Maegor The Terrible

Maegor rode through the streets of King's Landing astride his black destrier, its barding emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. He was accompanied by 3 of his king's guards; Ser Corlys Valerion, Ser Davos Darklyn, and Ser Raymont Baratheon. Maegors armor, dark as a stormy sky and accented with crimson, gleamed in the daylight and contrasted sharply with the armor of his protectors The streets buzzed with life, and the air was thick with the smells and sounds of the sprawling capital.

As he rode out of the Red Keep, the noble district of the city came into view, its wide streets lined with grand manors and large houses that bore the banners of noble houses from across the realm. Lords and ladies in fine silks strolled the avenues, their gazes lingering on him with awe and unease. Maegor's reputation preceded him, for good and for bad and his presence demanded respect.

He barely spared them a glance. For none 

These people did not concern him. They were loyal enough, for now, and there were more than a few of them who had their wealth and status tied to the crown's stability. Instead, Maegor's sharp eyes swept over the city itself, taking in every detail as he moved deeper into its heart.

On the outer edge of the noble district, outside the small inner wall, the vibrant market district was located, its chaos a stark contrast to the ordered elegance of the noble part of the city. Merchants hawked their wares with booming voices, their stalls laden with spices, fabrics, and trinkets from across the realm and beyond. The air here was thick with the mingling scents of roasting meats, fresh bread, and unfortunately unwashed bodies. Something that infuriated Maegor, his capital is supposed to be the jewel of his kingdom- and it smelled like dead fish and sweat.

Children darted between the crowds, their laughter mixing with the haggling of traders and the clatter of carts. Maegor noticed a skinny boy, no older than ten, snatch a loaf of bread from a distracted baker and disappear into the crowd. He said nothing. A child's hunger was no concern of his, and the merchant should have been more vigilant.

As he passed with his guards, the crowd parted like a tide before him. Whispers followed in his wake, the common folk bowing their heads or averting their eyes. They feared him, and rightly so. Fear was a better shield for a king than love could ever be, his mother taught him that and she was never wrong.

Above it all, sitting on his late aunt Rhaeny's hill stood the Great Sept of Remembrance, its domes and spires glinting in the sunlight. It was a symbol of faith and power, a reminder of the power and influence of The 7 on the kingdom. It was supposed to show the piety of his house and the faith's acceptance of them.

Maegor's lip curled slightly as he regarded it. He saw it more as a challenge, an ever-present symbol of the underline tension between the crown and the Faith. The High Septon and his ilk spoke of mercy and virtue, yet they wielded influence with the cunning of any lord or seasoned merchant.

Even now, he could see the faithful gathering in prayer, their voices rising in hymns that filled the air with a solemn reverence. That reverence should go to him and his house Maegor thought. For who was the closest being to god on this earth? Dragons, and those who rode them. He reined in his horse and lingered for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he imagined the day when the Great Sept would bow, as all things must, to the will of the dragon.

Beyond the grandeur of the sept and the markets, the city revealed its darker face. The streets grew narrower, the buildings shabbier, and the stench of waste and rot grew unbearable. Overcrowded tenements leaned precariously against one another, their windows dark and foreboding.

The cries of hungry children echoed from the shadows, mingling with the groans of the sick and the curses of the desperate. Maegor's jaw tightened. This was the underbelly of his capital, the festering wound hidden beneath its crown.

'Absolutely unbearable,' he thought 'not under my rule'. 

As they rode past an alley, a sharp cry caught his attention. He turned his head sharply and saw a city guard pinning a struggling woman against the wall. Her torn dress and the fear in her eyes told the story enough.

"Help!" the woman gasped, "Help!" her voice weak but desperate.

Maegor instantly dismounted and went into the alley, his guards right behind him. "What are you doing?" Maegor asked.

The guard turned, startled to see the figure of Maegor and his king's guards. For a fleeting moment, defiance flickered in his eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

"Your Grace," the guard stammered, stepping back from the woman. "I—see—"

"Silence," Maegor commanded his voice a low growl that froze the man where he stood.

Without hesitating, Maegor drew Blackfyre from its scabbard. The Valyrian steel blade sang as it cut through the air, gleaming like liquid fire.

"You wear the colors of the crown," Maegor said coldly. "You dishonor them, you dishonor me."

The guard opened his mouth to plead, but Maegor did not give him the chance. With a swift, brutal stroke, he drove Blackfyre into the man's face, the blade slicing through flesh and bone as if they were paper. The guard crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.

The woman, trembling, fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you, Your Grace," she whispered as Ser Corlys covered her with his cloak.

Maegor sheathed his sword and looked down at her with indifference. "Do not thank me," he said. "A city guard should be above such vile acts when representing my rule."

"Ser Davos," Maegoe said.

"Yes your highness"

"Make sure this body is removed and relay to the officers, that if a guard is to commit such crimes while serving- he and his commanding officer will be castrated and sent to the wall."

"Yes your highness," said Ser Davos.

He mounted his horse and spurred him forward, he had an important matter to attend to today. As Maegor continued his ride through the deteriorating streets of King's Landing, he couldn't help but feel the weight of the city's flaws pressing down on him.

His capital reflected his reign—a fractured jewel needing reforging. The stark contrast between the grand manors of the noble district and the filth of the slums gnawed on him. The city's underbelly was a festering rot, and while he had no sympathy for the weak themselves, he despised the thought of such weakness sullying his domain.

Ahead, the towering outer walls of the city came into view, their sturdy stones bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. They reminded him of the crown's enduring strength, a strength he intended to wield ruthlessly.

His focus sharpened as they approached the city gates, where a detachment of soldiers waited, their formation precise and their armor polished. Beyond the gates, the horizon stretched wide, with fields and rolling hills.

"Your Highness!" the guards at the gate saluted him, as they passed through the gates and out of the city. The air grew crisper once they were out, the noise of the city fading into a distant hum. The rhythmic clatter of hooves on the dirt road was all that accompanied Maegor and his escort as they rode north. 

His face was impassive, but within, a storm brewed. He turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the land stretched endlessly under a pale winter sky. Maegor felt the weight of the task ahead, though he betrayed no sign of it to those around him. 

Just beyond the walls, between the rolling hills, awaited something far greater, something that demanded his presence. 

This was no trivial matter, no meeting of lords or parley with emissaries. It was a call of destiny, a challenge only a Targaryen could answer, and one that Maegor knew he alone was fit to face. 

As they crested a small hill, a big black hill was revealed to them. Maegor reined in his destrier, pausing for a moment as if to drink in the sight ahead. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a rare flicker of emotion that hinted at the anticipation roiling beneath his stony exterior. 

"Remain here," he commanded his knights, his tone brooking no argument. "This is a matter I must attend to alone." 

Ser Corlys shifted in his saddle, hesitation flickering across his face. "Your Grace, is it wise—" 

"Do not question me, Ser Corlys," Maegor interrupted, his voice cold as steel. "I do not need protection. Wait here until I return." 

With that, he dismounted his horse and walked forward, leaving the escort behind. The wind howled faintly as if carrying with it a whisper of the power he sought to command. 

What was before him was not a mere test of strength or skill. It was something far greater—a moment that would shape his legacy and burn his name into the annals of history.