"Beast. Tyrant. Merciless. They whisper these names behind my back. But when I say, I love you, it is not out of desire, nor out of denial. It is not for my sake at all. I love you for what you are, for what you do, for how you fight. I have witness...
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Wooden carts rolled into the square, creaking under the weight of severed limbs-arms, legs, and heads heaped in grotesque piles. Daemon himself flung the decapitated head of a murderer atop the mound without a flicker of hesitation.
Standing at the heart of the carnage, he surveyed the square like a conqueror admiring the spoils of war. Blood pooled beneath his boots as the mutilated bodies of criminals lay discarded-some castrated, their manhood tossed into the cart like butcher's refuse.
Fear was his weapon, and violence his doctrine. Daemon relished the dread that swept through the streets of King's Landing. Tonight, the Prince of the City bathed in triumph. Severed fingers, sliced ears, broken jaws-each dismemberment was a testament to his authority.
A night of glory. A memory carved in blood. A deed Maegor himself would admire.
As dawn broke over Blackwater Bay, gilding the city in cold light, Ser Otto Hightower received word of the night's atrocities.
His informant relayed every brutal detail: unauthorized raids, indiscriminate killings, and Daemon's brutal justice dispensed without crown sanction.
Fury ignited within the Hand. Without delay, he summoned an emergency meeting of the Small Council.
With grim urgency, Otto made his way to the South Wing of the Red Keep, determined to speak with the King. Two guards stood at the door to Maegor's chambers. They bowed in deference, stepping aside as he passed.
Daemon was a menace-a rogue prince unchecked by duty or law. Otto loathed him with quiet intensity.
Each act of defiance, each breach of decorum, stoked his resolve. He would not allow Daemon to usurp power. The Iron Throne must be preserved from chaos-and from Daemon Targaryen.
He knocked softly, though he feared the King might still be at rest.
To his surprise, the door creaked open.
"Otto?" Maegor's voice called out.
The King stood fully dressed, fastening the last of his buttons.
"Your Grace... good morrow," Otto said with a respectful bow.
Maegor gave him a measured look, his tone weary. "What brings you here so early?"
"I must speak to you on a matter of grave importance, Your Grace," Otto replied, his voice taut with urgency.
Maegor raised a brow, studying the older man's face. "What is it?"
"I've called an emergency council meeting. It concerns Prince Daemon and the Gold Cloaks."
Maegor's expression darkened. His jaw tightened, and a shadow crossed his face.
The King strode through the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, his pace swift and deliberate, Otto Hightower trailing close behind. The Hand's voice echoed between the columns as he recounted the grim events of the night.
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