| Author's Note: Hello everyone! I'm really glad to see the growing support as I release new chapters,— it truly means a lot.
A few things I'd like to mention, first, as I've said before in some of the comments, this is my very first attempt at writing a fanfic/story, so I'm still learning and improving as I go.
Second, I'd love to hear more from you. Tell me who you'd like to see Maegor paired with romantically, share your thoughts on how the story should progress, and let me know what you think of the characters,— their personalities, how they speak and act compared to canon, all of it.
Your feedback really helps shape the story and keeps me motivated to keep going.
Enjoy the new chapter, and thank you all for reading!
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| With Maegor Targaryen, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
The royal tent was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the hearthfire. Its canvas walls billowed with the wind outside, shadows flickering across the dragon banners that lined the interior,— red on black.
Maegor stood tall in the center, armored from the waist down, his black plate gleaming like oil beneath the torchless light. The red dragon of his house curled across his chest, muted in the glow. Ser Gerold Hightower worked the last buckles with steady hands, his pale cloak brushing the rushes at their feet.
"Do we know who I ride against in my first round?" Maegor asked at last, his voice low and even, and the White Bull tightened the final strap and stepped back to inspect his work. "Last I heard, Ser Gregor Clegane."
Maegor grimaced at the name. "The Lannister's lap-dog?" A crooked smile flickered at his lips, sharp and amused.
So much for an easy opening tilt.
He'd hoped to start against some middling knight,— a Frey, perhaps,— not a mountain in steel. He thought of the half-emptied cup of wine he'd downed earlier and cursed himself for not saving it for the victory toast instead.
"Yes, the great brute himself." Gerold said.
"That will be a troublesome match." Maegor reasoned aloud, though his eyes were far away, lost to thought. "It will." the old knight admitted, his tone calm as still water. "But every mountain has a fault. He's a beast in plate, nothing more, so don't meet his strength,— match his rhythm. The Mountain rides to kill, not to joust, and so he breaks what he cannot best."
Maegor nodded once. "That does not sound a cheerful forecast for my chances." He laughed under his breath,— a short, dry sound that barely passed his lips.
His gaze swept the tent, noting the overuse of dragon heraldry, the way even the air seemed to burn red, and still, it comforted him.
"Truth seldom cheers us, my prince." Gerold said, fastening the strap beneath Maegor's pauldron. "Keep your lance steady and low. Aim for his left shoulder,— his bulk will drag the shield down, and his weight will betray him before his arm does. And hold to your seat, gods be good, he'll hit you hard enough to rattle the lists. Bend, and you'll be dust before the crowd."
Maegor drew in a deep breath, testing the weight of the armor, the way it shifted with his movement. His fingers flexed against the gauntlets, metal whispering against metal.
He reached for his cup, taking a swallow of watered wine, and caught Gerold's long, silent stare.
"Remember your breathing." the old knight said finally. "The Mountain's no true knight,— only a hammer in a man's shape. But you… you've dragon's blood in you. Patience, not fire, will win you the day. Let him thunder past and break himself upon your calm."
"The more I hear of him, the hotter my blood runs to face him." Maegor said with a faint smile.
A dry chuckle followed. "And yet… my heart beats faster than I'd wish."
"As it should." Gerold replied. "Fear keeps a man's wits sharp. Only fools and corpses feel nothing before a tilt." He set a gloved hand upon Maegor's shoulder,— firm, but not unkind. "If you fall to him, rise before he turns his head. A mere knight may fall, aye,— but a prince must never show the dust on his armor."
Maegor gave a slow nod, finishing his wine.
His throat burned faintly as he swallowed, though it was not from the drink. He wondered how many times these same words had been spoken between them,— the White Bull, steady as stone, and the boy who had once idolized him.
Gerold stepped back, placing the black helm in Maegor's hands, as the dragon wings flared along its sides, catching the light.
"Now go." he said, his voice low but proud.
"Go and make them remember why dragons do not fear men twice their size." Maegor set the helm beneath his arm and turned toward the tent's opening.
The wind outside smelled of dust and trampled grass, and somewhere beyond the canvas walls, the crowd was gathering, waiting.
He could almost hear them already,— the roar before the storm.
...
| With Oberyn Martell, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
The roar of the crowd rolled like thunder across the field, rising and falling with every broken lance from unknown knights.
Sunlight flashed bright against steel below, banners whipped in the wind, and the air smelled of trampled ground and horse sweat,— not a great combination.
From the royal booth, the view stretched clear to the lists,— a sea of colors and motion beneath the gleam of Harrenhal's black towers.
Oberyn Martell leaned lazily against the carved railing, his elbows resting atop it, wine goblet in hand. The cup was silver, and the wine Dornish,— though sweeter than he liked.
Everything in this cursed Reachward country was too sweet for his taste.
Beside him, his sister Elia sat poised and still, as though carved from sunlight and sorrow both. Rhaenys, though growing, perched on her lap, small hands clutching a sugared plum, eyes wide as the horses thundered past below them.
King Aerys II Targaryen watched too, further along the dais,— thin and sharp, his pale hair a frayed halo about a face lined by suspicion.
His laughter came sudden and dry whenever a nameless man fell from his horse. The Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen sat beside him, silent, composed, hands folded over his knee,— his manly beauty so still it almost seemed brittle.
Oberyn swirled his cup and smiled faintly.
"The future songs and plays will call this Lord Whent's tourney, the greatest tourney to date, for generations." he said, his voice smooth and low, "Though I wonder which fool truly believes it."
Elia's gaze flicked toward him, the barest curve at her lips. "You mean to say it wasn't, dear brother?"
"Lord Whent could scarce afford the wine for this tourney, much less the gold for half these pavilions." Oberyn's smile sharpened then, as he gazed away from them. "No, this is your husband's pageant, I believe,— Rhaegar's silver bought the glory, though his voice will sing of another man's generosity."
Elia smoothed her daughter's curls, her tone even. "He would call it courtesy."
"Courtesy is a tool of power, sweet sister, you should know that." Oberyn replied, turning the goblet between his fingers. "He bought loyalty. Every lord who rides here, rides beneath his shadow, not the Whents'. They all know it,— though they'll bow and pretend otherwise for the sake of appearances."
Rhaegar's voice came soft and surprising, carrying just enough to reach them both, and both alone. "Let them pretend, Prince Oberyn. It costs me nothing to show them what my family dinasty can still give this entire realm, and it is my job to make sure these lords know that,— instead of only looking at my father's growing madness."
Oberyn glanced over, catching the faintest smile at the corner of the silver prince's mouth. "You'd make a fine merchant of Sunspear, good-brother. Spend gold to gain the whispers, then call it poetry in the end."
Rhaegar's eyes were on the field again, though his attention was on both. "Whispers move men more than gold ever could. My father being here today just shows exactly that. Though I knew I should have talked to Varys before-hand..."
Oberyn laughed under his breath. "And you would move these whispers to what end?"
The question hung a moment, and yet Rhaegar did not answer.
Elia's hand brushed her brother's arm lightly, a warning or a plea,— he could not tell which. She looked at him then, her gaze calm but edged. "You forget yourself, Oberyn, for not all truths must be spoken aloud."
"I speak softly, sister." he said, smiling. "And the king hears only what he wishes." Aerys had not stirred, and as his eyes remained fixed on the tiltyard below, his thin lips twitching as another knight struck the earth, the trio though themselves to be speaking low enough for him not to hear.
The fools they were...
"Another fool undone by glory, and ego." the king rasped, the meaning lost to them, and not to Oberyn. "They fall as easy as the rest, all for the eyes that watch them fall."
Oberyn drank slowly with a dark smirk, his eyes narrowing faintly. "And what man does not crave to be seen, Your Grace?"
Elia looked ghostly at his question towards the king, not believing her brother would bring conversation to the mad man. Aerys simply turned then, slow and deliberate, the ghost of a smile twisting his mouth. "Those who already are, of course."
The words hung sharp and sour between them. Rhaegar's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, as Elia bent her head over Rhaenys, whispering something soft to the child.
Below, the heralds cried another two names,— Ser Gregor Clegane, soon riding against Prince Maegor Targaryen,— and the crowd's cheer broke like surf.
Oberyn leaned forward, a glint of interest in his dark eyes. "Ah,— now that..." he murmured, "... will be a bout worth watching."
Elia's hand stilled in her daughter's hair. "You would enjoy it too much."
" But I enjoy everything too much, sister." He grinned. "I'll enjoy watching your good-brother skill growth more than most."
Rhaegar's gaze flicked toward him,— unreadable, cold as glass. "Let us hope my brother does not unsatisfy you when riding against the mountain."
Oberyn raised his cup in mock salute. "And if he doesn't, good-brother… then the day may yet grow interesting."
The trumpets blared below, as dust rose, bright as smoke in the sunlight, and the field seemed to hold its breath.
Oberyn smiled faintly, savoring the heat, the noise, and the scent of it all. "A fine day for dragons." he murmured. "And to watch the famous and well known leashed dog of Tywin to bleed."
...
| With Maegor Targaryen, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
The air itself seemed to tremble.
From the stands came the roar of a thousand voices, crashing together like the tide against stone,— shouts, cheers, the shrill blare of trumpets calling the realm's eyes to the lists. The banners of half the kingdoms fluttered in the hot wind, their colors bright as flame beneath the hard noon sun.
Maegor Targaryen rode into the center of the field, the sunlight glinting off the black of his armor,— a sheen like oil on water, dark and rippling. His helm hid his face, and his long silver hair lay bound beneath the steel. Only the dragon upon his breastplate,— deep red against night-black,— caught the light, shimmering like a living thing.
The destrier beneath him, a great black courser, stamped restlessly, foam at its bit.
Maegor steadied it with a hand, his grip sure and calm. He could feel the heat radiating off the beast's flanks, the creak of leather and plate with every measured breath.
The sun was high and merciless, even here in the Riverlands, the heat pressed close and heavy,— the kind that sank into armor and burned the flesh beneath. Gods, he thought, King's Landing would feel like a forge.
He guided his mount toward the royal dais.
The crowd's roar dimmed to a hush, then swelled again as he drew rein beneath the carved awning where his father sat.
Aerys Targaryen leaned forward in his chair, pale hands curling around the gilded arms like talons. His eyes gleamed,— bright, feverish, unblinking,— like molten gold.
"My king." Maegor called out, lowering his head in a knight's bow, the motion slow and deliberate.
The gesture drew murmurs from the crowd,— respect from the loyal lords, deep recognition from his father, and awe from the base-born.
When he lifted his gaze again, his eyes flicked briefly to the side,— where Elia Martell sat, composed and beautiful in her silks, Rhaenys in her lap, and beside them, Oberyn Martell, lounging with his wine, a serpent's smirk playing at his lips. Rhaegar sat a step apart, his brother as calm and distant as ever, his pale eyes following Maegor like a mirror of his own reflection.
And he turned his gaze away. Across the field, the Mountain that Rides was mounting his own destrier,— a creature near as monstrous as the man astride it.
Gregor Clegane was a slab of iron and muscle, towering even when seated, his helm wrought into a cruel snout that seemed more beast than man. The brute did not bow to the king, nor did he spare Maegor a glance, his horse shifted and snorted, half-mad from the scent of the crowd, and strangely agitated.
A savage, Maegor thought, his lips tightening.
They turned from one another, each taking a side of the long wooden tilt-bar that cut the field in two.
The world seemed to still.
Ser Gerold Hightower approached, silent as ever, bearing the first of the lances,— long, heavy, painted black with a streak of crimson down the shaft. The White Bull handed it to his prince with steady hands, no words wasted.
Maegor took the weapon, feeling its weight settle in his palm, the grain of the wood familiar against his gauntlet. His shield followed, black as night, rimmed in red,— a dragon's eye gleaming faintly in the lacquer.
He turned his destrier toward the line.
Beneath the helm, his breath came slow and even. Around him, the sound of the world grew sharp,— the groan of saddle leather, the metallic hiss of his own breathing, the wind tugging faintly at the banners.
Beyond the rail, Gregor Clegane lowered his lance.
And the trumpets sounded.
Maegor's spurs struck, and the courser leapt forward, hooves tearing the earth. The air rushed past him, hot and dry and roaring in his ears.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but speed and thunder,— the pounding of his horse's hooves, the hammering of his own heart.
The weight of the lance vibrated in his hand, steady as a heartbeat, and he imagined himself riding atop a red sperpent-like dragon.
It was a strange thought, and a name had come to mind, yet he quickly regained his bearing, and pressed onward.
He fixed his gaze through the narrow slit of his visor,— saw the glint of the Mountain's armor rushing toward him, the massive shield, the tilt of his helm.
Left shoulder, he reminded himself, let him drag his weight down, and let him break upon his own strength.
The world shrank to a single line,— black and red against steel and gold,— and then the impact came.
A sound like the crack of lightning split the air.
Wood shattered.
The shock ran through his arm, his chest, his very spine,— a blow that rattled his bones and jarred his teeth, and for an instant, the world went pitch black.
When it cleared, he was still upright.
His horse screamed beneath him but held its course, hooves biting into the churned earth.
Splinters rained down around him, glinting in the sunlight. His lance was gone,— splintered to its haft. Across the field, Gregor Clegane wheeled his beast around, his own weapon shattered.
Maegor's pulse thundered in his ears.
His shoulder throbbed where the blow had struck his shield,— a dull, spreading ache beneath the plate.
Seven hells, he thought, exhaling through his teeth. What fucking strength that monster carries…
But he was still mounted, still whole, and the crowd was roaring again, a wall of sound washing over him.
He glanced toward the royal booth,— saw his father's grin, wide and fever-bright,— saw Elia's composed face, unreadable, and saw Rhaegar's stillness, the faintest shadow of thought behind his pale eyes.
And there,— at the edge of the lists,— stood Ser Gerold Hightower, helm under one arm, his face a mask of iron, but worry present in his gaze.
Maegor flexed his gauntleted hand, rolling his shoulder once.
Relax, old man. he thought with a ghost of a grin. You've seen nothing of me yet.
He turned his horse and reached for a new lance from a nearby waiting guard,— black wood, red tip, gleaming in the light.
The crowd's roar had not yet faded when the herald's trumpet sounded again, and he smirked.
...
| Author's Note: So, any thoughts?