A/N: Before we begin, thanks to Kalstorm99, dire213, Harwinsnow, Aegor, and the new first-time commenter for all of your kind reviews! Feedback in that form is much appreciated and helps to inspire us both to write more. On that note, I have one final point to address: over the last couple of chapters, we have received a few guest reviews that have expressed their opinions on the story in a disrespectful manner. While we have ultimately not chosen to approve all of them, we wanted to take the opportunity to address them. As authors, we work hard on each and every one of our POVs, and enjoy them each equally. If you don't enjoy a POV, don't read it. It is not necessary to leave rude reviews complaining about it, nor will such reviews stop us from focusing equally on each character we choose to incorporate.
Maegor VI
Harrenhal's Hall of Hundred Hearths was crowded as its occupants awaited the arrival of Lord Mooton. Countless banners had been hung along the walls of the chamber, displaying the heraldry of each and every lord that had marched to defend the Queen's rights. We have our army now. The forces that the Riverlords had scrounged were meager, with the exception of the Tullys, whose men had yet to see the field of battle.
Men who have yet to die, Maegor thought darkly. He was seated at the hall's high table, amongst the most prestigious individuals that currently called Harrenhal home. From the Vale, Ser Isembard Arryn, Ser Corwyn Corbray, and Ser Alan Waxley. From the Riverlands, Ser Elmo Tully, Lady Sabitha Frey, and young Lord Benjicot Blackwood.
The two newcomers of greatest note however, were Lord Cregan Stark and Lady Rhaena Targaryen. Lord Stark brought the entire might of the North with him, and at the high table he was attended by one of his sworn vassals, a certain Lord Cerwyn. Lord Stark had dark hair, a long face, and grey eyes. In the short time that Maegor had known him, he seemed to be a stranger to good humor. A man of frowns, and long stares.
Maegor might have been slightly intimidated by such a demeanor, not so long ago. Now, he felt more like scoffing at the Northern Lord's behavior. He thinks himself a hard man. We shall find out, soon enough. Hard-fought battle would prove whether or not such things were true. Will he crack under the strain, like that sniveling Hightower at Tumbleton? Only time would tell.
Through her presence, the Lady Rhaena lent further legitimacy to their cause. She sat near to the table's center, with Ser Corwyn Corbray to her left, and Gaemon to her right. In her lap was a dragon hatchling, a creature with pale pink scales and black horns. Would that it were born sooner. Maegor didn't expect the Princess Helaena to fly into battle with the Usurper, but even so, every dragon that could be relied upon to fly into battle against the Greens was a boon to be desired. We could have had one more rider, had the Queen not ordered for Nettles' execution.
When Maegor had learned of Queen Rhaenyra's death, he had felt very little in the way of sympathy, or grief. How many chances did we have to end this war? How many times did she willfully squander them with her indecision, and paranoia? That self-same paranoia was why Nettles was missing, an exile on the run. We could have used Nettles, and her dragon.
Sitting silently in his seat, Maegor frowned sadly. I miss her. Her vulgar manner of speaking and grim sense of humor had at first been off-putting, but Maegor had grown to enjoy it. Nettles truly understood the unfairness and senseless cruelties of this world long before I did. He wondered what she would think of his plans for vengeance against the treacherous Greens. Maegor's frown deepened. She would likely think me mad.
Beneath the table, Maegor's fists clenched. I gave them a chance. A chance to surrender, and to save the lives of their men. And they spit on it. Such betrayal could not, would not, go unpunished. The Conqueror made a pyre of this very castle, with King Harren and all of his sons inside of it. With the extinction of House Hoare, their depravities and cruelties came to an end.
By the war's end, Maegor planned to make several more Harrenhals. The Green leaders at Tumbelton will reap the rewards of their treachery. Destruction, and utter ruin. Mayhaps, when they learn of the burning of their seats, and all who live within them, they will understand some small amount of the abject misery that they have wrought upon the Realm, and its people.
Maegor knew that such actions would cause him to be reviled amongst the worst villains of the histories of the Seven Kingdoms. And yet, to his own dark amusement, he realized how little he cared. Let them speak of my deeds and actions in hushed, accusatory tones. Let the nobility be outraged and horrified. They will revile my legacy, but they'll also remember it, and fear it. With luck, such fear will grip their hearts the next time they intend to commit some atrocity. They will learn that righteous and furious justice comes not at the precipice of the afterlife, but on dragon's wings.
Maegor was pulled from his musings as the massive doors of the Hall of Hundred Hearths were opened, allowing for the entrance of Lord Mooton and his recently arrived entourage. As they entered, Maegor's eyes widened in sudden surprise. What in the Seven Hells?
Lord Mooton and his most prominent knights were not alone as they strode along the hall's length to present themselves before the high table. Maegor saw faces amongst the newcomers that he had never thought to see again. All were haggard, and many faces were also covered in scruffy, unkempt facial hair, as well as half-healed cuts and other wounds. Dead men walking. Men who we thought fell with the city of King's Landing.
Quick glances to either side of himself confirmed that Maegor was not the only one stunned at the sight of the new arrivals. Gaemon, Ser Addam, Lady Rhaena, the Valemen, the Riverlords, and even Lord Stark all wore various expressions of shock and wonder.
The first face that Maegor recognized was that of Lord Commander Marbrand's former squire, Ser Morgon Banefort, whom Maegor had sparred with several times at the Red Keep. The longer he looked upon them, the more faces that Maegor recognized. Ser Torrhen Manderly was there as well. It appeared that the northern knight had lost some of his considerable weight since the last time Maegor had seen him, and the mustache that he oft kept so well oiled and trimmed was now a bristling mass on his upper lip.
Ser Willam Royce had bandages wrapped about his head, and walked slightly unsteadily. His ancient bronze breastplate had nearly as many scrapes and dents adorning its surface as it did carved runes. However, he stood tall, and wore his Valyrian Steel sword proudly on his hip. To Maegor's great shock, the Lady Mysaria was present as well. How did they escape? Maegor remembered the sight of King's Landing, smoldering and ruined. How are they still alive?
Before he could muse any further, Maegor noticed one final face from amongst the crowd of newcomers. Ser Gyles Yronwood. It had been some time since he'd last lain eyes on the handsome Dornish knight, and it appeared that the past weeks had been more than unkind to him. The Dornishman had two black eyes, and his nose was covered in a heavy layer of bandages. Additionally, his left arm was cradled in a cloth sling that had been secured about his neck.
Despite his many wounds however, Ser Gyles strode confidently forward, with the portcullis sigil of his House still prominent upon his silk doublet despite the many tears and stains it bore. While Maegor had remembered him as clean-shaven, a short and curly blonde beard now dominated much of the lower half of Ser Gyles' face.
Maegor was stunned. Looking at the assembled multitude that had gathered before the high table, he felt as though he were observing a host of ghosts. However, Maegor noticed that many of the survivors of King's Landing were themselves staring at Maegor, Gaemon, and Addam, with varying expressions of shock. The false letters. Maegor felt the all-too-familiar anger flare up again within himself. They thought us all dead, slain in battle over Tumbleton.
After a moment, Maegor realized that Ser Gyles was staring directly at him. Turning his head to fully regard the Dornishman, Maegor nodded slightly at him. Gyles nodded his head in turn at Maegor. Maegor was surprised to see an intense expression upon the Dornishman's face, full of restrained emotion. How very odd. It is understandable that he is surprised to see me, but to nearly be overcome with emotion? Maegor found that the anger building within himself had been replaced by confusion. Twas not a reaction I would have ever thought to expect from a man like Ser Gyles.
Once the newcomers had all arrayed themselves before the Hall of Hundred Hearths' massive high table, they all bent to one knee before the assembled Great Lords, and the Lady Rhaena. Turning his face up to regard the table's occupants, Ser Torrhen Manderly began to speak. "It appears that little of what we believed to be the truth in these past few weeks bears any veracity now." Ser Torrhen nodded at the assembled crowd of kneeling warriors gathered about him, before regarding all the Lords and Knights who had assembled in the Hall to observe their entrance. "If you will allow us some time, my Lords, there is much and more that we must needs tell you."
Maegor leaned forward on the battlement, oblivious to the cold winter winds. Beyond the massive walls of the castle was the God's Eye lake. The waters were grey and choppy, as a light snowfall continued to drift lazily down from the sky above. Bad waters for fishing on. Back home at Dragonstone, Maegor had learned to value days such as these. Father wouldn't have had us go out on waters like these. Such days were oft instead spent at Malda's inn, where the ale flowed freely, and the warmth of the hearth dispelled the outside chill.
Maegor smiled at countless memories of the time he had spent at the inn, as the half-forgotten sights and sounds rippled ephemerally at the edge of his consciousness like reflections on water. The life I enjoyed. The smile disappeared, replaced by a deep frown. The life I wanted.
Though Maegor cared for the Grey Ghost, and the bond that they shared, he would give it all up if it meant he could have had his old life back. I didn't want any of this. Not truly. He had sought out the Grey Ghost more out of a sense of duty to his vaunted lineage than a genuine desire of his own. We were supposed to ride dragons in the Queen's name. To win great glory, wealth, and fame. His father had said as much that night at Malda's inn, the night that felt so long ago. He even convinced me, despite my doubts and reservations.
Maegor had succeeded in taming a dragon, as he and his kin had hoped he would. And what did it win me, truly? Loss after loss after loss. He had lost his father and his brothers first, and the pain of it all had nearly broken Maegor. The second great loss had come when Maegor realized that he could never again live as a simple member of the smallfolk, content in his own small corner of the world. I could have been a Septon, traveling from village to village on Dragonstone. Or mayhaps I could have built a home of my own, and been a fisherman like my father. Marry a girl from the village, and have sons and daughters of my own. Now, they felt like the dreams of another man, another Maegor. A Maegor that hasn't burned thousands of men alive. A Maegor that doesn't continue to hear their screams in his dreams, or smell their burning flesh.
The third and final loss had been nearly as painful as the first. The loss of who I thought I was. The loss of the sense of my place in this world, and what I thought that I believed in. Maegor wanted to live in a world where kindness and mercy mattered, and where such acts would be rewarded in the grand scheme of things. Such foolishness. I should have known better. Most people care only for themselves, and will do whatever it takes to ensure their own victories. The profound sense of despair that such thoughts and realizations brought made Maegor want to weep anew each time he thought of them. Maegor's face twisted into a silent snarl. No more tears. No more weakness. There is a new purpose for me now, a new way.
Maegor would win in the end. He could not countenance the possibility of any other outcome. No matter how high I have to pile the charred bones, and no matter how many castles have to burn. If the evil men and women of this world could not be reasoned with, then Maegor would break them. If the Gods won't punish them for their avarice and cruelty, then I gladly will. Maegor's fists clenched atop the battlements. I will make them understand what it is to truly lose everything.
The sound of footsteps approaching him drew Maegor from his increasingly enraged musings. Schooling his expression to one of cool indifference, Maegor turned to face the newcomer.
Ser Gyles Yronwood stood before him. The Dornishman had removed much of the scraped and scarred armor that he had arrived at Harrenhal in, wearing naught but a mail shirt as a means of defence. The silk doublet that he wore was not nearly as mangled as the one that he had arrived in, but still bore several tears and stains. Ser Gyles wore a fur cloak about his shoulders, which he attempted to pull more tightly about himself with his right hand.
Maegor let a false smile spread across his features. "If it isn't the conquering hero! It will not be long before all the bards sing the praises of you and your puissant comrades in their ballads."
Maegor was thoroughly surprised by the Dornishman's reaction. Rather than the wide, confident grin that Maegor expected to see, Ser Gyles merely gave a slight shake of his head. "It should not be myself of whom the bards sing. The knights of our party would have been slaughtered despite their heroism, had the smallfolk with us not so bravely borne arms into battle and fought alongside us."
Maegor was unsure of how to respond. Praising peasants? What happened to the grinning, glory-chasing knight that I introduced into Queen Rhaenyra's court? Where is the easy charm and self-assured arrogance?
Up close, Ser Gyles' wounds were not a pleasing sight to look upon. The black and blue discoloration of the skin about his eyes made them look as though they were two violet-colored orbs contained within sunken pits. The bandages about his nose made his voice slightly nasally, and the way that he had to clutch his winter cloak about himself with only one arm looked thoroughly uncomfortable.
"I-" Ser Gyles began, and then hesitated. The Dornishman closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed. Eventually, with a firm look at Maegor, Ser Gyles continued. "I apologize, Ser. I will not lie to you. I am nearly all but a stranger to the virtues of humility, and sincere gratitude. I've spent too much of my life seeking accomplishments, and too little giving thanks to those who have helped me to achieve them." The Dornishman coughed, and shifted his feet slightly. "I would like to try now."
Gyles smiled apologetically. "Much and more has happened to me on my journey north from King's Landing. Lessons learned, and friends lost. I will not burden you with the tale in its entirety. Suffice to say, I am not the knight, nor the man, that you were once acquainted with in King's Landing."
Gyles met Maegor's eyes with a strong gaze. "These past few weeks have taught me the true meaning of my knighthood, and the type of man that I must needs be. There are many that I wish to thank for aiding me in such realizations, and encouraging me to accept them." Gyles frowned, the expression conveying a great depth of grief.
"And yet, Ser Maegor, you are the only such person who remains. I will not lose the second chance that fate has provided me. Thank you, Ser Maegor. Thank you for your kindness, and willingness to aid me in my journey. Though it may mean little and less to you, your kindness has ultimately meant everything to me."
Gyles chuckled ruefully. "Forgive me for what must seem to be half-mad ramblings, Ser. But when I saw, when I realized that you still lived, I knew what I needed to do." Gyles smiled. "A great regret that I thought I would carry to my dying day was my own foolish inability to adequately thank those who have ultimately made me a better man, when I had the chance." Gyles laughed, and the joy contained within it was utterly at odds with the dour, snow-covered battlements that the sound rang off of. With his good arm and hand, Gyles clasped Maegor's shoulder. "Thank you, Ser Maegor. Thank you for everything."
Maegor's patience was beginning to wear thin. Have we not all gathered at this thrice-damned castle for the express purpose of making war on the Greens? It seemed that the reality of the situation fell far from Maegor's initial expectations. There is too much doubt amongst the leadership here. Now is a time for decisive action, not fretting and prevarication.
Maegor was not arrogant enough to think of himself as some great tactician. Serving beneath the Queen Rhaenyra, however, had taught him that the surest way to lose a war was to be paralyzed by indecisiveness and fear. We had every advantage over the Greens. And we wasted all of them. Maegor scowled. We are in this very situation because of a fear to commit to an ambitious plan of action. The irony of it all was not lost on Maegor, either. The only reason that this war continues is because of Gaemon, Addam, and I. Without dragons, the Blacks would have nothing left.
Had she been alive to witness a victory, Maegor wondered how Queen Rhaenyra would have ultimately rewarded him. A dagger in the back, or mayhaps poison in my wine? More's the pity that my father and brothers are dead. If they lived, perhaps she would have ordered assassins to strike my head off in front of them, like the young Prince Jaehaerys. Beneath the table, Maegor's fists clenched. Despite her betrayal of Nettles, and her likely plans to betray the rest of her Seeds in the future, the Queen Rhaenyra managed to keep Maegor beneath her banner from beyond the grave for one reason. I will have my revenge on the Greens who deceived us at Tumbleton. They shall wish that they died there with their comrades when I am finished with them.
"The Queen's heirs are at King's Landing, in Aegon's custody! Have you so quickly forgotten this simple truth, Lord Tarly?" Lord Humfrey Bracken chuckled incredulously. "The moment we make an attack of any kind, they will be killed! What, pray tell, shall we all do then?" Lord Bracken sat back down in his seat about the massive round table in the council chamber of Kingspyre Tower. He glared first at Lord Tarly, and then at young Lord Blackwood and his aunt Alysanne, who were seated completely opposite to him across the table.
Lord Vance of Atranta nodded emphatically in support of Lord Bracken's words. Maegor had to physically suppress a scoff. The both of them may as well still sit beneath a golden dragon banner, for all that they continue to support the Usurper's cause. Though they had technically bent the knee to Rhaenyra in return for their lives, Maegor had no doubts as to where their true loyalties still remained.
Though every Lord present technically had a right to voice their opinions in the war councils, it was no secret as to whose words carried true weight. Lord Cregan Stark. Ser Elmo Tully. Sers Isembard Arryn and Corwyn Corbray. Ser Isembard was the leader of the army of Valemen that had arrived at Harrenhal in name, but one would have to be utterly blind not to realize that most of the forces of the Vale beyond Ser Isembard's mercenaries only listened to and respected Ser Corwyn.
Other than these men, the remaining Lords and Ladies present simply didn't bring enough soldiers in order to have a serious say in what the next action of Queen Rhaenyra's army should be. Ser Isembard Arryn was of the opinion that the army should immediately march on King's Landing, while Ser Corwyn Corbray seemed more hesitant to endanger the Queen's heirs. Frustratingly, Ser Elmo Tully and Lord Cregan Stark had remained largely silent during the deliberations, preferring to listen rather than debate.
We have to march. Maegor was no fool. There was no food left to be foraged anywhere near Harrenhal. The army lived solely on the provisions that they had brought along with themselves. Our situation is unsustainable. As before, we only allow the Greens to grow stronger the longer we wait to act.
Maegor stood next, and cleared his throat. All eyes about the table turned to regard him. I have to win them over. I have to convince them that marching is our only option. "My Lords and Ladies," Maegor began, "I will not claim to completely understand the intricacies of warfare, and campaign. However, I will speak plainly about what I have observed. We do not have the foodstores in order to winter at Harrenhal. I have walked amongst the men camped outside the castle's walls, from time to time. Already they complain of rationing, and going hungry. The longer we remain here, the more empty their bellies will become."
Maegor frowned. "It seems to me that a starving army will be of no use to the Queen's cause on the field of battle. We should march now, while we still have the provisions to do so. The Usurper won't dare to attack us, not while my fellow seeds and I continue to dominate the skies."
After several moments, many of the Lords and knights about the table began to murmur amongst themselves, seemingly mulling over Maegor's words. If I can convince them of the reality of our situation, then I'll have them. They will realize that the only path to victory is to march forth.
It came almost as a surprise to Maegor when Lord Stark finally spoke up. "Aye, Ser, the time has come for us to march. But it should not be for King's Landing." Maegor was not the only individual present at the war council to look at the Northern Lord in confusion.
"Our army should march for Duskendale." Lord Stark glanced about the table, his grey eyes hard and guarded. "If I am not mistaken, Ser Addam, your grandfather's ships still control the Narrow Sea. If we take the port of Duskendale, we will be able to obtain supplies by sea. We will also be able to more directly menace the city of King's Landing."
Maegor sat back down in his chair, and watched as many heads about the table began to nod in agreement with the Northman's words. "The Usurper will be honor-bound to confront us if we take Duskendale, the seat of one of his supporters. With outriders, and dragons, we will be able to harass and prevent any further armies or supply trains from entering the city. The Usurper's men will starve, and he will be forced to march to confront us, or his starving soldiers and Lords will eventually deliver his head to us themselves."
Maegor felt a small, cold smile spread across his face. It's perfect. His estimation of Lord Stark grew ever higher as the Northman continued to elaborate on his plans. "You dragonriders will be responsible for bringing the King down in the field. Once he is slain, the Greens will have no choice but to fully capitulate. The Usurper has no possible heirs remaining to him except a daughter, and his Lords would be loathe to crown a young girl as their monarch after suffering so grievously to ensure the rights of the throne to a Prince over a Princess.
As Lord Stark finished speaking, the chamber was utterly silent for several long moments. Lords Bracken and Vance both bore sullen expressions, but said no more. Lord Alan Tarly and Ser Alan Beesbury smiled viciously. Ser Elmo Tully's face remained guarded, but he nodded slightly. Lord Stanton Piper's face was full of a burning resolve, and he nodded emphatically at Lord Stark's words. Ser Isembard Arryn appeared ecstatic, and Ser Corwyn and the Lady Rhaena both sat with expressions that conveyed equal measures resolve and concern.
Maegor looked to his fellow seeds. Gaemon looked particularly grand in his new doublet, which he had had made for him in the Vale. It was a vibrant crimson color, and its sigil was a black three-headed dragon. Paired with Dark Sister sheathed on his hip, he looked every bit the Prince that he had always dreamed of being. Gaemon nodded at Maegor, with a burning resolve in his eyes. Ser Addam's look and nod matched Gaemon's in intensity. Maegor gave them both a firm nod of his own.
After looking about the table for any signs of disagreement or dissent, Lord Stark gave a simple, impassive nod. "So be it, then. Let us make the necessary preparations. We shall all march for Duskendale."
Being alone with his thoughts was oft a comfort to Maegor. A chance for him to let his mind wander, and forget whatever ills currently plagued him. However, he found that solitude had offered him no solace this he often did, he found himself once again atop Harrenhal's battlements, looking out over the massive God's Eye lake beyond.
Maegor was on the precipice of achieving the revenge that he so badly desired. He was confident that when the army took Duskendale, he would be able to travel south atop the Grey Ghost, under the pretense of scouting and preventing supplies from reaching King's Landing. I will burn the seats of the deceivers at Tumbleton. He would show no mercy, for the Greens had continuously shown none.
Though he had long accepted that many would sharply criticize and even vilify his actions, Maegor realized that others would not. Lord Alan Tarly and Ser Alan Beesbury will support me, as will Ser Tom Flowers. Maegor expected that many of the Riverlords would also be likely to hesitate in categorically condemning Maegor's actions. They have all suffered much more at the hands of the Greens. Many will be all too happy to see destruction and misery wrought upon their enemies in kind.
So why, now, of all times, was he suddenly experiencing some small measure of doubt? I know why, though I am loathe to admit it to myself. Maegor cursed angrily beneath his breath. Ser Gyles. His conversation with the Dornishman had left him feeling more lost than ever before. He sincerely thanked me for the kindness I had shown him. He told me that it helped to make him a better man.
Maegor gritted his teeth in rage and frustration. Why now, of all times? He had wanted to believe that Bennard's lessons on mercy and kindness were true, but had ultimately concluded that they were at best misguided, if not completely false. Such conclusions had given him a sense of clarity. It was a cold and merciless clarity, but one that provided some small amount of comfort in the midst of all the confusion and pain that had so quickly consumed his life.
One man, and his thanks, does not change anything. There were still so many evil people in the world, people that deserved to be punished. That deserved to suffer for the misery that they left in their wake. My conversation with Ser Gyles means nothing. I am more certain than ever about what must be done, to ensure true justice. Maegor's fists clenched, and he reached within himself for the fiery rage that was always waiting to burst forth, and consume him. The more it grew, the more assured Maegor felt in his wrath, and hate.
I must needs get some rest. The days ahead will be long and arduous. Maegor nodded silently to himself. Sleep will set me right, and strengthen my resolve. Come morning, I will abide no more doubt within myself. I will do what must needs be done.
If he had hoped for a dreamless sleep, Maegor was to be sorely disappointed. Nearly as soon as he closed his eyes, his mind was drawn beyond the confines of the waking world, to a realm that existed beyond conscious thought. Looking about himself, Maegor slowly realized that he was in the Throne Room of the Red Keep.
It must have been night, for no light filtered in through the narrow windows high along the Great Hall's eastern and western walls. Maegor spent a moment looking up at the windows, and the sky beyond. The longer he looked, the more perturbed Maegor felt. It isn't night. There aren't any stars. Rather, it appeared that naught existed beyond the Great Hall but for an inky, overwhelming blackness.
Despite the massive size of the Great Hall, Maegor felt extremely confined. But for the dim light of torches in sconces mounted on pillars, shadows encroached upon and consumed every part of the hall that lay beyond the torchlight. There lay only one path before him that would keep Maegor in the torchlight. Forward.
Like a narrow bridge over a wine-dark sea, the carpet that stretched from the Great Hall's bronze-and-oak doors to the Iron Throne was the path that Maegor realized he must follow. It had been many a year since he had feared the dark, but for some reason he couldn't fully understand, Maegor knew that he didn't want to discover what lay beyond the shadows.
Walking along the carpet, Maegor watched the Iron Throne grow larger in his vision, shrouded in gloom. As he walked ever closer, he began to make out a hunched form sitting atop it. Maegor continued forward. The way that the figure was slumped atop the Iron Throne made it impossible for Maegor to discern their identity.
Reaching the dais, Maegor climbed it, but he hesitated at the foot of the steps of the Iron Throne itself. To climb it is treason, he thought to himself. Despite his reservations, Maegor began to ascend the steps of the throne. As he climbed, Maegor felt more and more confident in his decision. The slumped figure dominated his vision, and Maegor felt anticipation building in his gut the closer he approached.
Reaching the figure at the throne's zenith, Maegor could see now that they were dressed in fine black steel. Battle armor fit for a King, Maegor mused. When the slumped form remained motionless after several moments, Maegor placed a hand on its armored shoulder and pushed the body back up against the back of the throne.
Lifeless and fogged-over violet eyes stared back at Maegor. Despite his initial startlement, Maegor quickly frowned. I do not know this face. Its left half was heavily scarred and scabbed, and even in death, the stranger's thin lips appeared to be twisted into a pout. A wispy silver-gold mustache covered the portions of the corpse's upper lip that didn't bear significant scarring. A deep, gaping gash had been sliced across the stranger's throat, and their neck was slick with black and congealed blood.
It was not the stranger's appearance that revealed their identity to Maegor, but rather what they wore. Their black steel breastplate bore an embossed golden three-headed dragon, and Blackfyre still sat across the knees of the lifeless figure. Atop the corpse's head was a circlet crafted of what was clearly Valyrian Steel, interspersed with square-cut rubies. The Usurper.
As though they had minds of their own, Maegor's hands reached forward, and lifted the Conqueror's crown from the Usurper's head. The metal was ice-cold in his palms, and the rubies dully reflected some of the surrounding torchlight. Slowly, deliberately, Maegor placed the crown atop his own head. He wrested Blackfyre from the stiff hands of the Usurper's corpse, and knocked his body down the steps of the Iron Throne with a single rough shove. Though the Great Hall had been silent as a grave only moments before, it echoed the screeching cacophony that the Usurper's armor made as he bumped and scraped his way down the Iron Throne's steps.
With a grim satisfaction, Maegor sat down atop the Throne in the Usurper's place. He sat upright, and laid the flat side of Blackfyre across his knees. In so doing, Maegor realized that he was wearing his own black plate armor, with the exception of his helm and gauntlets.
The torches throughout the hall suddenly flared brightly, greatly brightening the expanse of the Throne Room, though not entirely. Amongst its pillars and galleries, where shadow yet remained, Maegor could make out the barest impressions of moving shadows, and hear the dim chatter of many voices. Though he could see no grand audience, Maegor was acutely aware of such a sudden presence as the voices of the hidden watchers in the wings only continued to grow in intensity.
Looking down towards the base of the Iron Throne, Maegor was surprised to see a new figure ascending its steps towards him. As he watched the newcomer's approach, Maegor felt no fear, nor confusion. He simply waited expectantly for the person to make their identity known to him. As they drew nearer, Maegor realized just how massive they were. Tall and broad, with a thick neck and arms. They did not walk up the steps, but rather tramped up them, one heavy foot slamming down after the other.
Stopping below the throne's zenith, the figure turned their face up from the pervasive gloom to regard Maegor. They had a square face, and a lantern jaw adorned with a closely-cropped silver-white beard. Their hair was the same color as their beard, and had been similarly cut short.
What struck Maegor most about the stranger's appearance however, was their eyes. They were violet in color, and full of a hard pitilessness. A scowl contorted their features, with the lines and contours of their face showing that such an expression was one often made. King Maegor. Maegor wasn't sure how he knew, but the longer he looked upon the man's face, the more certain he felt.
King Maegor addressed him in a cold, grating voice. "It is time to mete out judgement." Before Maegor could ask his great-great-grandsire what he meant, he was startled by the sound of several roars. Seemingly detaching themselves from the shadows that clung to the flanks of the Iron Throne, several small dragons with grey-black scales coiled themselves about the foot of the Iron Throne.
King Maegor turned to face the hall beyond. "Bring the guilty forward!" He called coldly, and Maegor watched as a figure emerged from the gloom and shadow to stand before the dais of the Iron Throne, struggling against the grasp of faceless captors that seemed to be made of mist and shadow. Lord Unwin Peake. The grizzled Lord struggled mightily for several moments, before glaring up at the two Maegors looking down upon him.
A cold sneer spread across his face as he regarded Maegor atop the Iron Throne, wearing the Conqueror's Crown and wielding Blackfyre. "I would have expected nothing less of a baseborn wretch like you." He chuckled mockingly. "One can dress a hog in a Lord's finery and place it in a high seat, but all men know that its true home remains the sty!"
Maegor scowled as he retorted. "Have you nothing to say in your defence, Lord Peake? No pleas for mercy?"
Lord Peake smiled mockingly. "The Seventh Hell will freeze over before I beg for the mercy of a low scoundrel such as you!"
Maegor glared at the Reachman, feeling the rage building within himself. It was then that he noticed Lord Unwin's furtive glance. For what seemed half the length of a heartbeat, Lord Peake's eyes darted to regard the dragons curled about the dais. However, his face remained contorted in a cruel sneer.
"Make your judgement," King Maegor said, without turning back to regard his enthroned descendant. His voice was cold, and dispassionate. He almost sounds… bored.
"Lord Unwin Peake," Maegor began, "I sentence you to death." He slammed his fist down upon the flat edge of one the melted blades lining one of the Iron Throne's arm rests, so as not to harm himself.
The dragons coiled about the base of the throne roared as one, and immolated Lord Peake in a maelstrom of crackling, white-hot flame. Lord Peake emitted an inhuman, guttural scream, and fell to his knees as the dragonflame consumed him. His hands reached forth, clawing desperately at thin air in frenzied, near animalistic swipes. The skin of his face bubbled and melted, sloughing off his rapidly-charring skull in steaming runnels of blood and gore. The shrieking didn't last long.
As Lord Peake's charred, steaming corpse collapsed in a heap, the shadowy crowd in the Great Hall's galleries let out an exultant cheer. Maegor smiled coldly at their praise as a new figure was dragged forth from the gloom to stand before the Iron Throne's dais.
Ser Hobert Hightower's face was grey, and for several moments his lips moved silently as the man found his voice incapable of projecting forth his desperate pleas. His eyes were wide, and full of terror. It was an oddly familiar sight to Maegor. Ser Hobert looks like a fish out of water, flopping vainly on the deck of a boat as it tries in vain to return to the water's embrace.
"What say you in your defence, Ser Hobert?" Maegor asked coldly.
Ser Hobert fell to his knees, and as the ancient knight began to speak, his voice cracked. "I should have spoken up, I should have tried to stop them." He hung his head in shame. "I was afraid. I was too craven to try to stop what I knew to be wrong, and evil." He wrung his hands. "I know I am guilty, and I will accept punishment. But please-" Ser Hobert clasped his hands together as he looked up at Maegor, as though the words he uttered were part of some desperate prayer: "Don't burn me! I beg of you, at least grant me this one mercy."
Maegor stared at the knight of House Hightower, his teeth gritted in silent rage. This cowardly worm stood aside and allowed thousands to die in agony, and yet he asks mercy of me? Maegor's response was succinct, and full of a barely-contained rage. "I think not, Ser Hobert. You will burn for your evil." Maegor's fist slammed down hard on the flat edge of the blade once more.
Ser Hobert began to sob loudly, and tried to crawl away from the dais of the Iron Throne on hands and knees. If he thought to seek some sort of safety, the dragons curled about the throne's base were unwilling to allow him that. Within moments, they had immolated the aged Hightower.
As Ser Hobert's shrill wails and screams died down after several long moments, the unseen crowd began to cheer once more. Maegor however, felt no joy, nor even a grim satisfaction. Was that truly justice? Before he could consider such troublesome thoughts further, more prisoners were dragged forth from the gloom for his judgement.
As time wore on, Maegor burned the rest of the Green Leaders who had deceived him at Tumbleton, one by one. Most, like Ser Hobert, begged without avail for their lives to be spared. However, Ser Jon Roxton proved a notable exception. Up until the moment he was immolated in dragonflame, the Reachman merely stared in cold silence at Maegor, his eyes dripping with naked malice. Maegor found himself unnerved, in spite of himself. If pure evil had a face, methinks it would look like kin to Jon Roxton.
The next prisoners brought forth for judgement were a shock to Maegor. Struggling mightily against her captors' shadowy clutches, the Lady Baela Targaryen ultimately was forced to stand before the dais. Maegor noticed that the letters SL appeared to be branded on her cheek. Where did that scar come from? The Princes Aegon and Viserys were dragged forth as well. The two Princes' eyes were wide with fear as they observed the charred corpses of the guilty splayed about before the dais of the Iron Throne, and they stared up at Maegor with stricken expressions.
"Why are they here?!" Maegor exclaimed in shock. "They have done no wrong!"
"And yet," King Maegor responded pitilessly, "the three of them yet stand in the way of your justice. As you burn castles for their Lords' treachery and treason, the Greens will repay you in kind."
Maegor shook his head in denial. "They wouldn't dare!" he exclaimed. "They are too valuable!"
King Maegor's stare was merciless. "Such is the price of true revenge," his voice grated. "Such is war."
"No," Maegor whispered. "NO!" He pointed at the three prisoners before the throne. "Release them all, immediately! They are guilty of no crimes!"
Though the two Princes remained petrified with fear, the Lady Baela continued to struggle against the shades that gripped her. King Maegor shook his head angrily. "Listen to me, boy!" he shouted, with an enraged expression. "It is too late now! A King has no need for weakness, no need for regret!" King Maegor's expression and tone returned to an eerie calm, dripping with malice. "What is to grieve, ultimately, about three more corpses joining the thousands this war has already produced?"
To his horror, Maegor watched as his own fist rose into the air, the movement of his arm suddenly utterly beyond his control. It slammed down, and the dragons bathed the three Targaryens standing before the Iron Throne in flame. As they screamed, Maegor forced his eyes closed. No, No, NO! I didn't want this! They have no part, no stake in my fury. They should not be made to suffer for it! The hidden crowd in the galleries had stopped their cheering, and had gone utterly silent.
When the screaming stopped, Maegor reluctantly opened his eyes. He noticed that his fist had slammed down on the point of a blade, and blood was seeping out of a deep gash on his hand, dripping between his fingers.
A new prisoner had been brought to stand amongst the charred corpses at the foot of the dais. Gaemon. Maegor's friend did not struggle, but merely stood still, broken and defeated. His magnificent crimson doublet was torn and shredded, and covered in soot.
Gaemon looked up to regard Maegor, and Maegor could see a maelstrom of emotions swirling behind his eyes. Betrayal, grief, and worst of all, hate. "Why, Maegor?" was all that Gaemon asked.
Maegor looked to his kinsman, standing several steps below him. "This isn't possible!" he cried, as horror and confusion threatened to overtake his senses. "Gaemon is a brother to me. He would never be my foe. He is the only true friend I have left!"
King Maegor shook his head, and regarded his descendant with frustration. "Wrong. A King has no friends. He has servants and supplicants. Nothing more. Any who will not bend to his will, or who dare to oppose him, must be utterly vanquished."
Maegor had heard enough. "I refuse!" he screamed at King Maegor. "Gaemon is not my enemy. Never in a thousand years!"
King Maegor looked up at him icily, before providing a simple response. "He will be." He pointed an accusatory, gauntleted finger at Maegor. "He will stand in the way of your ultimate victory, as many others will try to. He will have to be crushed underfoot along with the rest."
Once more, Maegor watched in mute horror as his bleeding fist rose into the air, beyond the bounds of his control. He grabbed desperately at it with his other hand, but was too late in doing so. His fast slammed down into yet another jagged sword point, and Gaemon was set alight by the dragons.
"NOOOOO!" Maegor screamed. He tried to stand, to run down the steps of the Iron Throne. He had to do something, anything, to save Gaemon. To his horror, he found that he was nearly completely unable to move. Helpless atop the Iron Throne, Maegor watched his friend burn, and felt hot tears pour down his face. Please, he begged silently, in the name of all Seven Gods, let me leave this place. No more.
"No more," Maegor gasped, his voice cracking with anguish. The crowd of shadows in the gallery had begun to audibly wail and sob, their voices slowly rising in pitch and volume.
King Maegor scoffed. "You are not finished here. Your judgement is not yet complete."
Another prisoner was dragged forth to stand before the dais. She was a small peasant girl, with a dirt-covered face and ragged clothing. The last time Maegor had seen her, she had been selling withered flowers out of a basket on the Street of Flour. Rosey.
Words momentarily escaped Maegor, as a hideous and sickening fear overtook him. No, not her. Why her!? "It can't be!" He stared plaintively down at King Maegor. "It is for her and the rest of the smallfolk who have suffered during this war that I seek my vengeance! It is for them that I intend to make the treacherous Lordssuffer, for all the woe they have caused!"
King Maegor glared up at him. "To achieve such a complete victory, you must burn the old world, the world that you hate, to ash! No pitiful shred, no miserable vestige, can be allowed to remain! Then, and only then, will you be able to build anew. If you truly wish to reforge the Realm, then you must plunge it, in its entirety, into the flames! Many will resist your vision. They cannot be allowed to remain, to poison the future that you seek to make!"
King Maegor's voice was full of a cold, merciless fury. "There is no victory without sacrifice. There can be no doubt, no hesitation! Only a willingness to do what must be done to achieve victory, whatever the cost." King Maegor pointed at Rosey. "No matter how many bones must lie as the foundation for the future that you seek to make."
Maegor knew what was coming, and yet also realized that he was equally powerless to stop it. His fist slammed down, and the dragons let loose with their flames. However, their fury did not end with Rosey. The dragons began to blast great gouts of white-hot flame in all directions, setting the entire Great Hall alight. The wails of the hidden crowd amongst the galleries turned into hundreds of high-pitched, ringing shrieks. Bright orange light shone forth between the pillars of the galleries, like gateways into the Seven Hells.
As the Great Hall burned around him, Maegor watched as his ragged and bloody fist rose into the air once more. One more judgement to be made. Maegor's fist slammed down, and as one, the dragons turned to face Maegor atop the Iron Throne. In an instant, Maegor had been consumed by an inferno of white-hot flame.
Though he expected excruciating pain, Maegor only felt a deadened, pulsating pain emanate throughout his body as it was utterly consumed by the dragonflame. King Maegor climbed the final few steps of the Iron Throne in order to stand before his descendant. Though the flame crackled all about him, King Maegor remained unaffected.
His visage was grey and pale, as though all the blood had been drained from his body. A massive, jagged hole had appeared in his throat, and two deep gashes adorned his wrists. The most terrifying part of King Maegor's new appearance, however, was his expression. Amidst the cacophony of the flames and screams, King Maegor smiled. "Truly," he rasped to Maegor, "you are an heir to my legacy."