- 23 AC -
(Visenya's POV)
The winds of Dragonstone whipped at my silver hair as Vhagar's massive frame tore through the air and landed on the courtyard cobblestones with a loud thud. Around us, the keep's inhabitants scattered like frightened mice, feeling the heated state we were both in.
I paid the cowering servants no mind; my blood was boiling, my mind replaying the sickening compromises my brother-husband had made in Aegonfort.
Aegon was bending to the Faith and making senseless compromises. He forgot who he was and what had made him big. Especially, he forgot who had gotten him on that chair.
Without thinking, I moved through the keep at a rapid pace. I found my son exactly where I knew he would be: the training yards.
I paused in the stone archway, my violet eyes narrowing as I observed him. Even as his mother, I could not deny that at one-and-ten, Maegor was a terrifying sight. He stood shirtless in the humid, sulfur-tinged air, swinging a massive blunted steel sword. He had ordered that sword to be created and wanted it to be as heavy as it could be.
Now it weighed roughly the same as that palfrey he killed three years ago. But that didn't seem to hold him back.
His physique defied all natural reason. He possessed the height and heavily muscled frame of a seasoned man of seventeen years. His chest was broad, his arms corded with dense, impossibly hard muscle that seemed carved from Valyrian steel.
I watched the way he moved - in my eyes, a horrifying perfection, an absolute mastery of both mind and body. He anticipated the swing of the weighted logs he had set up before they spun, dodging and striking with a precision that made seasoned knights look like stumbling drunkards. He had set up this intriguing course, as he called it, where big logs and other weights would fall at times and strike him.
He is the true dragon, I thought, a fierce, protective and burning pride swelling in my chest, not like Aenys. Aenys is a brittle twig that makes me want to spit on the ground whenever I see him. He is a disgrace to my sister's legacy. But not Maegor.
Maegor is perfect already and will only improve.
Yet beneath my pride was a primal unease. The sheer, unnatural power flowing through the boy's veins was something even I, a warrior queen, struggled to grasp fully. I wasn't afraid of it, quite the contrary... it made me feel...
Ever since he was born, I had been captivated. It was clear to me that he had been a true dragon and that he would someday sit on the Iron Throne. Nothing would change that. I swallow, looking at him now... it is really hard for me to control myself around him. I don't understand what this is and how it came to be, but in his presence...
Maegor stopped his assault on the metal dummy, sensing my presence. He turned around and smiled, seeing me.
"How was the Capital? Does it already smell badly?" he asked.
Gods, that smile...
"Your father has made his decree," I said, stepping into the yard.
My voice was laced with unconcealed venom and anger. I would not soften the blow; as a dragon, he needed to know when he was being chained. The pathetic politics that had long started and been accepted by Aegon had to be understood by my dragon.
"He cowers before the High Septon's judgment and the fake belief of their 'faithful'. To appease the masses, you are to wed the holy man's niece, Lady Ceryse of House Hightower, in Oldtown."
I paused, letting the insult settle, before adding the final blow.
"She is one-and-twenty."
I watched his face closely, waiting for the fiery Targaryen rage, a scream, a tantrum fitting a boy his age. However, there was no tantrum; there was rage and wounded pride.
Maegor did not shout or curse his father. His face remained an emotionless mask, his purple eyes darkening. He simply turned, raised his blunted steel sword, and drove it downward into the heavy stone mounting block.
CRACK--
My breath caught slightly in my throat. The powerful, solid stone split perfectly in two, the pieces grating against the cobblestones. The unfathomable strength required to shatter this massive piece of stone with a dull blade was monstrous.
"We leave for King's Landing," Maegor commanded, not looking at the broken stone.
His voice was a cold, hollow baritone that sent a shiver down my spine and further down. It was the voice of a warlord, a conqueror... not a boy.
"Now."
A sharp, dangerous smile finally touched my lips and in response mine. Let Aegon see the beast he is trying to cage, I thought mirthfully. All logical thinking seemed to evaporate when Maegor was nearby. It should have been a disgrace for me as a warrior queen, but over the years I have lost that feeling of wrongness. Now all I have is that immense craving...
"As you say, my son."
I climbed on Vhagar, and he sat behind me, wrapping his arms around my midsection, making me shiver. Then, we took to the sky together on Vhagar's back, a mother and son bound by purpose, fury, and the thick, suffocating magic of our Valyrian blood.
As we ascended into the smoke-stained clouds, I looked down at the caverns of the Dragonmont. I knew Maegor's own dragon, the stunted, four-legged Smaug, remained behind. The maesters called the beast a dying mutant, but I knew better now.
It was growing slowly and steadily, its strange mutant anatomy hiding strength and unnatural intelligence. Much like its master, the beast was simply biding its time, mirroring Maegor's quiet, simmering wrath. I often heard him talk to the dragon as if it understood him. And sometimes he didn't even use High Valyrian.
What would that dragon grow into, I wonder?
.
King Aegon I Targaryen was standing by the balcony of his solar in Aegonfort, nursing a goblet of Arbour Gold, when the heavy oak doors burst open. The Kingsguard stationed outside had not even had time to announce the intruders, but he had long heard Vhagar's roar, so he knew what was going on.
Maegor strode into the room, silent like an assassin despite his massive bulk, with Visenya trailing behind him. She closed the door and stood in front of it, preventing anyone from entering.
"Hello, son. What brings you to King's Landing?" Aegon asked calmly.
"I will not wed the Hightower woman," Maegor stated.
There was no warm-up, no 'Your Grace,' no deference, no 'greetings, father', just an absolute, unyielding fact that he wouldn't marry the woman they had decided on. It was incredibly disrespectful towards the King, and Aegon felt his rage starting to boil after the first sentence.
Aegon turned, his weary eyes narrowing at the sheer disrespect. He looked at his second son, taking in the boy's impossible size for his age. Sometimes, Aegon found it hard to believe this... 'man' was only eleven.
"You will do as you are commanded, Maegor," Aegon said.
His voice hardened, slipping into the tone of the Conqueror. It might have been 20 years since then, but his immense Targaryen pride hadn't died out fully, and while he was willing to make compromises, he wasn't going to allow his child to talk to him like that.
"The betrothal is sealed. The realm requires peace, and this union secures the Faith and the Reach. You will do your duty and follow your fathers, your King's command!"
"The realm needs dragons who know restraint and not kill all the sheep," Maegor retorted, his violet eyes locking onto his father's. "That's what they should be thankful for. You bend your knee to old hypocrites wearing crystal crowns. You dilute our blood because you fear the opinions of Andals and First Men. You force me to break my pride, while you get to keep yours and all in the name of Faith."
"You are a boy!" Aegon roared, slamming his fist and the goblet down onto a stone table, spilling the wine within. "You know nothing of ruling, nothing of the burdens of this throne! You think you can do as you please? You are my son, but you are a prince of my realm. Defy me in this, and I will strip you of your royal titles, if I must. I will exile you to Essos to sell your sword to the highest bidder! You have no say in this!"
The air in the solar grew very thick all of a sudden. Visenya was about to lose all her restraint and moved her hand on the pommel of Dark Sister, watching her brother with murder in her eyes. The possessiveness she felt was about to boil over.
Maegor took a step forward. He did not look intimidated; he looked profoundly disappointed, surprised and disgusted.
"You think a title makes me a dragon? You think taking away a word changes what I am? You think plundering the dead of their swords and then melding them together in the ugliest shape and the words of the masses makes you a king?!
I am the blood of old Valyria. I am a true dragon! I will take the women I want, whenever I want them. And unless you kill me right here, in this room, there is nothing your septons, your lords, or you can do to stop me."
Aegon's face flushed with a sudden, uncontrollable fury at the sheer treason of his son's words. To hear him defy him so openly made him lose all reason.
In that fraction of a second, the world slowed to an agonising crawl for Maegor. His mind suddenly saw his father's next action before Aegon's muscles even twitched. A shimmering set of blue silhouettes separated from Aegon's physical body, lunging forward in Maegor's vision, drawing its arm back to deliver a vicious, full-force strike to his face.
Maegor's reflexes were fast enough to catch an arrow in flight. He could have stepped back. He could have caught Aegon's wrist and retaliated, hitting the King's face as well.
Instead, Maegor tensed his muscles as much as he could in expectation of the strike. He kept his face exactly where it was.
BAM
Aegon's heavy hand struck Maegor's cheek with the force of a swinging hammer. The sound sounded through the solar like a whip. But Maegor's head did not snap to the side. He did not even flinch or blink. To Aegon, striking his son's jaw felt like hitting a solid block of stone. The King's hand hurt, and his fingers were throbbing from the impact.
A bright red handprint slowly appeared on Maegor's pale cheek. The prince stared at his father, his eyes entirely devoid of warmth.
"Is that all?" Maegor asked softly. "Was that supposed to impress me? Quite the dragon you are."
Aegon stepped back, his chest heaving, a flicker of genuine unease flashing in his eyes. He regretted striking his one-and-ten-year-old son, but the boy was not normal.
"You are a child still, and from what is heard, a cruel one. You don't understand what it takes to keep the realm together. A dragon can conquer the lands, but to rule something, there has to be something left to rule," Aegon said. "Force is not always the answer."
"Yes, you made that perfectly clear just now," Maegor replied.
His voice was chillingly calm. For a moment, the comment seemed to physically hurt Aegon, and he looked away. In truth, the reason he had gotten so angry was that both of them were dragons, and dragons were solitary creatures. They didn't tolerate competition and rivals in their territory. So while that was an exaggeration, that was the explanation.
"I will wed your Hightower piece, Father. But I will not do it in the Starry Sept like some Andal lordling subordinate to the High Septon's whims. I demand a Valyrian wedding ceremony. Fire and blood, like our heritage demands, not lies and holy oils. And if I wish it, I will take more brides."
Aegon rubbed his hand, looking from his defiant son to Visenya, who wore a proud, dangerous smirk. The King knew he could not push the boy too far without breaking the family entirely. Maegor was powerful, and his influence, despite his bad reputation, would grow in the future. If he wanted him to support Aenys and not fight him, he had to give him something to make sure the family didn't break apart.
But he could not simply yield to a one-and-ten-year-old's demands.
"A Valyrian ceremony. You demand the privileges of our ancestors while acting like a spoiled lord yourself."
Aegon stood taller, reclaiming his lost authority.
"Very well. But you shall earn it. You claim to be a man grown? You claim you can take what you want? Then you will prove it."
Aegon pointed a finger at Maegor's chest.
"Before your 13th name day, before the wedding takes place, there will be a grand tourney at King's Landing. If you are truly a dragon as you boast, you will enter the lists. Not against squires, not against boys, but against hardened knights of the realm. Win the melee. Best the seasoned warriors of my kingdom."
Aegon's eyes narrowed.
"If you emerge victorious, I will grant you your Valyrian ceremony on Dragonstone. And I will turn a blind eye to whatever secondary wives you choose to bed in the shadows of your own keep in the future. But if you fall, you will march to Oldtown, you will bow your head in the Starry Sept, and you will never speak of things you don't understand again."
Maegor looked at his father; the red mark on his face, a strong contrast against his pale skin, was already beginning to recede. A slow, cold smile crept onto the young prince's face. He had already begun to see the movements the men around him were going to make before they made them. A melee was not going to be a challenge, especially not after another two years of growing and training.
It was going to be a slaughter, of that Maegor would make sure.
"Prepare the ceremony of Valyria, Father," Maegor said, turning his back on the King and walking out. "I will see you at the tourney."