TO LOVE A KING || Maegor II Targaryen [BEING REWRITTEN]

02 ▪️THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN

King Viserys had ruled the Seven Kingdoms with peace and prosperity. His reign, though young, had been marked by stability, unmarred by war or rebellion.

But peace alone was not enough. In five years of rule, his beloved wife, Queen Aemma, had given him only one child, a four-year-old girl, Rhaenyra. A daughter, bright and cherished, but not the son he so desperately longed for.

Now, Aemma carried another babe, yet the Maesters whispered in hushed tones that this would be her last. Her body could bear no more. This child would either be the salvation of his dynasty or the end of his hopes for a male heir.

Viserys knew, at that moment, that he had to act. His grandsire, Jaehaerys, had once faced the same dilemma, gathering the lords of the realm to decide his succession.

Now, Viserys had to make his own choice: his heir would be either his eldest nephew, Prince Maegor II, or his younger brother, Prince Daemon.

The flickering glow of candlelight bathed the chamber in molten gold. Shadows stretched and danced against the cold stone walls, their silent movements cast by the great dragon's skull looming before them. Balerion the Black Dread, the greatest dragon to ever live, his skeletal remains a grim reminder of the might and fury that once ruled Westeros.

Before the massive skull, Viserys stood in quiet contemplation. His hand hovered over a cluster of candles, his fingers absently tracing the heat.

The flames licked at his skin, but he felt nothing. His mind was elsewhere, on the future, on duty, on the decision that would shape the realm long after his bones turned to dust.

The heavy doors groaned open.

Ser Ryam Redwyne entered first, his gold cloak flowing behind him, followed by a figure of equal presence yet far colder in bearing, Prince Maegor II Targaryen. The young prince strode forward, his crimson gaze sweeping the chamber.

Even in the dim candlelight, there was no mistaking the power that simmered beneath Maegor's skin. He was a warrior, forged for battle, with the regal bearing of Old Valyria itself. His silver-white hair fell past his shoulders, framing sharp features made all the more striking by the intensity of his ruby-red eyes.

At his hip rested a dagger of Valyrian steel, its dragonbone hilt worn smooth from years of use.

Viserys turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, his own fingers curling against his palm as he caught sight of the weapon. A peacetime king, he carried no sword himself, but that dagger, that ancient relic of House Targaryen, never left his side.

Maegor stopped a few paces away, his expression unreadable. His gaze flickered to the massive skull behind his brother, then back to Viserys himself.

"You summoned me, Your Grace?" Maegor's voice was smooth, even, yet it carried the weight of something unspoken.

Viserys studied his nephew for a long moment before exhaling, his hand finally dropping to his side.

"Yes," he said, his tone steady. "There is much to discuss."

And so, before the Black Dread's hollow eyes, a king prepared to make a choice that would shape the future of Westeros.