Maegor The Terrible

As Maegor continued forward the Black Hill rose before him, a stark and foreboding presence against the horizon. Its shadow stretched long and ominous as if the very land itself recoiled from the power it harbored. Maegor felt his blood quicken as he approached. The enormity of the moment settled over him like the weight of his father's crown.

Balerion the Black Dread awaited him at the summit—the largest and oldest of the Targaryen dragons. The only living being to see Valerya at its height. Power incarnate. The living symbol of fire and blood, of Targaryen supremacy. To claim him would not simply cement Maegor's rule; it would be to wield the fire that had forged a kingdom. It would silence doubt, burn rebellion to ash, and remind the realm why he ruled.

The clamor of the city faded into nothingness. It was here, far from the petty squabbles of lords and priests, that true power lay. His hand rested on Blackfyre's hilt, not for reassurance but as a symbol of his resolve.

With each step, the air grew heavier. Heat radiated from the blackened earth, and the faint stench of sulfur and ash lingered like an old memory. The weight of his armor grew with the climb, but Maegor paid it no mind. He could feel it in his bones—the judgment waiting at the peak.

The summit loomed like the threshold of a myth, around it the ground was scorched black from countless fires, framing the resting place of the Black Dread. Bones—both beasts and men—lay scattered across the ashen ground like grim trophies.

And there he was.

Balerion lay coiled at the top of the hill, a force of nature-given life. His ebony scales shimmered faintly with a crimson sheen, and his vast wings, folded at his sides. Smoke curled lazily from his nostrils, the red glow of his eyes piercing like twin suns.

Maegor strode forward, his boots crunched against the ash-strewn ground, the sound swallowed by the moment's oppressive silence. The dragon's head lifted, his gaze fixing on the approaching man.

The weight of that gaze was staggering. Maegor felt as though he stood naked before a god—a force of nature that could end him with a flick of its tail or a breath of fire. This was no mere beast. This was Balerion, the shadow of death, the true maker of Westerose.

Yet Maegor did not falter.

"Balerion, I am Maegor Targaryen," he declared, his voice steady and strong. "Son of Aegon the Conqueror. Blood of the dragon."

Smoke billowed from Balerion's nostrils, the heat prickling Maegor's skin. The dragon's red eyes narrowed, his massive head tilting as if to consider the man before him.

"You carried my father across the skies," Maegor continued. "You burned his enemies and forged the Seven Kingdoms in fire and blood,"

"Now, I stand before you to claim that legacy. And while you are great, I will not kneel. I will not beg. For I am also a dragon, I am here to prove I am worthy."

A growl rumbled deep in Balerion's throat, vibrating the ground beneath Maegor's boots. The dragon's wings unfolded slightly, casting vast, jagged shadows across the hill. The air grew hotter, thicker, and charged with a primal energy that pressed down on Maegor like a crushing wave.

And then the dragon moved.

Balerion rose to his full height, his form towering like a mountain. His massive jaws parted slightly, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth, and a guttural growl came out of his throat—a challenge, not a threat.

Maegor stepped forward, unflinching. His heart thundered, but his resolve held firm. 

"You are no mindless beast," he said, his voice unwavering. "You are fire and shadow, the wrath of gods made flesh. But you are not above me. I am the blood of the dragon, and I command you as my father commanded you."

Balerion's growl deepened. Smoke poured from his nostrils, and his massive head reared back.

With a roar that shook the heavens, the Black Dread unleashed his fire.

The torrent of flame rushed toward Maegor like the wrath of a storm, the heat searing the air and igniting the very ground. But Maegor stood his ground, his eyes locked on the dragon. His armor blackened and smoldered, his hair singed, but he did not move. To falter now would be to die—and worse, to be found unworthy.

When the flames subsided, Maegor remained. His armor was scorched, his face streaked with soot, but his gaze was unbroken.

Balerion lowered his head, his red eyes fixed on Maegor's own. The dragon rumbled softly, a sound of neither approval nor rejection but something primal, something ancient. Slowly, he stepped forward, his massive claws crushing bones beneath them, and lowered his head until it was level with Maegor's chest.

Maegor extended his hand, his gauntlet-clad fingers brushing against the dragon's snout. The scales were hot, rough, and unyielding, but Maegor did not pull away.

Balerion's eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again, something had shifted. The Black Dread lowered himself to the ground, coiling his massive body and folding his wings—a gesture of submission? Not submission for the Black Dread was the greatest of them all. A gesture of friendship, acknowledgment is what it was.

Without hesitation, Maegor climbed onto the dragon's back, the heat of Balerion's body seeping through his armor. As he settled into a nook on his back he said "Balerion soveos". Balerion rose, his wings unfurling with a sound like thunder. The dragon let out a triumphant roar, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the world.

Maegor Targaryen, rider of Balerion the Black Dread, looked out over the horizon. Beneath him, he felt the surge of raw, unbridled power—the bond forged in fire and blood.

And for the first time, he felt truly invincible.