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

072▪️ SISTERS, SCHEMES & SACRIFICES

The sun began its descent, casting the Small Council chamber in a wash of warm amber light. Shadows stretched across the floor as the last of the orbs were placed into the carved stone dish at the center of the table. Silence hung in the air, thick with tension, like the breath of a beast waiting to exhale.

A dragonkeeper, clad in dark crimson and bronze scales of the order, stood upright near the end of the table. His voice, sharp with unease, broke the silence in High Valyrian.

“Atroksio sÿndrorro massitais āeksīss ñuhīs Masso Jėdunna.”

(It occurred in the blackness of night, my lords, during the Hour of the Bat.)

Whispers shifted through the chamber.

“Laodikio ilot upÿdas.” (The thief eluded our pursuit.)

King Maegor sat unmoving at the head of the table, his broad shoulders tense, his gaze locked on the dragonkeeper with simmering scrutiny. Then he spoke, slowly, dangerously calm.

“Skoros istan ao kesrio syt nykēla mazverdagon bē velmȳ ānogār.”

(How is it possible that a dragon's egg was stolen out from beneath more than fifty dragonkeepers?)

The keeper hesitated, his face pale with shame. “It was Prince Daemon... who was the culprit.”

A hush swept through the room like a funeral wind.

“Daemon?” Maegor repeated, the name tumbling from his mouth like acid. His eyes, usually dark and brooding, now burned red with rising fury. His jaw twitched. A muscle clenched in his temple.

Otto Hightower, seated beside Lord Strong, cleared his throat.

“The Prince left a missive. I believe it might explain his actions.”

Maegor didn’t speak, but his stare spoke volumes. Explain this madness.

Grand Maester Mellos unfurled the parchment with a deep sigh, his old fingers trembling slightly.

“It is the pleasure of Daemon Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone and rightful heir to the Iron Throne,” Mellos began, careful with every word, “to announce that he is to take a second wife in the tradition of Old Valyria. She is to assume the title ‘Lady Mysaria of Dragonstone.’”

Maegor’s hands flexed over the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening.

“Her Grace is with child, and is to have a dragon’s egg placed in the babe’s cradle, in the custom of House Targaryen.” Mellos’ voice cracked slightly. “The Prince has invited you to his wedding, Your Grace. It is to be held in two days’ time.”