Maegor's eyes were bloodshot, the sharp gleam they once carried now dulled into a look of exhaustion and ferocity. A faint bluish-gray hue spread across his face, draining it of all vigor.
He swept his gaze slowly over the lords in the hall, his eyes like a hawk circling in the dead of night—predatory, cold, and terrifying enough to chill the marrow.
"Your Grace!" Lord Hayford stepped forward, breaking the suffocating silence.
Maegor gave the faintest nod, signaling him to speak.
"Your Grace, in my humble opinion… perhaps we should surrender." Lord Hayford's eyes fixed earnestly on the king upon the throne, his voice steady but imploring. "Aegon is your son, after all. He will surely spare your life."
At those words, Maegor's lips twisted into a cold, mocking smile. His eyes glinted with disdain as he replied, "Hmph. You're only thinking of saving your own skin, aren't you?"
Surrender?
From the very moment Maegor crowned himself king, that word had never once entered his mind. He had always seen himself as a great warrior. And to him, a warrior had only one fate—death on the battlefield. To kneel and yield was unthinkable.
Lord Hayford did not retreat under Maegor's scorn. He pressed on, desperation creeping into his voice. "Your Grace, Aegon now commands three dragons. Our Cannibal can no longer fly. Jaehaerys and his sister are dragonborn, and Aegon leads the Demon-Hunting Knights. Against such overwhelming might, how can we hope to resist?
This war—we have no chance of victory!"
His bold words fell like sparks into dry tinder, igniting unrest long suppressed in the hall.
The lords froze for an instant, then broke into low whispers and hushed arguments. The silence shattered into restless noise.
Maegor's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, a killing light flashing within them.
He rose slowly from the throne, his towering frame radiating menace.
With a sudden motion, he drew Blackfyre from his waist. The blade caught the light, flashing cold and sharp. His face darkened into a mask of wrath as he fixed his gaze on Lord Hayford, as though he would strip him bare with sight alone.
"Your Grace, I speak only for your sake!" Lord Hayford stammered, his voice trembling.
Maegor did not listen. He swung the sword behind him, its tip dragging along the smooth stone as he descended the steps of the throne, each pace deliberate and heavy.
Screeech… screeech…
The razor point scraped across the floor, the sound shrill and grating, echoing through the hall like the laughter of some lurking demon.
It clawed at ears and minds alike, until the lords felt as though invisible hands had closed around their hearts, ready to crush them. Their breaths quickened, sweat beading on foreheads.
"Your Majesty… no…" Lord Hayford whispered hoarsely, terror rising from his core, leaving his voice dry and broken.
Then—slash!
A shadow flashed, and Blackfyre's edge cleaved through the air like lightning.
Hayford felt a sudden chill, then pain so sharp it stole his breath—his arm had been cut clean away, blood bursting forth like a fountain.
His lips quivered uncontrollably, but the agony drove him to rage.
At that moment, staring death in the face, he knew the truth: his life was forfeit.
"You… tyrant! Ahh—my hands!" he screamed, but before his cry was finished, his other arm was hacked away.
His face contorted hideously, twisted into something monstrous, like a demon rising from the pit.
He bellowed with all he had left, "Executioner… flesh-eating demon… Maegor, you should be cloaked in black, not—"
The words never finished.
Steel flashed, and his head flew free, rolling across the floor.
Expressionless, Maegor hooked the severed head on his sword's curve, turned, and slowly swept his gaze across the hall.
The lords who had moments before whispered rebellion now cowered in silence, their heads bowed, their bodies stiff with fear.
The hall was once more drowned in deathly stillness.
Maegor let out a low, scornful laugh. In the silence, the sound rang sharp and cruel.
He flicked the head into the air. It spun, then landed with a sickening finality, spiked upon a spearhead behind the Iron Throne. Its bulging eyes and twisted expression seemed frozen in terror and hatred.
Maegor now radiated a wild, dangerous aura, like a beast poised to devour. None dared meet his gaze. None dared speak.
"Who else dares speak of surrender?!" His voice rang through the hall, cold, suffocating, laced with madness.
And in that moment, fear bit deeper than any blade.
No one spoke of retreat again. The council dragged on.
"We should take the initiative—launch a strike along the Blackwater Rush. Catch Aegon's men mid-crossing."
It was Lord Tarth, his booming voice echoing. From outside the hall, a guardsman muttered under his breath. A surprise attack?
"You fool! Half our garrison has already deserted. We have barely any men willing to fight! To march out is suicide!" Lord Rosby snapped, pointing at Tarth in fury.
But another voice came low and hard: "Your Grace, we should hold King's Landing. Use the Kingsguard for a surprise strike on Aegon's royal tent. That is how we win."
Maegor gripped Blackfyre, listening intently to the plans of his two most loyal advisers.
Perhaps, he thought, the best moment would be when Aegon's army was halfway across the river. Have Tarth lead men to strike, forcing Silverwing or Dreamfyre to their aid—while he himself struck for Aegon's head.
He considered it carefully, but the two lords beneath the throne had already fallen into shouting again, their bickering pounding at his temples.
Rubbing his brow, Maegor growled, "It is now the hour of the wolf. Go, rest. I will think further. No matter what, within three days we march to war."
"Yes, Your Grace."
They bowed and withdrew. At the doorway, they exchanged a wary glance before parting into the night.
Maegor released his grip on Blackfyre and gazed down at the Iron Throne beneath him—that cruel monument of a thousand melted blades, the symbol of power itself.
Why, he thought bitterly, is there no capable Hand of the King to stand beside me? Every plan must be wrung from my own mind, argued over endlessly.
The weight of King's Landing's faltering spirit pressed upon him, not upon his body but upon his will.
Since Visenya's death, the realm had slipped from his grasp, politics running wild like a horse unbridled. The more he tightened his grip, the more the great lords opposed him.
Mother, you taught me to kill my foes—but never to command men's hearts. Why did you leave me so soon?
Hand after Hand, each one useless, failures all. Why has fate dealt me such cruelty?
Clang!
The sharp clash of steel rang out.
Maegor hefted Blackfyre onto his shoulder and let out a cold, mocking laugh.
"Rats are easiest to catch when they scurry from their holes."
He turned toward the rear of the Iron Throne, where a stone slab had been shifted aside. From the darkness emerged several black-clad knights—the clashing of steel had come from their passage through the hidden way.
"Hah! A pack of worthless vermin!"
Seeing the assassins, Maegor showed no fear. Instead of retreating, he charged straight into them. One man against more than ten, yet his confidence in his skill was absolute.
With a sweep of Blackfyre, a torrent of dark steel light cascaded outward. The tall knight at the front raised his blade to block—but the black sword twisted like a serpent, swerving mid-strike. In a flash, Maegor had slipped past him, his blade already striking at those behind.
The tall knight's eyes widened in shock. His hand reached to his throat, warm blood spilling between his fingers.
Cough! He collapsed to the ground.
Dragonborn indeed.
The black-clad knights stiffened at the sight—their dragon-kin captain had been cut down without lasting even a single exchange. Their palms sweated inside their gauntlets.
But this time, when Maegor's second strike fell, their combined guard managed to catch it.
"Hrgh!" Maegor bellowed. Blackfyre locked against several swords. Using the recoil, he drew the blade back high, gathered strength, then brought it down in a golden arc of steel.
Clang!
A longsword snapped in two—its wielder split from shoulder to waist, carved cleanly in half.
With their formation broken, Maegor surged forward like a storm. His sword howled as it pierced another foe.
"Die!"
Left and right he cut, black steel carving a bloody path. The assassins fell back again and again, overwhelmed by the ferocity of one man holding ground against a dozen.
Each time they tried to close in, Blackfyre sheared through a weapon, breaking their circle. Maegor's counterstrikes came immediately after—swift, merciless, lethal.
The clash of steel and cries of death echoed through the hall, rousing the Kingsguard on duty outside.
That night, it was Ser Maladon Moore and Ser Olyver Bracken who stood watch. At the sound of blades, both knew calamity had struck.
When they burst into the hall, they found their king locked in furious battle against a dozen black-clad foes. The two knights exchanged a look—then charged.
"Your Grace, I'll aid you!" Maladon shouted, sword flashing.
"Dare you raise arms against the king? Die!" Olyver roared, swinging his own weapon. Both men attacked with full strength, bodies flaring with magic as they poured every ounce of power into their blows.
Maegor was fighting with exhilaration when he heard their voices. His lip curled in contempt. So slow. If not for my skill, would they have come only to bury me?
No—wind whistled past his ear.
Instinct screamed a warning. The sound was no ally's strike, but steel cutting for his life.
He spun Blackfyre backward, catching both blades.
Maegor turned, his face dark and murderous, staring into the eyes of the two Kingsguard who had tried to cut him down. The demonic energy within him began to surge, though he did not fully awaken it—perhaps he judged such insects unworthy of his true might.
Ser Maladon forced a chuckle, raising his sword to strike again.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," Olyver muttered grimly, circling to Maegor's left—the weak side opposite his sword arm. He had sparred with the king countless times. He knew exactly where the openings lay.
"Two more rats?" Maegor's lips twisted in a cruel grin. Rage blazed in his eyes. "Good. I wasn't done."
With a vicious slash, he struck at Maladon's blade.
Clang! The longsword flew from the knight's grip.
Maladon abandoned his weapon and sprang back, the desperate move sparing his life. To clash head-on with Blackfyre was certain death.
Maegor did not pause. Flowing from one strike into the next, he turned his blade in a brutal horizontal sweep at Olyver.
Olyver had just begun his own attack when the strike came. His heart lurched—such speed! None but Maegor could cut so fast. He barely managed to raise his sword in time.
Steel met steel. Normally, that would have been the end of it.
But Maegor pressed on, forcing Blackfyre down with monstrous strength, grinding it along Olyver's blade.
Sparks burst in a spray of fire.
Olyver's sword shrieked, teeth of metal splitting along its edge. Blackfyre's tip bore down—straight toward his legs.
With a sickening crunch, Olyver's right leg was cleaved away.
Maladon, having just retrieved his fallen sword, froze in horror at the sight of his comrade maimed in a single exchange.
Behind them, the remaining assassins faltered. Barely five or six of them still stood, and they ceased their assault entirely. Dread gripped their hearts.
These were the Kingsguard—revered as the strongest knights in the realm. And yet, under Maegor's blade, they had fallen in only one round.
Ser Maladon began edging back toward the great doors, his face tense with fear. He crouched low, blade raised, never taking his eyes off the man before him—as though he were staring into the eyes of a wild beast.
The black-clad assassins fell back toward Ser Maladon, adopting guarded stances as they retreated step by step. They had failed to force Maegor into his awakened state—by now, the mission was doomed.
Maegor spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, his face expressionless as he strode to Olyver's side. Though crippled and bleeding, Olyver clenched his jaw, enduring the agony in silence. The air in the hall grew suffocating.
Maegor's lips curled into a grin. Fixing his gaze on Maladon, he slowly raised Blackfyre—then drove it into Olyver's chest.
"Ahh—!"
Olyver's features twisted hideously. At last, the combined torment of body and spirit broke him, and a howl tore from his throat.
Maladon's pupils shrank to pinpricks. His instincts screamed to run, but reason held him still—turning his back on Maegor would only mean a swifter death. Swallowing hard, he continued to edge backward.
The black-clad men's legs shook beneath them, yet they clung to Maladon's side. This was their only hope: that the White Knight might spare their lives.
Olyver had gone still. Maegor lifted his head, wrenched Blackfyre free, and turned toward Maladon.
Seeing the knight's bloodless face, Maegor's expression turned mocking. He delighted in watching prey struggle—admiring their frantic resistance before grinding them down, body and spirit alike.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk... Maladon, why do you retreat? I am your king," Maegor said with a soft smile, though his eyes glimmered with cruelty. "Come—my Kingsguard."
Maladon nearly stumbled as his steps faltered. To him, Maegor was no longer a man but a demon, advancing slowly to claim his soul.
A smiling demon—one who meant to capture him, break him, and devour him piece by piece.
Desperation seized Maladon. He began rousing every shred of demonic energy within himself. Cornered, his only path left was awakening into a monster.
But Maegor did not grant him the chance.
With a flash of molten-gold light, Blackfyre in his hands shifted shape, swelling into a massive warhammer. With the weight of mountains behind it, he swung it down.
The Molten Gold Warhammer crashed onto Maladon's head. Golden light burst in a blinding flare as his body was smashed to pulp, bone fragments and molten shards scattering across the floor.
Maegor let the demonic energy ebb from Blackfyre. Stepping out through the doors of the Hall of Conquest, he cast his eyes about. The Kingsguard had yet to respond—no one had come, though their king had been ambushed in his own hall.
At last, he understood.
"...So I am truly forsaken." Maegor exhaled heavily and shook his head.
He did not call for guards. Instead, he walked alone toward the Dragonpit upon Rhaenys' Hill.
"Cannibal... I still have you," he muttered as he went. "Only you will never betray me. Perhaps only by becoming one can we ascend. Then we will never be alone again. No one will ever overcome us..."
His voice faded as his figure vanished into the darkness that led toward the dragon's lair.
...
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