Maegor The Terrible

The sun had barely begun to climb over the walls of the Red Keep when Ceryse stirred awake. The other side of the bed was already cold; Maegor had risen early, as he always did, to attend the council. She stretched, the fine silk of her nightgown rustling softly as she turned her head to the space beside her. The faint scent of leather and steel lingered, a reminder of the man she called husband.

Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Maegor's duality. To the world, he was a warrior-king, unyielding and fearsome. To her, he was a storm contained within a man—passionate, ruthless, and unfathomably distant. She had learned to navigate his moods carefully, softening his edges where she could, though she knew she would never truly change him.

A knock at the door pulled her from her musings. Her handmaid, Lysa, entered with a polite bow, carrying a tray of fresh bread, honey, and fruit.

"Good morning, Your Grace," Lysa said, placing the tray on the table by the window. "Shall I draw a bath?"

"Yes, please," Cercy replied, sitting up and letting her feet touch the cool stone floor. As Lysa bustled about the room, Cercy took a moment to savor the view beyond the arched windows. The city of King's Landing spread out before her, alive with the stirrings of morning.

The warm water of the bath soothed her as Lysa washed her hair, the scent of lavender rising with the steam. Cercy allowed herself to relax, her eyes closing as her mind wandered. The weight of her position settled heavily on her shoulders, but she bore it with a grace that came naturally to her.

Maegor lived with fire and blood, but Cercy had learned to be the balm to his flame. Where he inspired fear, she cultivated trust. Where he demanded obedience, she offered understanding. It was a delicate balance, one that required endless patience and no small amount of courage.

"Your Grace," Lysa said gently, breaking the silence. "I've seen Prince Aenys in the gardens with his children this morning. They seem so happy."

Cercy opened her eyes, a faint smile touching her lips. "They are a beautiful family," she said softly.

Lysa hesitated, then added, "They say he is so kind to them. A good father."

The words struck a chord in Cercy, though she masked it well. "Kindness is a virtue, Lysa," she said, stepping out of the bath and wrapping herself in a robe. "But it is not enough to rule."

By the time Cercy was dressed, the morning sun had fully risen, casting the Red Keep in golden light. Her gown was a soft shade of green, embroidered with silver thread in patterns of vines and blossoms. It was a subtle nod to her Hightower lineage, a reminder of her strength and station.

She made her way to the gardens, her steps unhurried but purposeful. The sounds of laughter reached her before she saw them—Aenys and his children, their joy infectious even to those merely passing by. Cercy paused at a shaded corner, watching the scene unfold.

Aenys twirled little Aegon in the air, the boy's laughter ringing out like music. Rhaena stood nearby, her expression a mix of amusement and the precocious seriousness of a child who thought herself grown.

For a fleeting moment, Cercy imagined herself in Alyssa's place. She saw Maegor with their children, strong and proud, their faces lit with the same joy that shone in Aenys' eyes. The vision was bittersweet, for she knew it would never be. Maegor was not a man for such tender moments, and though she loved him, she had long accepted that their union would not be blessed with the warmth she now witnessed.

"Your Grace?" Lysa's voice brought her back to reality.

Cercy turned to see her maid standing a few steps behind, holding a small bouquet of wildflowers. "I thought these might brighten your day," Lysa said with a shy smile.

"They're lovely, Lysa. Thank you." Cercy took the flowers, their simple beauty reminding her that even in the harshness of court, small joys could be found.

As the morning wore on, Cercy made her rounds through the Red Keep. She spoke with knights and servants alike, her presence a calming influence in the tumultuous world of Maegor's rule. Lords who hesitated to approach the prince often sought her out instead, knowing she would listen with a patient ear.

"Your Grace," said Ser Brynden Staunton, a minor lord who had recently arrived at court. "I bring concerns from my lands. The taxes have become… burdensome, and the smallfolk grow restless."

Cercy placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "I understand your plight, Ser Brynden. The king's policies are meant to strengthen the realm, but I will speak with him on your behalf. He values the loyalty of his lords, and I am sure he will consider your needs."

Her words, spoken with genuine warmth, eased the tension in the man's face. "Thank you, Your Grace. Your kindness is a beacon in these times."

By midday, Cercy found herself drawn back to the Great Hall, where the hum of courtly life continued unabated. She moved gracefully through the throng, offering smiles and soft words that left even the most cynical lords feeling heard.

When she saw Aenys standing by one of the tall windows, his gaze distant, she hesitated. He looked so much like their father in that moment, his features softened by the light, yet tinged with a sadness that was uniquely his own.

Gathering herself, Cercy approached her presence a quiet balm in the noisy hall. "Aenys?" she said, her voice gentle.

Aenys turned, his expression brightening as he saw her. "Cercye," he said, his voice warm. "It's good to see you."

She smiled, her green eyes filled with concern. "You look troubled. Has something happened?"

Aenys hesitated, then shook his head. "It's nothing. Just… the weight of it all."

Cercye stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. "You carry it well, Aenys. The court adores you. The smallfolk adore you. You have a gift for bringing light where there is darkness."

"I wish I could believe that," he murmured. "Sometimes it feels as though I am drowning in their expectations."

"You are stronger than you think," Cercye said softly. "And you are not alone. Whatever you face, I will stand with you. We are family after all."

"Thank you Cercye," he said. But he still had that troubled look in his eyes.

Cercye studied him for a moment, her thoughts swirling. She had spent years as Maegor's wife, smoothing the edges of his image and calming the fears of those who doubted him. But she knew that Aenys held a power her husband did not—he inspired love, a quality that could sway hearts in a way fear never could.

"The realm is fortunate to have you," she said finally, her words carrying a weight that was not lost on him.

Aenys inclined his head, his smile faint but genuine. "And I, our future Queen Cercy, am fortunate to have your counsel."

They shared a laugh. Cercye's thoughts went to the burden of her role, just as Aenys probably thought of his. And though their paths were different, they both served the realm in their own way, each a counterbalance to the fire that ruled them all.