| Author's Note: Hope you like the chapter! Remember to give me your opinions.
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| With Maegor Targaryen, During The Tourney Of Harrenhal, 281 AC:
His next opponent was a Frey, young, nameless, and forgettable, and so, the match ended on the first pass. The lance hit clean, the man lifted from his saddle and hit the dirt hard. His helmet flew off midair, spinning before landing beside him, and the impact drew gasps from the crowd.
Maegor didn't care.
After facing the Mountain, nothing about this seemed worth a thought, unless it was someone he knew or respected lying broken on the ground, it didn't matter. The Frey was just another name to scratch off the lists.
He turned his horse, the roar of applause following him down the field.
His second win of the day, as he rode past the royal box, and he didn't so much as glance at his father or brother. He felt their eyes on him, their disapproval heavy and obvious, which made him smile beneath his helm.
.
Maegor leaned back in the hot bath, head resting against the rim, body submerged to the neck. Steam filled the chamber, and the maids, young and old, worked in silence, washing him carefully.
He barely noticed them, his mind was quiet, his muscles eased. He hummed a Valyrian tune under his breath, eyes closed, and the women giggled and whispered, but he ignored them, which only seemed to amuse them more.
By the time he rose from the water, night was near. He dressed again, strapping on his armor and sword belt, the weight familiar and grounding. When he left his chambers, Ser Gerold Hightower fell in behind him as always.
"Stay here tonight." Maegor told him, and Gerold frowned, reluctant to obey, but finally nodded. Harrenhal was crowded with knights and lords. So, no bandit or sellsword would dare come near.
Maegor walked alone.
He followed narrow paths through brush and broken trees, the armor's weight steady on him. His freshly polished sword caught the faint orange light of dusk, and the land sloped down toward the lake, as soon the still waters of the God's Eye came into view.
He built a fire by the shore, methodical, and practiced. Stones, branches, tinder, and soon a strong flame rose quick, snapping in the breeze. He set down a small sack with food and water, took a slow drink, and ate a bite of a lemon cake slice.
The air cooled as the sky darkened, the lake rippled in faint waves under the wind. Birds moved through the trees, branches creaking under their weight, a few deer and rabbits watched him from the brush.
It was quiet, alive in its own way.
Peaceful.
He sat against a tree trunk, helmet beside him, the fire burning a few paces away. He watched the flames take shape and shift, the orange light reflecting on his armor. The heat and movement held him for a while, and his thoughts drifted, fragments of the tourney, of his father's glare, of Cersei's lips.
All blurred together in the fire's rhythm.
He reached for a slice dries meat from his pack, chewing as the night settled cold around him. Then came a sound, faint, sharp, something moving in the brush to his right.
Maegor froze. His sword was beside his leg, within reach, and his hand found the hilt as the bushes shook again, as a boar burst out.
It came fast, tusks forward, breath steaming in the cold air. Maegor rolled aside, dirt and leaves scattering as the beast thundered past. It turned on him with a snort, foam at its mouth, mud caked on its hide. Its eyes were small, burning with some animal rage that almost felt personal.
The night went still again except for the crackle of fire and the sound of their breathing. Maegor shifted his stance, boots crunching on fallen branches, for he needed space.
The boar stamped once, then charged, faster than it looked. Fast like Gregor Clegane had been, impossible for its size.
This time Maegor met it head-on. He stepped forward, lowered his shoulder, and waited until it was almost on him.
Then he twisted and drove his sword low into its hind leg. The blade hit hard, sinking deep, and the beast screamed, kicking and thrashing. Maegor yanked the sword free, as blood spilled quick and hot, soaking the ground.
The boar turned, limping but furious, and charged again. Maegor sidestepped once more and brought the blade down across its neck as it passed. Bone cracked, and the beast collapsed mid-motion, legs twitching before going still.
Maegor stood there for a moment, breathing slow and heavy, the world gone quiet again except for the fire. He wiped the blade clean on the grass.
So much for peace.
It was a fine kill though, simple work for a man armored and trained as he was. A lesser man would have died there, but Maegor knew this much, it wouldn't be a boar that killed him.
Not tonight, not ever.
.
Night had fallen deep, and the darkness felt heavier here, thick and still. Maegor sat beside the dying fire, his things packed and ready, the air cold and sharp off the waters of the God's Eye.
The flames still burned, their heat steady against the chill, and for a moment he let them hold his gaze. The half-eaten boar piece beside him smoked faintly, the scent of char and blood clinging to the air.
He was about to leave when pain struck, sudden and brutal. It cut through his skull like a blade, making him groan, clenching his head between his hands, teeth grinding until it eased. When it faded, a new feeling replaced it, a pull, faint but unmistakable, tugging him toward the Isle of Faces.
"What in the seven hells…" he muttered, eyes lifting to the dark silhouette in the lake's center. He remembered his brother had gone there before the tourney began. The thought soured his mood further, and his eyes burned, violet bright in the reflection of the fire.
"If you think I'm like him..." he said into the cold, "Chasing your prophecies and ghost stories, you're mistaken." Though he wasn't sure to whom he was saying that to.
The wind didn't answer, and the pull only grew stronger. He turned and started walking back toward Harrenhal, or tried to, for a while.
The world tilted then, his vision warped, the trees bending, the faraway fire flashing once and gone. When he blinked, he stood again where he had been before, beside the boar's carcass, the fire still burning as if he'd never left.
"What?" he rasped, breath steaming. "No, that's not possible." He turned in place, scanning the treeline. Everything looked the same. The same tree, the same dirt, the same damned lake.
His gut tightened. "This isn't real." he told himself. "I'm dreaming." But his body moved, step by step, toward the water.
He tried to stop, to dig his boots into the dirt, but his limbs didn't obey. "Stop!" he said through gritted teeth. "I said stop!"
He couldn't.
The cold hit him as his leg broke the surface, then the other. His armor should have dragged him down, but instead he floated, chest deep in black water that bit through steel and skin alike.
"What is this sorcery? What,—..." His voice stopped.
Literally stopped.
His mouth locked shut mid-word, his jaw frozen in place. Panic surged through him as the water climbed to his shoulders. His body drifted, buoyed by something unseen.
The fire on shore flickered smaller and smaller until the lake swallowed it. The world turned quiet, only the slow hum of wind and water filled his ears, until something else joined it.
A voice. Low and wordless, humming a tune that wasn't quite human.
His head turned on its own, eyes scanning the water. A ripple moved toward him, steady and deliberate, as the singing grew clearer, soft, feminine, and wrong.
Then he saw her.
A woman's face broke the surface, pale skin, wet hair clinging to her shoulders, eyes like shards of blue glass. The rest of her body was hidden beneath the black water.
"My, my..." she said, her voice smooth and strange. "Never thought I'd see the day a mortal defied the will of the gods."
Maegor's heart pounded. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice shaking between fury and disbelief. "What is this?"
She smiled. "Such a defiant boy."
She moved closer, and he couldn't move back. Her hands rose, cold and weightless, cupping his face like a lover's. Her lips touched his before he could turn away.
The kiss was warm, sweet, and wrong.
His stomach twisted, his mind screamed.
This isn't real. I'm by the fire, and I'm asleep.
But the cold was too sharp, the touch too clear. Her eyes glowed brighter when she pulled away, her smile wide and knowing. He couldn't look away, alas, he couldn't even shiver.
"Prince Maegor." she said, tasting the title, her voice echoing underwater and in his skull at once. "So proud, and yet so blind still."
He tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn't move. His chest felt hollow, and her expression softened, almost kind.
Then she gripped his arms and pulled him down. The water swallowed him whole, his lungs burned as cold flooded them, his body thrashing uselessly against her strength.
Light vanished, and all he saw was her face and the long, scaled shape beneath it, clearly not legs, not even human-like.
Her voice came again, echoing through the dark. "Do not fear, son of the dragon. You will not die tonight. But your eyes must see what they were born to see, even if you remember none of it by dawn." The cold crushed him.
His lungs screamed for air, but the pain didn't matter anymore. His limbs moved without command, slow, drifting. The woman, the thing, beautiful beyond words, circled him, her shape slipping through the water like shadow.
Her laughter carried through the depths, low and soft, wrapping around his mind. Then she began to sing.
It wasn't in any tongue he knew. The sound was both near and distant, echoing like the heartbeats of the world itself, and the longer she sang, the less he felt the water, the cold, or even the weight of his armor.
Everything faded but her voice.
She brushed against him again, fingers cold as stone tracing his neck, her lips following.
Each kiss made his vision spark, flashes of light, color, and faces that weren't his own.
He saw green fire swallowing cities, and let out a childish gasp as he saw dragons roaring above him. He saw a boy crowned in flame and ash. He saw silver hair and violet eyes, his own, mirrored in endless water.
He tried to fight it, to push her away, but his body wouldn't move. His thoughts blurred, slipping into her rhythm, and the song grew louder.
Then her laughter broke the melody, clear and cruel. "Dreams are gifts, Maegor of House Targaryen." she whispered against his skin, tongue and lips brushing his wet skin. "But gifts from gods are never free, and for you to try and turn away from them..."
Her hands slid from his chest, and he sank deeper. The world folded in on itself, light twisting, turning red, then white.
His consciousness tore between what was real and what wasn't. He saw his father's throne, his brother's supposed future crown, and blood on both. He saw fire eating the halls of men who called themselves kings.
He saw his own shadow growing longer than any dragon's wings. Then, the song stopped, and the world went still.
When Maegor gasped, he was lying beside the dead fire on the shore. His armor was dry, the boar still lay nearby, half eaten, and the moon had moved much, as light started to show itself on the horizon.
He sat up slowly, hand clutching his sword, eyes wide and sharp. The water of the God's Eye was calm again, flat and silent.
He stared at it for a long time, chest heaving, unsure if he'd dreamed at all, but when he reached up to wipe his face, his armored glove came away wet.
And the faint sound of humming still lingered in his ears.
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| Author's Note: So, any thoughts?