Maegor The Terrible

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a true site to behold. Black and red banners hung from every column, bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, their vibrant colours contrasting the pale red stone of the keep. Fresh torches had been placed in gilded sconces, their flames flickering wildly as the air swirled with movement. A lush red carpet was placed from the entrance of the hall to its far end where the Iron Throne loomed, its jagged steel blades catching the firelight like fangs.

The hall was full of lords great and small, knights and ambassadors from across Esoss and even Dorne. Their murmured conversations weaving a tapestry of political intrigue and expectations, as they awaited the coronation to begin. They had come from all corners of the realm to witness Maegor's coronation, though not all in attendance supported his reign.

Reclined lazily against a pillar, sipping heavily from a goblet of wine was Lord Gargon Qoherys, an immense man with a belly that spilled over his belt. Next to him stood Quenton his heir. Lord Gargon's jowls trembled as he laughed at some crude jest made by another riverlander lord, his piggish eyes sweeping the hall in search of any young maid to leer at.

Gargon the Guest he was called, a mocking title for his infamous habit of invoking the First Night whenever possible and taking liberties with his servants' wives and daughters. He was tolerated only because his house held Harrenhal, though few would have called him a man of consequence.

Nearby, Lord Ronnel Arryn stood in quiet conversation with his brother, Lord Jonos. Ronnel, once the bright-eyed boy who had flown upon Vhagar's back, was now a man weathered by decades of rule. His hair had thinned, and though he still bore the regal air of the Vale, his youthful wonder had long since faded.

His brother, Jonos, whose sharp features and calculating gaze betrayed his ambitions. Where Ronnel was measured and composed, Jonos was ever watchful, his mind ever working, seeking advantage in the shifting tides of power.

A bit closer to the throne, Lord Torrhen Stark of Winterfell stood like an iron statue, although his face had a warm smile on it, courtesy of meeting his daughter who was sent to marry lord Ronnel by Queen Rhenys. The King Who Knelt had aged, his beard now streaked with silver, but his presence remained formidable. He bore himself with a solemn dignity, his heavy fur-lined cloak draped over broad shoulders. Unlike the other lords, whose finery gleamed with gold and embroidery, Torrhen's attire was one of austere practicality. He had given his crown to Aegon, but never his pride. He held no love for Maegor, but he did not let pride cloud his judgment. He and The North had made an oath to the Targaryens, one he would keep. He clasped his hands before him, silent, watching, listening.

Lord Orys Baratheon, once the former hand of the king to Aegon, now known as Orys One-Hand, stood apart from the others. He preferred to talk to his wife and the soon-to-be queen mother Visenya. Some claimed he was Aegon's bastard brother, though no proof had ever been found.

Once a mighty and bright-eyed warrior, his black hair had streaks of grey and his hand had been replaced with a gilded piece, but it was no comfort to him. He had been whole once. The Dornish war had cost him his hand, and he had never forgiven Dorne for it. His dark eyes flicked toward every Dornish ambassador in the hall with thinly veiled loathing. The supposed bastard brother of Aegon the Conqueror had once been the realm's foremost warrior. Now, he was a man left with ghosts and grudges.

Then, from near the entrance of the great hall, heralds clad in Targaryen black and red stepped forward. Their voices rang in unison through the hall like hammers striking steel.

"All Hail His Grace, Prince Maegor Targaryen! The Blood of the Dragon! Son of Aegon the Conqueror! The Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne!"

A hush fell over the hall.

At the far end of the hall, the doors of oak and iron groaned as the heralds stepped aside. There was a quiet so thick it seemed to still the very air.

Then came the sound of footsteps. Slow. Measured. Heavy as the beat of a war drum.

The doors were thrown wide, and Pince Maegor Targaryen strode into the hall.

He was a vision of power, a dragon in human form. Gone was the black steel he so often wore—today, he had clad himself in the splendor of kings.

His tunic was black velvet, rich and deep as a starless night, its high collar embroidered with thread-of-gold dragons twisting and coiling around rubies. Over it, he wore a long, flowing cloak of crimson, heavy with dragon-scale patterns woven in dark silk. A belt of thick, golden links clasped at his waist, each link forged in the shape of a dragon's head. Upon his feet, high Valyrian boots of black leather chased with red gold.

Even unarmoured, Maegor looked no less imposing. His broad shoulders and thick neck, the sheer mass of him, exuded a presence that no mere trappings of war could enhance. His hair, shorter than his brother's, had been combed and oiled for the occasion, its silver-gold strands gleaming beneath the light of the chandeliers. His beard trimmed sharp along his jawline, made his scowl all the more severe.

At his hip rested Blackfyre, the sword of kings, its Valyrian steel dark and hungry—more than a weapon, it was a statement, a legacy of conquest.

His eyes, dark and cold as a frozen lake, swept across the hall, meeting every gaze that dared to meet his own. Lords and knights averted their eyes, some shifting uneasily under the weight of his presence.

Flanking him were almost all members of the king's guard. Behind him walked Princess Cercye and Queen Visenya followed, draped in black and deep red, her sharp eyes gleaming with pride. She had raised this son in her image for the rule, forged him in the fire. Now, all the realm would see what it is to be ruled by a real dragon.

Maegor stopped before the throne and turned to face the hall, every movement carrying the weight of inevitability. The hall had been filled with whispers before, but now there was only silence. Even the most prideful lords felt it now.

Power. Undeniable. Unyielding.

As Maegor stood before the gathered lords, he allowed the silence to stretch, commanding the hall with his presence.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rich and deep, carrying through the great hall like the roll of distant thunder.

"Lords of Westeros, sons of noble houses, hear me now-"

He let the words settle, his gaze sharp.

"My blood is the blood of the dragon. I am Maegor of House Targaryen, the firstborn son of Aegon and Visenya the Conquerors. Rider of the Black Dread. Your rightful king, crowned by Fire and Blood."

His eyes swept over them, lingering on the doubters, the uncertain, the ones who questioned his claim.

He let that settle before continuing, his tone measured, commanding.

"Westeros was not won with meek words and trembling hands. It was forged in dragon fire, blood, and steel, by my father's will and mother's hand. And it will endure by mine."

He lifted his chin, his piercing gaze settling on each lord in turn.

"Today will be remembered in history for centuries to come. Today Westeros is at the cusp of a new era, a golden era, my era"

"My reign will be one of greatness and Westeros will shine as it never has before. We may forge an era greater than any that has come before, a realm that shall be the envy of all the world. That is the future I offer you."

"I shall raise monuments that will stand for a thousand years, our roads will be widened and ports fortified. No longer shall the kingdoms of Westeros remain distant and separate."

"For there would only be one kingdom, Westeros"

"From Dorne to the North, all roads shall lead to King's Landing. Trade shall flourish and we will prosper beyond measure."

"The realm shall know one authority—mine."

Murmurs stirred in the hall. This was ambition beyond what had been seen since the Conquest.

"The laws of the realm will be strengthened, and the will of the Iron Throne will be known in every corner of the realm. Banditry will be crushed, corruption rooted out."

His voice grew deeper, edged with steel.

"To those who swear fealty, I offer my protection, my justice, and my unwavering hand to uphold the laws of this realm. But to those who would defy the will of House Targaryen, let them remember that dragons do not forget betrayal—and I am a Dragon."

He spread his arms, his cloak billowing like dragon wings.

"I do not promise an easy road. True change is never easy. It is forged in will and tempered in hardship. But when the work is done, our children and our children's children shall look upon this age and call it the golden era of Westeros. A time when roads were safe, when coin flowed through the streets, when lords ruled justly, and the kingdom stood united under the dragon's banner."

"This is my vow as your king."

With a final pause, his voice dropped, quieter but no less powerful.

"Welcome to the new era and let the coronation begin."