TO LOVE A KING || Maegor II Targaryen [SLOW UPDATES]

041▪️ASHES & FUNERALS

Time passed in a vacuum, thick and airless, the world itself holding its breath. The royal tournament had been halted with the strike of a bell, the cheers silenced mid-roar. Trumpets meant for glory now sounded like warhorns for death.

Within Maegor’s solar, the birthing chamber was still. The Queen’s bed was stripped of life, but not of blood.

The white sheets were soaked red, stained in patches as though a boar had been gutted. The air smelled of iron, sweat, and rosewater gone sour. Death clung to the silk hangings like a shroud.

King Maegor sat hunched in a chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His shoulders trembled with silent sobs. He did not move, did not breathe loudly, did not even look at the corpses of his wife and son laid side by side. As if refusing to accept them. As if they might vanish if he stayed still long enough.

At the door stood Rhaenyra Targaryen, unmoving, as if frozen in amber. She did not cross the threshold.

Her breath caught at the sight before her. The blood. The bodies. Her proud uncle, broken into pieces.

Beside her, Naiomi Hightower stood weeping openly. Tears ran freely down her cheeks, and her lips trembled as she choked on sobs. She looked at Rhaenyra, eyes shining with honest sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Princess,” she whispered, voice hoarse.

But before Rhaenyra could reply, Charlotte Hightower snapped.

“Why don’t you just keep quiet and leave!” Charlotte’s voice was sharp as a blade, venomous. She turned and glared at her younger sister, the tears in her eyes not falling, but glimmering, held back like a dam.

Naiomi flinched. Her lips parted, as if she might say something cruel in return. But instead, with a bitter shake of her head, she turned and walked away, storming down the hallway in silent fury.

Charlotte sighed, her mask cracking slightly as she faced Rhaenyra again.

“You should go in. I’ll wait here,” she said softly, her voice trying, and failing, to stay firm. Her hands were clenched. Her eyes welled again, but not a single tear fell.

Rhaenyra hesitated. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped inside.

The scent hit her first: blood and milk and perfume, all soured by death.

She walked slowly toward the center of the room where her uncle sat, no, slumped, beside the bed. His once-proud figure seemed smaller, like a tree stripped of leaves and bark. His tunic was soaked with blood, not his own. Crimson patches on his sleeves. His hands were red to the knuckles.

She didn’t say anything. Just knelt beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Maegor didn’t flinch. He didn’t lift his head.