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

031▪️ UNDER THE STORM

Midnight blanketed King's Landing in a hush so thick, even the wind seemed reluctant to stir it. The city, nestled between the black waters of Blackwater Bay and the looming heights of the Red Keep, breathed in silence.

Faint smoke spiraled from the chimneys of bakeries long since closed, their last embers dying. Dogs barked in the distance sharp, uncertain.

A baby cried somewhere, then was swiftly hushed. Goldcloaks in twos and threes marched the cobbled streets, their boots clinking in rhythm, halberds clutched tight under lantern light.

From above, owls hooted from shadowy towers and beams, their wings whispering as they glided across rooftops. The city slept, but not all within her walls found peace.

Within the Red Keep, stillness reigned. Its great stone halls were lit only by flickering sconces and dying hearths, the silence interrupted only by the footsteps of patrolling guards and the occasional groan of settling stone.

Even the banners hung motionless in the air, as if holding their breath. High above, in the old wing once claimed by Maegor the Cruel, a single chamber remained disturbed by restlessness.

King Maegor Targaryen, the second of his name, twisted under the weight of nightmares.

His limbs thrashed beneath the covers, his brow damp with sweat. Suddenly he woke with a gasp sharp and guttural his crimson eyes wide and glazed.

He yanked the heavy duvet from his body and pushed himself upright, his broad chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting gold-red light over his bare, sweat-slicked torso. Outside, the crickets hummed softly.

He dragged himself to the table near the window, uncorked a dark bottle, and poured himself a goblet of Dornish red.

He drank it in one long pull, then poured another. His hands trembled slightly as he clutched the cup, elbows braced against the stone table, head bowed low.

For a moment, he said nothing only listened to the night, the fire, the soft beat of his own heart.

His thoughts circled like vultures. A son... a son must come. He had no heir. No child. Just like his cursed namesake, Maegor the Cruel who ruled for nearly fifty years and died without a single surviving child.

Alone on the Iron Throne. Hated. Feared. Forgotten in legacy.

"Would they call me Maegor the Childless too? Gods forbid. Let my seed take root, I beg you..." he thought.

He grunted low in his throat, the sound of a man angry with his fate. Pouring a third goblet, he downed it swiftly, trying to drown the memories, the faces in his dreams, the screams of the women who bore him nothing.

Then his gaze flicked to the corner of the room, where his swords hung, their hilts glinting in the firelight. They called to him like old friends.

He threw on a black shirt from the nearby chair, fastened it roughly, and took down one of his blades. Darkbite, forged in Dragonstone steel. Without a word, he stepped out of his chamber.