Maegor The Terrible

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a tempest of motion and sound, as artisans, soldiers, and servants scurried like ants to fulfill Maegor's vision for his coronation. Black and red banners draped the towering columns, their fabric rippling in the torches' flickering glow. The floors of the hall were scrubbed clean, and torches were arranged so their light would illuminate the throne in an almost divine radiance.

The Iron Throne loomed at the far end of the hall, its jagged blades drinking in the dim light like a beast waiting to be fed. It was a throne of conquest, of power—and now, more than ever, of fear.

Cercy Hightower moved through the chaos quietly, her silver gown trailing behind her like liquid moonlight. Every detail of this ceremony had passed through her hands, every flourish and spectacle approved or dismissed at her command. Her presence commanded attention, though she did not raise her voice or assert herself through force. She did not need to. She was Maegor's queen, and in time, she would be his most trusted counsel—if he allowed it.

The air in the hall was thick with more than perfumes and servants' sweat; there was tension, an unspoken weight that pressed upon the workers and nobles alike. The reason was simple—Maegor now rode Balerion. His claim was no longer a thing of primogeniture alone; it was a fire made manifest. Aegon the Conqueror's mount had accepted him, and that alone was enough to silence tongues that might have otherwise dared to doubt. The people feared Maegor before. Now, they trembled.

A rustle of movement behind her. Cercy did not turn immediately; she already knew who it was, Maegors mother. Visenya Targaryen's presence was as sharp and piercing as the steel of Dark Sister, and nearly as cold.

"The preparations are nearly complete," Cercy said smoothly. "The lords will see the wealth and greatness of their new king. They will surely kneel and hail him."

Visenya stepped beside her, her black and red robes swaying as she regarded the work before them. "They will kneel because they have no choice," she said. "Not with Balerion above them. Not with fire at their backs."

Cercy tilted her head slightly, her green eyes glinting. "Fear bends men, but it does not bind them forever. The more tightly you squeeze, the more they slip through your fingers."

Visenya turned to her then, violet eyes narrowing. "And what would you have us do, my lady? Offer them honeyed words? Whisper sweet promises?"

Cercy met her gaze without hesitation. "I would have us be wise. Faith is an integral part of Westeros, they hold great sway over this city, over this kingdom. They may cower now, but they will not remain silent forever."

Visenya's lips curled slightly, a cruel thing, almost amused. "You speak as though we should coddle them."

Cercye's smile did not reach her eyes. "I speak as someone who sees the folly of underestimating an enemy."

Visenya was a problem, Cercye thought. It was her upbringing and presence in her husband's life that made him perhaps a bit- cruel sometimes.

The tension between them was thick as a storm about to break, but before it could crack open, the great doors of the hall swung wide. The air itself seemed to shift, a collective hush falling over the gathered lords, workers, and soldiers.

Maegor had arrived.

He strode into the hall like a conqueror, clad in black armor trimmed with crimson. His short white hair was still damp from flight, the scent of dragon lingering on his cloak. His violet eyes burned with the light of a man who had seen the world from the back of the Black Dread and found it wanting. He was no longer just a prince with a claim. He was Maegor the Dragon, and even the air seemed to grow heavy beneath his gaze.

Silence reigned for a beat too long, and then the work resumed—hurried, desperate as if the mere act of appearing idle before him might invite his wrath.

Cercy stepped forward first, dipping her head. "Dear husband. The preparations for your coronation are nearly complete."

Maegor's gaze flicked to her. His lips curled into something that was not quite a smile, but more an acknowledgment of what was to come. "Good." His voice was iron and certainty. "When the sun sets tomorrow, the realm will have a king unlike any before."

Visenya stepped to his side, her presence as steady as ever. "They will see what is to be ruled by a real dragon, a fearsome dragon"

Cercye inclined her head. "Yes, they will. But fear is already in their hearts. Balerion saw to that. We must temper fear with respect and love".

Visenya's silver brows arched. "Love? The smallfolk are like stray hounds, Lady Cercye. You do not win their loyalty with fine words and empty gestures. You show them power, and they will grovel at your feet."

Cercy's gaze did not waver. "Power alone breeds resentment. If you press too hard, they will break—and broken men have nothing left to lose."

Maegor exhaled sharply, impatience flickering in his violet eyes. "Enough. The realm will see my strength. The Faith will fall in line, or they will burn like all the rest."

Cercye inclined her head, though the weight of Visenya's gaze remained on her. "As you say, lord husband"

"I have seen to the arrangements. The High Septon will come to crown you personally, just like your great father, under the watchful eye of Balerion himself. The dragon will take flight above the city at the moment of your coronation, and fire will rain upon the pyres in the square as a tribute to your rule."

A flicker of rare mischief crossed Maegor's face and then disappeared as fast as it came. "Let them tremble beneath his wings."

"Your rule will be built on fire and blood, my son." said visenya "Anything less invites defiance."

Cercye did not argue this time. She would pick her battles carefully. But as she turned back to Maegor whose gaze was already fixed on the Iron Throne, watching the light illuminating his strong frame and handsome face, she knew this coronation was the beginning of something great. Maegor was a good man at heart, she knew it. And one day, the entire real will see it too."