The morning of Prince Maegor Targaryen's 13th nameday was a bright and warm day in King's Landing. It looked to be perfect weather for a great tourney in honour of Maegor Targaryen's name day. Many a knight had come from all over Westeros to attend this grand occasion and to see the young Prince in action.
The rumours were all over the place, and many were interested in seeing whether they were true.
But the mood within Aegonfort was as thick and volatile. Aegon was unhappy about his son and his latest 'excursion'. Maegor had returned from his stay in Essos, and from what the King had heard, he had left behind burning streets and a slave rebellion in Meereen.
For Aegon, he was quite certain that this was Maegor's doing. Not that he was the one responsible for it; no, he didn't know Maegor well enough to realise that. But he was certain that he had somehow thrown a fit and that Visenya had arranged that.
In Aegon's mind, the image of Maegor was growing uglier as the years passed. He seemed to be a truly brutal and violent child, which his unbelievable physical prowess didn't help calm his mind. The boy was ambitious, and he had the will and strength to resort to violence to get what he wanted.
Fire and Blood.
There was perhaps no one who represented their house words more than Maegor and maybe a bit too much. That was worrying for Aegon. It should have made him proud; as the father, he should have felt joy, since he could be sure that their house would prosper and the crown was secure.
But it didn't.
Aegon thought about his eldest, Aenys. He was weak, not in the sense that he was sickly or small, but when compared to his younger brother, he was like a twig.
He had ambition, but nowhere near the strength, willpower or political shrewdness to see things done as he wanted and needed. Aegon had tried to teach and train him, but it just wasn't much use.
The only thing Aenys had that surpassed Maegor was his dragon Quicksilver. For some reason, the mutant dragon of Maegor, Smaug, grew far slower than any other Targaryen dragon did. That, at least, gave Aegon some reassurance that there was something that could stop his son from getting too much ambition and thinking he could replace his brother.
Contrary to what the maesters at the Citadel taught about normal human development, the three- and ten-year-old was already as tall as a man grown and built stronger still. His frame showed increasing muscular bulk, and his entire figure screamed power and masculinity.
And if one were to believe the reports from Meereen and what Maegor did in the Fighting Pits, then the tourney today was entirely unneeded. He would win, no doubt.
Aegon sighed and shook his head. It didn't matter. The tourney would show the realm who Maegor was and that he was now a true Targaryen. He would serve his brother well; Aegon would make sure of that—a powerful Hand to the King.
.
Within the dim confines of their royal quarters in Aegonfort, Queen Visenya stood before her son. He had grown again. Both mentally and physically. After thinking about it for a while now, Visenya had come to a decision. And now, that he was officially a man grown in the eyes of the realm, it was time.
She unbuckled the heavy, dark scabbard from her own waist and held it out for Maegor to take.
"You have outgrown blunted steel, my dragon," Visenya said, with fierce pride. "Today, you announce yourself to the realm and show those pompous sheep the power of a true dragon."
Maegor grasped the hilt and slowly drew the blade. The typical rippled, dark metal of Valyrian steel sang as it was freed of its sheath.
Dark Sister.
It was perfectly balanced, incredibly sharp, and in the hands of a true warrior, thirsty. A grin appeared on Maegor's face as he resonated with the magic that had shaped the blade. This would not break when he used it to its maximum potential.
"I will put it to good use, Mother," Maegor said.
Hearing her son's deep, almost rumbling voice sent a shiver down Visenya's spine. It had gotten unbearable, to the point that if they were on Dragonstone instead of King's Landing right now, she would jump him. The involuntary use of what was known in another universe as the 'Hercules Method' had transformed Maegor.
He had the blood of a dragonlord, and as such, his presence resembled that of a dragon. Dragons were proud, strong and greedy creatures. Having been in Maegor's presence the longest and the closest, Visenya naturally felt that immense pull he had most.
With a nod, the two made their way out of the Aegonfort and out of King's Landing, where the great tourney would be held.
.
The midday sun cast its warmth over the packed tourney grounds outside the walls of King's Landing, where hundreds of spectators had crammed onto the hillside slopes. Banners of many great houses could be seen—the golden rose of House Tyrell, the towering beacon of Hightower, the silver seahorse of Velaryon, and of course the proud three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
At the centre of the royal box sat King Aegon I, his expression a mask. He didn't let anyone see what he felt or thought, which was a skill he had to acquire after becoming King. The lords of the small council sat around him, with Visenya right next to him.
A blow of horns cut through the racket of the crowd. The heralds stepped forward, signalling the start of the event.
"Hear all lords, ladies, knights, men, women and children of the realm! Welcome to the grand tourney held in honour of the thirteenth nameday of His Grace, Prince Maegor of House Targaryen! Today, the blood of Old Valyria takes the field for the first time on such a stage! Let the lists be drawn, let the lances shatter, and let the strongest prevail under the eyes of His Grace and the Gods!"
The crowd erupted into a chaotic cheer of joy and excitement. Down in the tourney yard, knights lowered their visors and checked their weapons one final time, entirely unaware of the absolute clusterfuck of blood and steel that they had gotten into.
.
The first target in Maegor's mind was none other than Lord Manfred Hightower, the current head of House Hightower. Earlier, seated in the audience, the Lord of Oldtown had looked down with smug, highborn arrogance, certain of the show.
It wasn't usual for a Lord of such a prominent House as House Hightower to enter a tourney, much less the melee. But few would be dumb enough to severely harm a powerful Lord such as him. After bribing a few men with coins, which he had in abundance, for the sake of fame and more political power, Manfred thought it smart to enter the tourney.
Needless to say, that wasn't entirely his idea. A few hours ago, he had heard Maegor talk about him with his father, the King. Maegor had run his mouth about how weak and pathetic Manfred was and that he wouldn't dare to lift a sword in the melee, as that was too hard for him.
His pride had been wounded, and naturally, he didn't know any other way to retaliate than to enter the bloody melee.
What a moron he was.
Maegor operated on a plane of thought that the lords could not comprehend. Manfred needed to enter the melee, since Maegor was almost certain that no one would want to attend the joust after he was done here. And Maegor had plans for Manfred.
Spotting Manfred's ornate, silver-and-white armour amidst the chaotic melee, Maegor waltzed through the crowd. He dodged wild swings from other knights who hadn't been focused on him and moved forward.
Manfred was locked in a clumsy exchange with a hedge knight, his broadsword swinging through the air heavily. As Manfred swung for a damaging blow, Maegor's perception mapped the trajectory before the Lord of Oldtown's muscles even fully contracted.
He appeared next to the hedge knight and kicked him away, narrowly missing the man. That was when the Lord of Oldtown saw Maegor.
His eyes widened in recognition.
"Ah, my Prince. Shall we fight? Don't worry, I'll not go all out," Manfred said.
Maegor stepped inside Manfred's guard with terrifying speed. There was no parry, no block, no chivalrous warning or pulling of any punches. Maegor finally gripped Dark Sister, unsheathed it and drove the point straight through the chest plate of Manfred's armour.
"...!!!"
"NOOOO!!" shouted multiple people in the stands.
"FATHER!!"
"MY LORD!!"
...
"Kakkch..."
Blood tickled down Manfred's mouth as he slowly looked down at the blade. Maegor moved closer and spoke to the Lord.
"Thank you for playing your part so perfectly," Maegor said.
He pulled Dark Sister free and then sheared through bone and brain of Manfred with ease to finish him off for good.
Manfred went rigid. His broadsword slipped from his gauntlets to fall on the ground. As Maegor smoothly shook the blade free of blood, the Lord of Oldtown collapsed half-face-first into the bloody mud, paying the ultimate price for his ambitions.
...
Everyone was shocked. Such brutality and merciless killing... against a lord of a noble house no less. That was unheard of and unimaginable. It was an outrage, especially from the High Septon, who also sat in the royal box.
But Maegor didn't hear any of that.
Moving like the apex predator he was, Maegor searched for his preselected victims. Maegor, unlike what everyone thought right now, was not unleashing his boundless bloodlust. No, he was playing a long game of geopolitical chess with human lives.
Lord Hoster Bracken sought glory for his house. Having heard from his spies that the Prince had visited Lord Blackwood and that he was going to attend the tourney, he knew that was his chance to deal with a decades-long rivalry.
Hoster had looked for Lord Blackwood on the field, but hadn't found him. Instead, he was forced to fight hedge knights and other knights of the realm. That was until he saw what happened to Lord Hightower and realised that Maegor was cutting a bloody path towards him.
Lord Bracken charged forward with a spiked heavy mace, roaring an angry war cry that was cut brutally short. Maegor parried the crushing blow with a casual flick of his armoured wrist; the impact rang out before he drove Dark Sister through Bracken's thigh, severing his femoral artery.
"RAAAHHHH!!"
As the Bracken lord dropped to his knees, clutching his gushing leg, Maegor ended his misery with a swift, vertical thrust to the throat.
!!!
By executing a Bracken so cleanly and publicly, Maegor cast a glance toward the grandstands where the Lord and members of House Blackwood sat. No one saw that very brief moment, but in that short time, Maegor had secured their silent approval and maybe future loyalty.
The crowd went absolutely wild at the second death of a lord of a noble house. And Aegon was clutching the arms of his chair so hard that he was almost bleeding. Several men had stood up in outrage and shock, while Visenya was the only one who remained somewhat calm.
Her expression was unreadable. She was thankful that no one was paying attention to her at the moment.
Next came the reavers and the rapists of the Iron Islands.
Lord Quellon Greyjoy, representing the brutal sons of the Drowned God, came lunging through the chaos with a heavy, double-edged iron axe. Unlike most knights and sons of lesser lords who dropped their weapons and gave up after seeing Maegor, Greyjoy only grew excited.
That was a man of his liking. He sneered, aiming a blow meant to split Maegor's skull. He cared nothing for the royal status and fought as hard as he could.
Maegor's eyes darkened to pitch black. He sidestepped the heavy arc of the axe, and with two blindingly fast, scissor-like cross-slashes of Dark Sister, he chopped off Greyjoy's hands at the wrists.
"AAAARRHH!! FUCKING CUNT!!!"
The Ironborn captain shrieked in shock, staring at his gushing stumps.
"I'LL FUCKIN' KILL YA'!! I'LL FUCK YOUR WHORE OF A MO--"
BAMM
Maegor punched the man, breaking several bones. He kicked him backwards into the dirt, where his blood had already created a very small pool.
Maegor walked forward and knelt. He grabbed Quellon's hair and pressed his face down, to drown... in his own blood.
...
Loud exclamations of shock and disgust came from the crowd. Most of the smallfolk... no, no one had ever seen anything like this. And yet, this spectacle drew a grim, satisfied nod from some of the river lords, particularly House Mallister.
No one actually liked the Greyjoys. Actually, everyone hated them.
Maegor threw his body to the side and dodged an attack from behind. He brought Dark Sister up, blocking the next attack and observed the flayed man of House Bolton standing in front of him.
"What a sight, lad. You'll definitely pay for that."
The Bolton knight swung a jagged morningstar through the air. Maegor met the blow. The man pulled his morningstar back and attacked again, trying different angles and moving his body forward, only to be met with an immovable wall. He pushed as hard as his northern physique could, but his disdain for the southerners was entirely unfounded.
Maegor brought Dark Sister down in a two-handed diagonal cleave that sheared straight through the Boltons' heavy iron pauldrons, splitting his shoulder down to the ribs. It looked like the blood inside the knight's body had to think about it before it gushed out. The man dropped like a felled tree.
As before, in the stands, the quiet, frigid observers from House Stark and other northern Houses watched with unreadable expressions, acknowledging the elimination of a hated member of House Bolton.
.
The sheer brutality of the carnage finally prompted the elite defenders of the Crown into action. Breaking through the few combatants who hadn't given up already, two white-cloaked knights of the Kingsguard intercepted the prince: Ser Robin Darklyn, legendary across the continent as Darkrobin, and Ser Richard Roote.
"Hold your hand, my Prince!" Ser Robin commanded. "His Grace has decreed that the melee is finished for you. Stand down!"
Maegor did not utter a single word. He didn't stand down at all, on the contrary. He attacked.
Ser Richard Roote thrust first, aiming a classic, textbook lunge at Maegor's breastplate. They knew that the prince shan't be killed, but they had to stop him somehow.
Maegor's accelerated probability sprang to life, and unlike the weaker, less skilled fighters, he saw several possibilities this time. This proved just how skilled the Kingsguard were.
He leaned his torso back just enough to let the steel scratch his armoured chestplate, then brought the flat of Dark Sister down against Roote's helm. The kinetic force disrupted the knight's senses instantly; Roote's eyes rolled back into his head, and he dropped like a stone, entirely unconscious before he hit the ground.
Ser Darklyn fought with the desperate courage of a man sworn to protect the royal family, now forced to fight the Prince. He parried a fast sequence of strikes, his sword suffering the Valyrian steel. Darkrobin was fighting a force of nature, and his experience didn't help.
Maegor closed the distance, slipping inside the Kingsguard's guard suddenly, surprising the man.
Rather than executing the white cloak, Maegor chose humiliation instead. He threw Dark Sister into the air, balled his armoured fist, and delivered a punch directly to Darkrobin's helmet.
The sound of metal hitting metal and shattering bone cracked across the arena. The force of the punch lifted the fully armoured Kingsguard clean off his feet, spinning him through the air before he hit the ground.
"ENOUGH!!!" the voice of King Aegon I Targaryen was heard.
As the dust slowly settled over the field, Maegor Targaryen stood alone in the centre of a bloody wasteland of groaning, maimed, and lifeless bodies. His chest barely heaved with exertion as he forced himself to calm down.
Not a single drop of his own blood had been spilt; every drop belonged to the men who had either dared stand in his way or whom he had chosen for execution.
He raised his eyes to the royal box, looking at his father and then walked off.