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

046▪️ ARE WE GODS? OR MORTALS?

The next day, the grand throne room of the Red Keep stood still in a silence almost sacred. At its heart, King Maegor Targaryen stood alone, dwarfed by the empty expanse and the five towering statues of the Targaryen kings who came before him.

Their obsidian eyes seemed to watch him, judge him. Rhaenys's sun streamed through the high stained-glass windows, casting jeweled light across the black-and-red tiles. Yet not even the beauty of morning could pierce the cold wrapped around Maegor's soul.

Outside, the capital lived on. Gulls cried overhead, the sky as blue as a sapphire. The neighing of horses and murmurs of merchants echoed faintly up the hill.

The fields were bursting with green, and the gardens bloomed in riotous color. The city seemed whole. Flourishing. At peace.

Yet beneath the surface, grief still lingered, still clung to the stones like fog. The late Queen Mellario had been beloved, and her death had not yet been forgiven by the winds.

But it was not only grief that haunted the realm. It was uncertainty. The fragile silence of succession debates brewing behind closed doors. Maegor’s thoughts drifted to Rhaenyra. He had not spoken to her since the funeral. His silence was a blade.

The dagger at Maegor's belt glinted. Valyrian steel, forged for kings. He held it in one hand, toying with it absently, his thumb trailing the dragonbone hilt. It used to calm him.

Now it only made him think of Aegon. Of the dream. The Song of Ice and Fire. The prophecy passed through their blood like a whisper. But how could he fulfill it, when the gods had taken both his queen and his heir?

Footsteps interrupted his brooding, their echo a warning in the cavernous space.

"Brother."

The thirty-one rogue prince’s voice cracked through the stillness. Maegor turned as Daemon stepped into the light. Without hesitation, Daemon threw his arms around him, pulling him into an embrace that spoke not of duty, but of blood, of pain shared.

"It's been a year and three months," Daemon murmured, gripping tighter. "Your absence was looming."

Maegor didn’t respond immediately. He clutched his brother, then pulled back. His face was hollow, his eyes dim. Once, there had been fire in him. Now only embers.

"How are you?" Daemon asked, voice gentler now.

"Better." Maegor forced a half-smile. It barely reached his eyes. "Have you seen Rhaenyra?"

Daemon nodded, stepping beside him. "She’s often in the skies. Flying. Avoiding. Finding solace where dragons understand what people can’t. But you, brother, how are you really doing?"

Maegor exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging. "Trying to move on. Mellario... Baelon... it’s a kind of silence I wasn’t prepared for. I didn't know being a widower could feel this... loud."