "If there were any others in the village that lived, they'd left 'afore I returned." The man nodded his head at the sept's northern wall. "I buried the rest of em' out there. Outside the sept. None of the septons were alive to do the proper rites." He sighed. "I hoped that mayhaps if I buried everyone by the sept, under the eyes of the gods, that'd be enough."
Maegor opened his mouth to speak, but the man continued on, his eyes still transfixed on the sept's northern wall. "I was out in the woods beyond the village, you see. Cutting wood. When that great green monster swooped down out of the clouds and began its burnin', I hid. I wanted nothing more than to go running back, to help, to save anyone I could. But I didn't. My legs refused to move. I could barely breathe. I just cowered there, at the forest's edge, and watched my home burn. I was afraid." The man had begun to shake, and his face was contorted in an expression of pain and self-loathing.
Tears began to leak out of the corners of the man's eyes, running into his beard. "My son was up here, in the sept, and still I hid. After the burning stopped, I stayed there, in the forest. I was terrified that the dragon would come back. When I eventually gathered the nerve to walk back into the village, a new day had dawned. I ran through the ashes and the ruins, for the sept."
The man's gaunt visage was only dimly illuminated by the fire, and his shrunken eyes dully regarded Maegor from within the deep pools of shadow that settled along the contours of his face. "My boy was one of the sept's novices. I was praying, begging for the gods to spare my son, and any of the others that may have been within the sept when the burning started. It was built of good stone, I reasoned. Strong enough to survive dragonflame. As I approached the sept, my hope remained. It hadn't completely collapsed. I ran through the doors, calling my son's name."
The man had stopped crying. He shifted, and pointed into one of the sanctuary's darkened corners, in a place where the roof hadn't caved in. "They were all there, my son and the other members of the Faith, huddled in that corner. Unburned, and unscarred. But dead all the same. The flame didn't burn 'em, but it and the smoke pulled all the air from their chests as they tried to hide. It strangled 'em."
He turned back to regard the crackling flame of his fire. "There wasn't a wound upon any of 'em," he whispered. "But they all looked so afraid." The man's voice cracked, and he hung his head. "I could live a hundred years, and never forget the sight."
The man shook his head. "I should have died here, with my son. I lived, but for what? I bought my life through my own cowardice, and each day I realize anew just how dear that price was." He closed his eyes. "The gods will address their mistake soon enough. The winds grow ever colder, and the food I've scrounged is nearly gone. If the gods are merciful, I'll get to see my son again."
Maegor was utterly speechless. He tried to think of something to say, to assuage any of the agony of the man sitting before him. Damn the Kinslayer, damn him to the Seventh Hell. If only I had managed to track him down. If only Gaemon and I had arrived at Sallydance a mere day sooner…
"Aemond the Kinslayer is dead, along with his mount," Maegor began coldly, his fists clenched. If he couldn't personally give this man and the people of Sallydance justice, he would let them know that it had been dealt by the sword of another. Maegor was surprised to see little reaction in the man beyond a nearly imperceptible twitch of his gaunt face. "Your son, and the other people who died here, they've been avenged." Maegor hoped that such words would bring the man before him some sense of relief. "You as well. You have your vengeance now."
"Vengeance?" the man muttered. Hollow eyes turned to regard Maegor, and the sept's northern wall, beyond which the bodies of Sallydance's denizens laid beneath shallow shrouds of cold dirt. "I'd sooner still have a son."
The pain of losing a loved one was nearly unfathomable, and Maegor had felt such pain too many times throughout his own short existence. "I have no words to help take such pain away," Maegor began, falteringly, "but I will tell you that I can understand the pain that you are feeling. I lost mine own father and brothers at the beginning of this war. I grieve their loss still. But it hurts less, with time. You have to believe that." I have to believe it. If I cannot believe their souls are at peace, then mine never will be.
The man did not respond. Instead, he curled up beneath his cloak, and turned his back to Maegor. As he looked at the emaciated, despairing man, and watched him shiver beneath his threadbare cloak, Maegor felt a sudden wave of emotion crash over him. He silently stood, and removed his winter cloak from about his shoulders. Stepping around the fire, Maegor draped his cloak over the man. He laid his satchel of food next to the man as well, before sitting back down against his chosen pedestal.
Sighing, Maegor regarded the man, only to see that he was staring at Maegor with tired, confused eyes. "Why?" the man croaked.
"Too many innocent people have died already," Maegor began, "far too many." His voice cracked, and Maegor took a moment to compose himself. "All the high lords, they march and burn their way from one end of the Realm to the other for the sake of their pointless wars. It's all some twisted jape, some game to them, about who gets to sit atop the throne." Maegor shook his head angrily. "If there is a blood price to be paid, I mean to make the lords pay it whenever possible. Mayhaps when enough of them have died in battle after useless battle, they'll agree to call an end to this godsforsaken war."
Maegor looked at the man with a firm glance. "But," he began, "I will never stop fighting for those whose lives are being stolen from them. Like the people of this village. Like your son. Like you. You are not a craven for living when so many others died at the hands of monsters like the Kinslayer. If the gods truly love us, as the septons claim they do, then I can think of none who are more dear to them than those who have unjustly suffered even half as much as you have."
Nodding at the cloak he had draped across the man, and the satchel of food, Maegor continued to speak. "My cloak and food, these will be your payment, should you accept them. I am an anointed knight, and through taking this payment you would have the honor of becoming my first sworn man."
Maegor waited a moment, and was pleased that the man offered no objection to his words. "As my sworn man, you would share my confidence. I fly for Riverrun, to try and win the allegiance of House Tully. I do not know if I will succeed, or worse be met with some manner of treachery or betrayal. For this reason, I would not risk bringing you along with me. It is my humble request that you would instead take the road for Harrenhal. It is where the Queen's armies gather, and where, luck willing, I will return after my visit to Riverrun."
Maegor pointed at the satchel. "Within that satchel is not just food. There is a dirk, if you must needs defend yourself from danger, and more importantly, a letter bearing the Queen's mark. Show it to whomever you must, if you think that they would aid you in your journey. If the Seven are kind, we would meet again at Harrenhal. Will you accept my offer of service?"
Maegor waited for his response in silence. Please, let him accept. Please, let me arrive in time to save someone, even if it's just the once.
The man's eyes were wide, and there was a moment of silence as he and Maegor regarded the other. His response was simple. "I accept."
Maegor gasped in a breath, not realizing that he had been holding it. Attempting to wipe away tears as they welled in his eyes, Maegor nodded gratefully at the man. "Thank you," Maegor responded, his voice thick. The man nodded in return. Leaning back against the pedestal, Maegor closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly, and was blessedly dreamless.
When Maegor awoke, weak early morning sunlight was trickling in through a hole in the sept's roof, warming his face. The man was gone, along with the cloak and satchel that Maegor had given him. However, the man had placed his own threadbare cloak atop Maegor as he slept, for it covered him now like a thin blanket, doing what it could to ward off the winter's cold.
Standing, Maegor realized that he had never even learned the man's name. I will learn it when I see him again, Maegor mused. We will meet again. Maegor dearly hoped such thoughts were true. As of late, he had felt that there was hardly anything left of worth for himself to hope for. Maegor fastened the man's cloak about his shoulders, and took a deep breath. He walked for the doors of the sept, where the Grey Ghost awaited him on the hillside beyond.
In the snow beyond the sept's entryway, Maegor saw a single set of footprints. They traveled east, down the hill and across an empty field, until the distance became so great that Maegor could no longer make them out. They travel in the direction of Harrenhal. Maegor smiled, and the anger and rage that had been with him since Tumbleton began to recede slightly. We both have our own journeys to make, and our own trials ahead of us. Gods willing, we'll meet again.
Riverrun made for an impressive sight as Maegor approached the castle atop the Grey Ghost. Bordered on two of its three sides by two different rivers, it was plain to Maegor why the castle made for such a formidable bastion against the foes of House Tully. Not against dragons, Maegor thought grimly. The seat of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands had been suspiciously silent for most of the war, and Maegor, Gaemon, and Addam had decided that it was long past time for them to pick a side. With luck, the sight and potential danger of Grey Ghost will be all the persuasion that the Tullys require.
Warning blasts from war trumpets rang eerily through the icy stillness of the winter air, and Maegor began to circle above Riverrun atop the Grey Ghost. After completing seven circles in the sky above the fortress, Maegor began a slow descent towards the castle's interior. He waited in anticipation for crossbow bolts and arrows to begin to fly during his descent, but none did. Landing the Grey Ghost in an inner courtyard, Maegor sat tensely atop his dragon, watching as guardsmen in striped mud-red and blue gambesons and fish-crest helms began to file into the courtyard.
They formed a wide ring about the Grey Ghost, and even with their faces obscured by their helms, Maegor could see that they were fearful. The guardsmen clutched their spears tightly, and while some men shifted uncomfortably, others stood as though their spines were wrought of iron, utterly motionless as their gazes fixated on the dragon before them. Maegor turned his gaze to regard three men as they entered the courtyard. One was significantly older than the other two, with red hair that was beginning to turn grey. The other two were much more youthful in appearance, with the same red-colored hair as the first man. All three wore mail and leathers, and wore doublets depicting a leaping silver trout over wavy blue and mud-red lines.
After a moment's hesitation, Maegor removed his helm and addressed the greying knight. "Lord Tully, I presume?" he asked. "I am Ser Maegor, a dragonrider of the Queen Rhaenyra." Though he tried not to show it, Maegor was nearly as apprehensive as the men-at-arms surrounding him. Now that the Grey Ghost had landed, his tactical advantage was greatly lessened. A well-placed arrow or bolt could kill Maegor before he'd even have a chance to recognize any signs of treachery. The greying knight shook his head before answering. "Lord Tully is abed," the man began in a cool and courteous tone. "I am Ser Elmo Tully, his grandson and heir." He motioned at the two youthful warriors standing at his sides. "I am attended by my sons, Ser Kermit and Ser Oscar."
Ser Elmo stopped for a moment, regarding Maegor's face closely. "We were not expecting such a visit," the knight began cautiously, "but surely my grandfather's audience chamber would be a better place for receiving an emissary such as yourself than the yard?"
Maegor looked at the knight closely. He thought of Tumbleton, and Lord Unwin Peake. The Reachman had spoken endlessly of terms and accords, but it had been his eyes that Maegor had paid most attention to while arranging the Hightower army's surrender. Lord Unwin's eyes had been hard and cold, and were always watching. For any sign of weakness, any sign of doubt. Ser Elmo's expression was guarded, and he watched Maegor closely. I have little and less reason to trust him. Maegor had to suppress a scowl. So be it. I shall play the game.
"Bread and salt," Maegor began. "Guest right. I request this of you, Ser Elmo." Ser Elmo nodded after a moment, and gave the order. As Maegor waited in silence, the winter winds whistled mournfully about the crenellations far above his head on Riverrun's walls. After a few minutes of awkward and tense silence, a servant in mud-red livery with a silver trout patch appeared with a small platter containing bread and salt.
Maegor unchained himself and slid to the flagstones of the yard from the Grey Ghost's back. Turning, he faced the servant that now stood before him. With his armor and height, Maegor knew that he made for an imposing presence. The servant stared at him silently as Maegor towered above him, and Maegor saw a single bead of sweat trail down the side of the servant's face.
Maegor was often quick with a friendly greeting or smile in order to put others at ease. Not today. Not here. Maegor was at Riverrun for a single purpose: to bring House Tully fully beneath the banner of Queen Rhaenyra. Lords are like wolves, looking for any sign of perceived weakness. Maegor would play the part of the frightening dragon rider if that was what was required to bring House Tully's banners to Harrenhal.
Tearing off a chunk of bread from the offered loaf, Maegor dipped it into the salt and ate it, chewing slowly. He then turned to regard Ser Elmo and his sons. Ser Elmo moved his hand in an inviting gesture towards Maegor. "Be welcome, Ser," the knight began courteously, "Please, join my sons and I in the audience chamber for further discussion." Maegor nodded, and followed the three knights from the yard.
Torches burned within the audience chamber of Riverrun, above the castle's Great Hall. Ser Elmo sat in the lord's high seat against the chamber's back wall, flanked on either side by his two sons. Though Ser Elmo seemed to be the soul of courtesy, Maegor was beginning to grow tired of how the knight tried to dance around the topic of the true loyalties of his House.
"My Lord grandsire wishes to this day for our banners to march to the aid of the Greens, heedless of the dangers to our House and seat such a course of action would pose." Ser Elmo smiled a thin, apologetic smile. "As he grows older, I fear my grandsire is ever the more ruled by his sentiments."
Annoyed, Maegor interjected coldly. "Did Lord Grover not swear to the King Viserys that he would uphold Queen Rhaenyra's rights upon his death?"
Ser Elmo nodded slowly. "He did," the knight began simply, "But he claims that it was not a vow he must needs keep. My grandsire believes that such a demand, against the precedents set by the Great Council, was not within King Viserys' rights as King to make."
"And what do you believe, Ser Elmo?" Maegor asked, watching the knight closely. Given that Riverrun's banners did not march to the aid of the Usurper at the war's beginning, methinks it is not Lord Grover that truly wields the power of House Tully.
Ser Elmo smiled thinly once more as he regarded Maegor. The friendly expression did not reach his eyes, however. "In truth, I swore no vow to King Viserys, as my grandfather did. House Tully has always been and will continue to be leal servants of the crown, and custodians of the Riverlands at its pleasure." The knight was silent for a moment. "I bear no ill will towards either Rhaenyra or Aegon. But I do believe that refusing to uphold the King's will may set a dangerous precedent. Do a King's decrees last only for his lifetime, and bear no further meaning or power upon his death? It seems that this is what the Hightowers and their allies would have us all believe."
Ser Elmo sighed. "Despite my personal feelings on the matter, I have a duty to my House, and every person who lives on Tully lands. What assurances can you provide me that marching for Harrenhal will not bring the wroth of Aegon upon my family's lands, people, and seat?"
Maegor regarded Ser Elmo and each of his sons in turn as he spoke. "I can make no promises, Ser. But I can assure you of what I know to be true. The Queen has more dragons beneath her banner than the Usurper. Far more. I am sure that you have heard by now of the dragonriders who betrayed the Queen at Tumbleton."
Maegor paused as Ser Elmo nodded. "The traitors are dead, along with the Prince Daeron. Their dragons were slain as well, or were maimed and made riderless. We burned the Hightower army into a mere broken shell of what it once was. Aemond the Kinslayer and Vhagar were slain as well. If you travel to Harrenhal, you will see the truth of my words displayed upon the shore of the God's Eye."
Maegor gestured at the ceiling of the audience chamber, and the world beyond it. "The Queen's dragonriders control the skies. We have the ability to lay waste to any army that marches beneath the Usurper's banners with impunity. I should think that there can be no greater assurance than that."
Ser Elmo watched Maegor closely, with an unreadable expression. After a moment of silence, he spoke, pulling a piece of parchment from a pouch on his belt and holding it out before himself. "That may well be true," the knight began, "And yet Rhaenyra and all of her heirs have fallen into Aegon's clutches. He has returned atop Sunfyre to claim the capital, and Lord Borros Baratheon marches north to meet him with the entire army of the Stormlands."
Maegor had to suppress a grimace upon hearing the dire news. It seems that our worst fears about the Queen and her children have been realized. In the pit of his stomach, Maegor felt rage begin to build. "A crippled Usurper atop a crippled dragon," Maegor said coldly. I tire of this. Ser Elmo will make his choice now. "His wife the Princess Helaena has gone mad, and is incapable of riding Dreamfyre. My fellow riders and I do not fear armies." Maegor clenched his fists. "The Usurper's armies fear us. Twenty thousand men of the Reach could not stand against us. The Stormlanders will fall as well, should they challenge us."
Maegor stared angrily at the Tullys before him. "This war has been long, and is not nearly over yet. Those who will not stand with us to defend the Queen's rights can only be against us, and will be dealt with accordingly." Maegor let the threat hang as he waited for Ser Elmo's response.
For a long moment, the audience chamber was silent, but for the crackle of torches. One of Ser Elmo's sons fidgeted after a moment, and glanced furtively to the side at his father atop the high seat. All traces of courtly courtesy had drained from Ser Elmo's face, and he regarded Maegor coldly. Despite the nearly palpable tension in the room, Maegor felt no fear. If the Tullys kill me, Gaemon and Ser Addam will avenge me.
Ser Elmo drew in a breath and spoke. "I will send out a call for all able-bodied men on Tully lands to assemble beneath the walls of Riverrun. From hence, we will march for Harrenhal. My maester will send forth ravens across the Realm to proclaim House Tully's allegiance to the cause of Queen Rhaenyra."
Maegor nodded cooly, but was secretly relieved. I have managed to win yet another ally to our cause. The Usurper's cause grows ever weaker. "Thank you, Ser Elmo," Maegor began. "With your leave, I will return to my mount and depart for Harrenhal. I shall await the sight of your banners there in due time."
Ser Elmo nodded, but spoke before Maegor could turn to leave the audience chamber. "As an ally to the Queen's cause, Ser, I feel that there is pertinent information that will be of interest to you and your fellow dragonriders." Drawing a second piece of parchment out from the pouch on his belt to join the first already clutched in his hand, Ser Elmo proffered both towards Maegor. "The Usurper Aegon's supporters know that my Lord grandsire is a friend to their cause, and have been sending him correspondence in the hopes of winning the banners of House Tully to their cause. Methinks that the information contained within them will be of particular interest to you.
Maegor nodded at Ser Elmo in thanks, and crossed the short distance between them to take both parchments. In the light of the chamber's torches, Maegor began to look over the first message:
My liege,
It is my hope that this message finds you in good health. The fortunes of our King and his cause have recently undergone a most fortuitous set of changes! The Prince Daeron, along with our King's new leal dragonriders Ser Hugh and Ser Ulf, have won a great victory over the Pretender Rhaenyra's remaining bastard dragonriders above Tumbleton, killing all three along with their mounts. Lord Hightower's army now marches on the King's city without any further obstacles to impede its progress. Thanks to supporters of the rightful King within the walls of King's Landing, his city and Keep have returned to his control. The Pretender Rhaenyra and all of her children are now his prisoners.
His Grace knows that you have always been a true and leal supporter of his cause. However, your help is needed now more than ever, as we stand upon the precipice of victory! If you were to raise your forces and harry the army of Lord Stark as it attempts to pass through the Riverlands, our King would be able to organize a proper response that will destroy the Pretender's supporters for good and all. King Aegon eagerly awaits your response.
Larys Strong, Lord of Harrenhal
The first message was affixed with a wax seal displaying the three lines of House Strong's sigil. Maegor read the message several times over in confusion. What Green victory over Tumbleton?
Does Lord Strong hope to deceive Lord Tully into declaring for the King's cause? Maegor began to regard the second message. As he read it, the paper began to crumple at its edges as Maegor's fists clenched in rage:
My liege,
Our King has returned to his Keep and city atop Sunfyre, and continues to eagerly await the arrival of a raven from Riverrun. Lord Borros Baratheon and the men of the Stormlands march north to contribute their considerable strength to the King's cause. Ser Hobert Hightower and Lord Unwin Peake have recently arrived at King's Landing with the men of the Reach. To our sorrow, however, it appears that the losses mentioned in their message to the Pretender's court were more grievous than originally believed. My Lord, King Aegon lauds your undying loyalty, and knows that a man of your honor would not abandon him in his hour of greatest need. If the men of Riverrun were to march against the forces of Lord Stark and slow their advance through the Riverlands, the King would be extremely grateful. Our Lord and master will reward his allies for their service to his cause, and he knows that he has no greater ally than House Tully. He eagerly awaits your response.
Larys Strong, Lord of Harrenhal
Without the warmth of the sun, the winter cold was merciless. Maegor flew in darkness, with naught but the pale light of a thin crescent moon to illuminate the world below him. His departure from Riverrun had been swift. As he had taken flight atop the Grey Ghost, Maegor had seen numerous ravens begin to fly forth from the maester's turret. They carried word of House Tully's allegiance to Queen Rhaenyra across the Realm.
Such a sight had done naught to quell the rage that was consuming Maegor after learning of the betrayal of the surviving leaders of the Hightower army. How could we have been so foolish? To trust them, to 'give them terms'! As the winter wind whipped brutally across Maegor's unvisored face, he had to resist the urge to let out an enraged scream. While the likes of Unwin Peake and Hobert Hightower kept us "negotiating", they allowed their lies to spread on raven's wings and topple the Queen and her supporters into the hands of her enemies!
The pain of such realizations was almost too much for Maegor to bear. So many mistakes. Maegor grit his teeth and squinted his eyes against the whipping wind, urging the Grey Ghost to fly faster. You, blind, idiotic, ignorant FOOL!
"What have I done?" Maegor gasped. Despondency and rage fought brutally for primacy in Maegor's heart and mind as he continued to fly against the whipping winter winds, ever faster. "Did I not show mercy?" he groaned. Was that not what Septon Bennard had taught him so long ago? That the Seven smiled upon those who chose mercy over hatred and wrath? I wanted to burn them. He remembered the rage he had felt as he burned the Hightower army. It would have been so easy to kill them all. Never was there a host more deserving of such a fate.
Even so, Maegor had chosen to spare the survivors, to let them continue to live. "I chose mercy," Maegor whispered plaintively. What was my reward for sparing their wretched lives? Betrayal, defeat, and death. Maegor could have ended the war that day above Tumbleton if he had only heeded the hate and rage that had burned within nearly every fiber of his being. He should have immolated the entire host irregardless of their attempt at surrendering. Instead, I gave them mercy, not fire.
There was a throbbing pain in Maegor's chest, and he found it difficult to breathe. My "mercy" has led to the deaths of thousands, and will kill thousands more before this war is done. Maegor began to scream. It was a scream of pain, of grief, and of rage. The blustering winds tore across his face like a scourge, and robbed him of his breath, until his scream had turned into little more than an agonized rattle. Maegor slumped forward in his saddle, uncaring of where he was flying, of where the Grey Ghost was taking him. What have I done? The gnawing thought consumed him. Maegor's heart was pounding, and he found it hard to focus on the world around him. What have I done?
Maegor was unsure of how much time had passed when he felt the Grey Ghost begin its descent. It was still night, but Maegor had no idea which hour it could be. He had left Riverrun under the last fading red embers of a winter dusk, and had yet to see morning light. In the dark, it took Maegor several moments to realize where the Ghost had taken him. Sallydance. Even more snow had fallen since he had left it early in the morning.
The Ghost landed once more outside the scorched and half-collapsed sept at the top of the hill overlooking the burned ruins of the village. Maegor looked for the footprints of the man he had met in the sept, and agreed to become Maegor's sworn man. The fresh snowfall had filled them in. It's as though they were never even there. Maegor frowned. Mayhaps the man in the sept was nothing more than a dream. And yet, the man had taken the cloak and satchel that Maegor had given him, proving the truth of his existence.
Yet another beneficiary of my 'mercy'. The man could have been a roving outlaw for all that Maegor knew, feeding him a fabricated tale of woe. And I provided him with a new cloak, food, dagger, and missive bearing the Queen's mark. Maegor scowled. He wondered how many times people had been the recipient of his kindness, and had laughed at him behind his back. Laughing at the utter fool that had played right into their schemes. Unwin Peake and Hobert Hightower's deception had made Maegor realize his utter foolishness, but there had to be others before, those that had used him, made a fool of him for their own ends.
Were men like Gyles Yronwood truly grateful for Maegor's aid and support, and consider him a friend? Or was I a means to an end? A trusting fool that could help them to get something that they wanted? Maegor walked around to the sept's northern end. Under all the snow, Maegor couldn't tell if the bodies of Sallydance's slain villagers were buried there, as the man in the sept claimed he had done. He considered digging through the snow to try and discover whether dirt burial mounds truly were beneath it, but ultimately decided against it. Mayhaps it is better if I don't know whether or not the man lied to me. I do not know if I could bear discovering another betrayal borne of my foolish attempts at kindness and mercy.
Maegor turned and made his way into the sept's interior through its broken doors. The sanctuary was dark but for the silver moonlight that shone through the collapsed portions of the sept's roof. Among the detritus strewn near the sept's entryway, Maegor found a discarded torch wrapped in dry and brittle fabric. Striking bits of flint and steel that he kept on his person together, Maegor lit the torch.
Raising the torch, Maegor walked further into the sept. He walked to its opposite end, where the stone statues of the Seven stood, silently observing Maegor's approach. His feet crunched through broken glass, bits of shattered and charred stone and wood, and patches of snow beneath the collapsed portions of the roof.
Finding a sconce at the left end of the wall behind the semicircular assembly of the Seven gods, Maegor placed the torch into it. Situated as it was behind the statue of the Father, it threw his statue into shadow, masking his visage from Maegor's eyes. The Father and the justice he champions have long been beyond my perception. Maegor looked across the semicircle of statues to the mighty Warrior, whose statue stood directly across from that of the Father.
Of all the statues, the Warrior's was the only one that was fully illuminated by the light of Maegor's torch. The Warrior stood resolutely, with his hands clasping the hilt of his stone sword, its point driven into the bottom of the pedestal between his armored feet. Maegor stood in silence before the statue. What would King Maegor do? The question came suddenly into Maegor's thoughts, whispered by a voice he had not heard in some time. The voice of his father.
"What would he do?" Maegor whispered faintly, unsure. He remembered when he was small, after his mother and sister died. Before he was sent to the orphanage, Silver Denys had reminded Maegor of his lineage, of the King that he was descended from.
"Maegor the Cruel," his father had said, "is what the stories remember him as." Denys paced before the fireplace as he spoke to his three young sons that sat near his feet, listening intently. "Cruel to whom? His enemies to be sure. Men and women that sought to deny him his rightful throne. The histories and songs were written by his foes, those that sought to blacken his name, and to laud the Kingship of Jaehaerys, his nephew."
Denys grinned. "His enemies claimed that he sat on a throne that he stole from his nephew. I say that he took the throne on the merits of his strength and vision, as his father Aegon the Conqueror had. A true heir to the legacy of Valyria! When he defeated his nephew for the throne, many across the Realm bleated in protest, like the sheep that they were. They stood no chance against the dragon. Maegor cowed them all, brought them low and broke them until they were forced to accept his right to the Kingship."
Denys stopped his pacing, and turned to face his sons directly. "The songs claim that he was eventually defeated. They lie. Maegor was killed by no man or woman. He took his own life when the snakes that surrounded him finally showed themselves for what they were, and betrayed him. But he died on his own terms, not that of his nephew, who had to rely on the support of the sheep to win him his throne."
Denys knelt before his three sons, directly across from Maegor, who sat between his brothers. "We are all dragons, and the last descendants of the strongest King to sit the Iron Throne. Dragons are not cowed by sheep." Denys looked to Aegon first, then Aenys, and finally regarded Maegor, his violet eyes burning with intensity. "Never forget what you are, and who you are descended from. When all seems lost, you must ask yourself: 'What would King Maegor do?' He had strength enough to bend the Seven Kingdoms to his will. Remember the strength of your forebear. It is your birthright." Denys had taken Maegor to the orphanage beneath Dragonstone's citadel the very next day.
Maegor stood in silence, as the flickering of the torch's flames made shadows dance behind the statues of the Seven. His father had grown angry and bitter after the loss of his wife and daughter, and had in the time immediately after their deaths become obsessed with the legacy of King Maegor, and what it meant for himself and his sons. When he had left Maegor at the orphanage, Maegor had felt as though he had been betrayed by his own flesh and blood. He had forsaken his father's teachings.
Bennard became my father. It was the kindly septon's lessons that Maegor had lived his life by, not those of his father. Mayhaps I have been mistaken. He did not doubt the kindness of Bennard or his intentions. The septon truly believed that there was a goodness in all men, that could be found if one treated them with fairness and compassion.
Bennard is wrong. It pained Maegor to think so, but he could no longer see Bennard's beliefs as anything but naive. I have seen too much evil in the hearts of men and women, and the misery that it causes. Amongst his enemies, and even worse, amongst his supposed allies. And I have seen the evil in myself. Maegor had never been able to rid himself of the rage and hate that fueled his darkest urges; he had only been able to stave them off by trying to adhere to Bennard's mistaken beliefs.
Bennard would urge me to pray for guidance in a time such as this. To light a candle and pray before one of the Seven for their counsel and blessing. In honor of the Septon and the kindness he had always shown Maegor, he decided to pray just once more, in a final attempt to ask the Gods for a solution to his troubles. Wax candles were still strewn about the bases of the Seven's pedestals. Maegor picked one up, and considered the Seven Gods arrayed around him. From which do I seek guidance? To which do I ask for the strength for what I must do?
Maegor made his decision. Lighting the candle off of his torch, he knelt and placed it at his chosen altar. Sitting at the hem of the Stranger's carved stone robe, it flickered tremulously as gusts of cold winter air blew through the ruined sanctuary. Maegor knelt for a time in silence at the Stranger's feet, watching the tiny flame of the candle struggling against the cold relentless gusts that tried to snuff it out.
Mayhaps father was not completely wrong. King Maegor was necessary to break the Lords of the Realm, to bring them low, so that they saw the reign of King Jaehaerys as a mercy and rejoiced for it. None would easily question his decrees upon remembering the alternative, the terror of the King who came before. Maegor grimaced. The rage was there again, roiling deep within him, building. All of the false Lords of the Realm, those who promised peace whilst clutching daggers behind their backs, would know Maegor's wrath. When presented with the chance, he would burn all of their seats down to the bedrock that they were built upon.
"What of their families? What of their children?" The voice came to Maegor unbidden; the quiet whisper of a sad and lonely boy who once lived in an orphanage beneath Dragonstone's citadel. Maegor scoffed. Enough. I tried, Septon Bennard. To be the better man. A man of kindness and mercy. No longer. I am the last of King Maegor's line, and soon none in the Realm will doubt that I am a true heir to his legacy.
The weak, flickering flame of the tallow candle had finally been snuffed out, leaving Maegor shrouded in darkness as he continued to kneel at the Stranger's feet. Across the chapel, the flames of the torch in its sconce had begun to melt the snow that rested atop the statue of the Mother. Cool, icy water trickled in rivulets down her face like tears.