Months had passed since Maegor had last seen the bleak, towering Wall. Though his mind was consumed with conquest and consolidation, a quiet ache persisted for the aged Maester Aemon. He pictured his father, frail and blind, nearing his hundred-and-first nameday, a life lived in shadow for the sake of his oath. The thought of Aemon's loneliness, tempered by duty, weighed on him. It was why, as soon as Myrosh was secured and patrols established, Maegor had meticulously penned a letter.
He described the impossible: Balerion, a living, breathing dragon, soaring over the plains of Essos. The twenty thousand Dothraki warriors now sworn to him, led by the once-unconquered Khal Drogo. The discovery of Kaeto, the grandson of Aemon's own nephew, Duncan the Small, another hidden Targaryen heir. And finally, their new stronghold, Myrosh, a conquered land now bearing the three-headed dragon banner. He poured out his gratitude, his triumphs, and a silent plea for his father's continued strength. He entrusted the letter to a fast, reliable rider, hoping against hope that it would reach Castle Black before it was too late.
Days later, the chaos of conquest had given way to a tense, but growing, order. The town of Myrosh, though scarred, was settling. The castle, secured and its defenses being shored up by Maegor's Royal Guard, felt like a proper seat of power. It was here, in the roughly appointed great hall of the castle, that Maegor summoned his inner circle.
Khal Drogo, grim and imposing, stood with his ko. Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Kaeto Targaryen stood ready, their new Royal Guard standing sentinel. Daenerys, quiet and observant, sat beside the perpetually nervous Viserys. Balerion, too large now for indoors, lay curled outside the main gates, his presence a powerful deterrent to any lingering dissent.
Maegor's gaze swept over the gathered figures, from the fierce Dothraki to his loyal guards, to his young, bewildered kin. He began with Drogo, addressing the fundamental conflict between Dothraki tradition and his own long-term vision.
"Khal Drogo," Maegor began, his voice firm, projecting the full weight of his Draconic Persuasion. "I know your beliefs. To ride, to plunder, to live off the land as you take it. Your sixty thousand people, your forty thousand women, children, and old men—they are accustomed to a life of constant movement. But as your Lord, I tell you, this is not a life I wish for my people forever. My Khalasar will not be mere raiders."
Drogo's brow furrowed, a flicker of his old, wild spirit stirring. "We ride, my Khal. We do not settle like the Lamb Men."
"You will learn to settle, Khal," Maegor countered, his voice unwavering. "I command you now, as your King. You will no longer call me Khal; you will call me your King. And your people, your families, will learn to build. To plant. To live in houses with walls, not only in tents. I command you to build homes to accommodate your people here, around this castle, in this fertile land."
He allowed a moment for the radical command to sink in. "I will not ask you to entirely abandon your beliefs, or your way of war," Maegor continued, offering a pragmatic compromise. "You will still ride. You will still conquer for me. But you will learn new things. You will learn to grow your own food, to secure your own resources. Your sons, as they come of age, will have lands to call their own, not just the fleeting bounty of the plains. Your wives will have walls to shelter them, and soft beds to rest upon. This will make you stronger, Khal. It will give you a true base, not just a temporary camp. It will give you a kingdom to return to after conquest, a place to heal and to breed. And it will provide endless warriors for your King."
Drogo listened, his powerful mind weighing Maegor's words. He was a creature of tradition, but he was also a creature of strength. Maegor had shown overwhelming strength. To have a permanent base, a place to keep the women and children safe while the men rode to war… it was a foreign concept, but one with undeniable logic. Slowly, after a long silence, Khal Drogo inclined his head. "It shall be as you command, my King," he rumbled, the word "King" feeling strange on his tongue, yet firm. "We will build. And we will ride."
Maegor then turned to Ser Barristan. "Lord-Captain. Our castle guards. The ten former slave guards are a formidable start. But a stronghold of this size requires more. I command you to recruit one hundred castle guards from the able-bodied men of Myrosh. Train them. Drill them. Forge them into a disciplined force ready to protect this castle at all costs. They will be our standing garrison."
Barristan's eyes gleamed with renewed purpose. "It will be done, my lord. I will turn them into a force worthy of a Targaryen king."
Next, Maegor's gaze fell on Viserys. The young man visibly flinched, clutching the "weak" dragon egg Maegor had given him. "Viserys," Maegor stated, his voice stern, "you are twenty-two, older than me. You still grasp at shadows. You are a Targaryen, yet you behave like a fearful boy. This ends now."
He pointed to the egg in Viserys's trembling hands. "Hatch that egg. You will spend time with it. Tend to it. And from this day forward, you will learn from me directly. You will listen. You will learn history, politics, and the true meaning of leadership. It may be late, at your age, but you will learn. And you will begin swordmastery." Maegor turned to Barristan. "Lord-Captain, Viserys will join the training of the castle guards. He is to be treated as any recruit. No special favors. Torture him if he needs it. He will learn discipline, or he will break."
Viserys let out a whimper, but one look at Maegor's unwavering gaze, and at the grim nod from Barristan, silenced him. He knew his fate was sealed.
Finally, Maegor turned to Daenerys. She was fourteen, a girl, yet there was a quiet strength in her eyes that reminded him faintly of his own nascent determination. "Daenerys," Maegor announced, his voice carrying the weight of ancient custom and future decree, "you are the last true princess of our House, apart from my own potential children. You carry the dragon's blood." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "When you reach the age of eighteen, you will be married to me. You will become my Queen, and together, we will restore House Targaryen to its full glory."
Daenerys's eyes widened, a flush rising to her cheeks. She looked shocked, but there was also a glimmer of something akin to acceptance, perhaps even a flicker of pride, in her eyes. It was a choice made for her, but a choice that offered security and power beyond anything Viserys could provide.
Then, Maegor's gaze swept over all of them, a declaration of intent for his entire nascent kingdom. "My goal is clear. I will secure the Targaryen line, beyond any shadow of doubt. I will have many children. Loyal children, who will be trained from birth to serve the crown, to protect the realm, and to secure the succession. I will take mistresses to produce more heirs, to ensure our blood runs deep and strong through many veins, unlike the folly of past kings who left our line so perilously thin. Every child born of my blood will be educated, trained, and bound by loyalty to House Targaryen, and to the next in line. There will be no more lone dragons, no more uncertainty."
The statement was a cold, hard truth, delivered with the stark pragmatism of Maegor the Cruel, tempered by the long-term vision Aemon had instilled. It left no room for doubt about his intentions for the dynasty. The path to the Iron Throne would be paved not just with conquest, but with a secure and fertile lineage.