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

073▪️ DANCING ON THE BRIDGE

The storm howled over the narrow sea, waves churning into mountains of water that hurled themselves violently against the jagged rocks beneath Dragonstone's cliffs.

The ship rocked and groaned as it approached the ominous island, its black hull swallowed by mist and salt.

Dragonstone greeted them not with warmth, but with thunder, fog, and the distant crackle of draconic growls hidden in the clouds.

The Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower, stood grimly at the prow as the vessel docked. Rain slicked his grey beard, his cloak heavy with seawater.

Behind him, a column of knights disembarked, armor clanking and boots squelching through the wet gravel as they made their ascent.

At the summit of the narrow bridge that spanned over a deadly fall, they were met.

"Welcome to Dragonstone, Otto." Prince Daemon called out, his voice smug and melodic, laced with venomous amusement. He stood flanked by the Gold Cloaks, resplendent in black and gold, and beside him, Lady Mysaria, pale and composed, but her eyes darted with unease.

Daemon's hand rested lazily on the hilt of Dark Sister, his eyes roaming, looking for a familiar face. "No King?" he mocked. "Where is my dear brother Maegor?"

"Your occupation of this island is at an end," Otto said flatly. "You are to relinquish the dragon's egg, disband your army, banish your-" he glanced with clear disdain toward Mysaria, "-your whore, and leave Dragonstone to return to your lawful wife. By order of His Grace, King Maegor."

Daemon's eyes twinkled with disdainful humor. "Where is His Grace? I don't see him. Is he hiding behind your skirts, Otto?"

Otto's nostrils flared. "His Grace would never lower himself to partake in this farce."

"I see," Daemon drawled. "A pity. I had hoped he'd come. I prepared quite the welcome feast."

"I advise you give us the egg, my prince," Ser Criston Cole interjected, stepping forward with cautious authority.

Daemon tilted his head. "Ser Crispin, wasn't it?"

"Criston Cole," the knight corrected calmly.

"Ah, yes. Apologies. So many new names in court these days. Hard to remember the insignificant ones."

Criston held Daemon's gaze. "Perhaps you remember when I knocked you from your horse at the Heir's Tournament."

A low chuckle escaped Daemon's throat. "Oh, yes. Very good. The lowborn knight who made a fool of a prince. Your name was whispered in the brothels for weeks."

Otto scowled. "This is pathetic, Daemon. Are you so starved for attention that you skulk in shadows, stealing dragon eggs like a thief in the night?"

Daemon's smugness hardened. "I'm following the traditions of our house. A dragon's egg in the cradle-just as Viserys did for Rhaenyra. I claim the same right."