Could you make a continuation of your post about Reader being Maegor’s daughter? It would be interesting to see Reader determined to kill her father and refusing to behave like royalty.
Hi darling. I hope you like it. ❤️
First part: https://www.tumblr.com/gulnarsultan/788160730496106496/hey-i-have-a-request-if-you-dont-mind-so?source=share
》Part 2《
Days later, you finally open your eyes. You come to with a dry feeling in your throat and a throbbing pain in your head. You sit up in bed and, screaming in pain, clutch your bandaged head. You curse in a voice no louder than a whisper. You look around. You are surprised that you are not in a cell. The room was furnished in a manner befitting royalty. When you stand up, you stumble a few steps and someone catches you tightly. When you turn your head back, you realize that it is Maegor who is preventing you from falling. You hisse like a wild cat, and you begin to struggle to break free from his grip.
"Let me go."
After a few minutes of struggling, your energy finally runs out, and you remain motionless in his arms, like a sack of flour. Unlike the actions that earned him his nickname "Cruel," he carefully sits you down on the bed. Days pass slowly, and he visits you every day. His mother, Visenya, also visits you or calls you to her room. Visenya teaches you Valyrian history and the High Valyrian language. Even though you initially refuse, you succumb to curiosity and begin listening to Visenya's lessons. At first, you are determined to kill Maegor. You soon realize you won't succeed. So you decide to escape. And you try to escape at least twice a week. Each escape ends with Maegor throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you back to the palace. Even though the tailors have to fight you for hours, they manage to take your measurements. The Targaryen house colors were being used to make clothes for you. Your room was filled with chests laden with Valyrian steel crowns, gold jewelry adorned with precious jewels. Although you expressed your desire to dress in any style, Maegor and Visenya ignored your wishes. A few months later, Visenya lay ill in bed. Maegor was far from the Dragonstone, and as you understood, her condition was deteriorating. You held Visenya's hand in her final moments, trying to comfort her. Before she died, Visenya warned you to be careful to prevent Alyssa Velaryon and her children, Jaehaerys and Alysanne, from escaping. When Maegor returned, his mother was dead, but thanks to your vigilance, the prisoners were unable to escape. Following the funeral pyre, a very interesting event occurred: Visenya's dragon, Vhagar, bonded with you. This was a very different and frightening experience for you. And Maegor didn't neglect to teach you how to ride and control your dragon. Days later, you decided to escape and secretly tried to leave the Red Keep. But Maegor's devastated state had stopped you. Perhaps it was the memory of your grandmother Visenya, or the desolate state of the man you resembled. You slowly pushed the door open and cautiously entered. You approached him and sat down in the chair next to his. You didn't know what to say or how to comfort him. You simply placed your hand on his shoulder. You could feel the tension in his muscles disappearing under your hand.
"I don't pity you. It's just… I guess we have no one else left but each other. That's why I'm here."
Maegor simply nodded, choosing to respond with a low grunt. After all, talking and words weren't Maegor's greatest strengths.
Note: This is my first venture into Maegor and is part of the "We can make them worse" project! A little rebellion, a little smut, and a whole lot of not listening to the morality police!
Warnings: !!Dead Dove Do Not Eat!! Very very dubious consent. This warning is not a suggestion, not a joke. If this material will be harmful to you DO NOT READ THIS. Please remember that we are all responsible for our own content consumption.
My Masterlist
“He was a traitor. Likely. Mayhaps. Either way, he is dead.” Maegor’s voice is flat, almost bored. “And you are very much free to marry.”
You stare up at the hulking beast before you. Your husband’s blood drips steadily from Blackfyre’s edge, pooling at your feet.
Maegor Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and now, it seemed, your new husband by right of conquest.
“Are you not pleased?” His voice is a low rumble as he circles you. Each heavy thud of his boots lands like the steps of the stranger in your ears. “It would wound me grievously if you were not brimming with pleasure at the prospect of becoming my wife before gods and men.” Maegor continues his appraisal as if you were a prized mare he just won at market.
“Hmmm… hips are serviceable. Breasts are adequate.” He circles once more, eyes raking over you like inventory. “They say you gave that lordling three sons. Strong? Healthy?”
Your head swims. Shock? Fear? The edges blur.
“I will have you answer your King when he speaks to you!” He grips your chin harshly. His gauntlets dig into your skin and break you from your trance. You open your mouth to respond and he drags you an inch from his face. His eyes glare into yours. Beautiful violet eyes, so jarring sitting in the sockets of a monster so cruel.
“Is it true that you are the perfect broodmare or is it a fantasy tale?! You will answer me now woman or I will scour all of this keep and count children by collecting their heads!” His spittle lands on your cheeks and you rear back. “Oh. Do I disgust you little broodmare?” He scoffs and shoves you by your face so hard that you stumble for a moment before catching yourself.
“I have three sons,” you finally manage to force out. “Ormund, Davis and Edmund.” You nervously wring your hands. Would giving him names humanize them? Give them a chance?
Maegor smirks, his lip curling on one side. “Perfect names for cup bearers, squires… decorations.” He stalks back to you, grabbing tightly at the back of your neck and hauling you against his blood-soaked breastplate. “What role they play depends on you.” His grip tightens like an iron cuff around your neck.
“You have whelped three boys and now you will whelp more. A dozen if I see fit.” He growls lightly in your ear before speaking past your shoulder.
“Set it up. I wish to be wed within the hour. Find those boys. They will join their mother.” The armored man behind him nods and scurries off, leaving them entirely alone.
“The ceremony will be quick,” he says as he finally lets go of you. He smirks, leaning back to get a good look at you. “Then you will come and live with your sister wives, in my castle, in my court, in my bed, and in my nursery. The two of them will make you feel right at home.”
You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “I thought there were three?” The question escapes your lips before you can think better of it.
He clenches his jaw so tightly his mandible twitches. “Jeyne failed me. She suffered from weakness.” He spits as he begins to pace. “You will not be weak though, will you? No, you are the prized mare that spits out boys as your lord demands!” He smirks before stomping back toward you with predatory fire in his eyes. “You birthed three brats for a lesser man. You should be able to produce an army for your King. Fail me, and learn as they all have what that means.”
You're left there for only a quick moment before you are ushered before a small gathering, a quick glance around and you see bloody soldiers, your three terrified children, and a septon who trembles as he reads the marriage rites he no doubt knows are barely valid.
The sounds of the small ceremony are muffled to your ears. Instead, your racing heart and the whimpers of your youngest haunt you. The wedding is over in minutes. Right there in the courtyard of the castle your previous husband had ruled. Where your children had played tag among the roses, where you had once ordered the staff with gentle authority, where life had been pleasant, predictable, safe.
Now those same stones are slick with blood and gore, your husbands blood mixed in with that of your favorite maid, your septa, your sons friend the stable boy. All splattered amongst the stones so he could have you, use you, breed you like livestock.
You now stand bound to a man who could only be described as a living nightmare, his cloak heavy and damp on your shoulders.
“We rest here. Leave for the capital in the morning. Where are your quarters?”
He turns toward the keep without waiting for an answer. You remain frozen, rooted to the bloodied stone. Without turning, his shoulders hunch. A tremble runs through his frame. “Come now wife, I have had a long day of slaughter. I do not wish to drag you. But I shall if you do not move.”
You force your trembling legs forward. Each step is heavy on the blood-slick stones.
“I should put my children to bed,” you whisper, barely audible.
His hand snaps up, palm flat, silencing. “My men will see to that.” His voice is cold iron. “You and I have a consummation to attend to. Now lead me to the master’s chambers. Stay silent, otherwise.”
You nod harshly. “Yes your grace.”
Maegor chuckles, annoyed. “Silent. It is a word you have no doubt heard before today?”
You cringe, stomach twisting, and lead him through the familiar corridors. The chambers you shared with your husband await at the end of the hall. The same heavy oak door, the same rush-strewn floor.
He had been no grand passion, but he had been kind with soft words after long days, a gentle hand on your back, care for the children. Qualities you already know this man will never possess.
You reach for the heavy oak door, fingers brushing the iron handle.
Maegor strides past you, barreling through like a battering ram. The door crashes inward.
“IN. NOW.”
No patience. No kindness. Only harsh, strict commands.
You flutter in like a frightened rabbit and he slams the doors closed again.
“This is noble living?” Maegor’s lip curls as he scans the chamber.
The familiar scent of lavender and cold beeswax hangs in the air, clashing with the iron tang of blood still on his armor. Your husband had been no great Lord Paramount, only a loyal vassal of Lord Tyrell. A modest keep, a modest life. Warm hearth, soft linens, children’s laughter in the halls. All of it now reduced to a backdrop for King Maegor and his wants. His unparalleled violence now haunted this keep and the few left alive within it.
You wring your hands before you, unsure of what to do now.
“All of it off.” He waves a dismissive hand as he starts to unbuckle his gauntlets, metal clinking softly. “I would like to see the spoils of today’s victory.”
Your hands rise almost on their own, fingers seeking the laces. They shake, numb, as if belonging to someone else. The gown begins to loosen, slow and inevitable.
He watches, motionless except for the slow unbuckling of his armor. Piece by piece he sheds the steel shell, revealing the scarred, powerful body beneath. His eyes judge and claim.
Once you are bare before him he does not grab at you like you assumed he would.
“Onto the bed.” He sharply kicks the frame. The wood creaks like a warning. “This flimsy thing you call a bed. Let us see if it survives the night.”
You crawl forward on shaking limbs, breath locked tight in your chest. The mattress gives under you, soft feathers, still carrying the faint scent of lavender and the man who once shared it.
Your old septa’s voice echoes in your skull, calm and distant. Her instructions still clear. Lie on your back, child. Thighs apart. Hands folded on your stomach. Let your lord husband do as he will.
You obey the memory, not the man looming above.
“You will not lay beneath me as a corpse understood?” He climbs on behind you, movements strangely measured. The mattress sinks deeply. His heat envelops you before he even touches.
He fits himself between your thighs, then slips one large hand under your neck. Fingers curl around the sides, firm, unyielding, tilting your head just enough to trap your gaze.
“Look at me,” he repeats, voice low and absolute. “I want you to watch when I take you.”
His other hand slides up the skin of your outer thigh, leaving gooseflesh in the wake of hard, calloused fingers.
You tremble. He growls against your chin, sliding his nose along the outline of your jaw. “I enjoy that.”
You feel the tip of his thick weeping head pressing insistently against your opening.
“He was softer, I suppose?” He taunts just before he drives forward in one fast, merciless push. The burn is immediate, sharp. Your breath catches on a stifled cry. He chuckles, dark and satisfied. “Seems your gentle lord never stretched this tight little wife properly. I will not make the same mistake.”
He pushes until your hips meet his.
“This is where-” he grunts, hips snapping in quick, punishing thrusts “-my legacy will grow.”
He grips your chin, hard enough to bruise, and kisses into your mouth. His tongue shoves past your lips, claiming that space too, wet and demanding.
You taste blood, you know it's not yours or his, is it your husband's? Does he kiss you with your husband's blood upon his tongue? While he fucks you in your husbands bed?
His kiss is not affection, it is conquest, ownership. He devours, teeth clashing, forcing your jaw wider until your mouth aches. When he finally pulls back, a thin string of saliva connects your lips for a heartbeat before it falls. He licks it away with a slow roll of his tongue, eyes never leaving yours.
“My stolen treasure,” he murmurs against your swollen mouth, voice thick with dark satisfaction. “Ripped from a lesser man’s arms. The next mother of Kings and Queens alike.”
“Fight if you want,” he adds, lips brushing yours again. “I do so enjoy a battle.”
His hips roll again, deeper this time, deliberate. Each thrust drives the air from your lungs in short, broken gasps. The burn has dulled to a heavy ache, but the stretch remains merciless. Your body betrays you with slickness born of fear and shame, easing his way even as tears prick your eyes.
He notices. Of course he does.
“Good broodmare,” he growls, approval rough in his throat. “Your cunt weeps for its king already. See? We all have a purpose.” He grunts as his thrusts grow erratic. “This is yours.”
One massive hand leaves your chin to slide down your side, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip. He uses the grip to yank you harder onto him, forcing every inch deeper until you feel him seated to the hilt in what feels like perpetuity. The bedframe protests with sharp creaks, wood groaning under the force.
You turn your head away, staring at the familiar hangings of your old bed, embroidered with roses your children once traced with tiny fingers. Anything but his face.
“No.” His voice booms like the warrior made flesh. He catches your chin again, wrenching your gaze back. “Eyes on me. I told you to watch.”
His thrusts grow punishing, faster, the wet sounds of skin echoing in the chamber. Your thighs tremble around his waist, your hands fist the sheets, knuckles white. Pain flares with every snap of his hips, but beneath it coils something darker, unwanted heat building low in your belly despite yourself.
He feels it. His smirk widens, a ferocity that can't belong to a man alone.
“There it is.” He leans down, breath hot against your ear. “Your body knows its place even if your mind fights. You will take my seed. You will swell with my son. And when he comes screaming into the world, you will thank me for the honor. ”
His free hand snakes between you, rough fingers finding the sensitive bud at the apex of your thighs. He circles it once, twice, cruel pressure that makes your back arch involuntarily. A choked sound escapes you, half sob, half moan.
“Say it,” he demands, grinding against that spot until sparks burst behind your eyes. “Say thank you”
You shake your head, tears slipping free now.
His fingers pinch, sharp enough to make you cry out.
“Say. It.”
“T- thank you” you whisper, broken. The words taste like ash.
“Louder.”
“Thank you! I am honored to carry your heir!”
He laughs, low and triumphant, and rewards you with a brutal thrust that hits something deep inside, sending unwanted pleasure crashing through you. Your walls flutter around him, clenching despite your horror.
“That’s it.” He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing the skin. “Take me like the broodmare you are.”
His pace turns erratic, hips slamming forward with bruising force. The hand between your legs works faster, relentlessly, pushing you toward an edge you do not want to cross. Your body tenses, betraying you fully, heat coiling tight.
When it breaks, it feels violent. You come apart around him with a strangled cry, nails digging into his shoulders as waves of unwanted release rip through you. He groans against your throat, pleased, victorious.
He follows moments later, burying himself to the root and spilling deep inside you with a guttural sound. He holds there, hips pressed flush, making sure nothing escapes.
For long moments he stays buried, breathing hard against your skin. Then he shifts, pulling out slowly, deliberately, so you feel every inch withdraw. You feel the warm trickle follow, evidence of what he has taken.
He rolls to the side, one arm slung possessively across your waist. His hand rests low on your belly, fingers splayed.
“Rest now, wife,” he says, voice almost gentle in its mockery.
“Tomorrow we will ride to the capital. And every night after, you will open for me until my seed takes. No more gentle lords. No more lavender. Just a duty, an honor.”
He presses a kiss to your temple, almost tender.
“You belong to me now. Body, womb, breath. All of it.”
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, body aching, mind numb. The lavender scent lingers, faint under the musk of sex and blood.
Somewhere in the keep, your children sleep under guard. Their little lives changed irreparably, and only one thing stood between them and the Stranger.
You didn't choose to be a Septa, not truly at least. Being an orphan run by them just leads to that path. Well at least for you.
You remember your Mother vividly, a woman so beautiful even the king visited her. And who could blame him? With her striking golden hair, mesmerizing hazel eyes, and a smile that could make the most devout of Septons reject their vows.
But you also remembered how she died. You remember seeing white cloaks enter her room, a special guest was with her. You remember the sound of blades being unsheathed. You remember the way your Mother screamed before all went quiet except for the sound of her lover vomiting on the floor.
But most of all, you remember a tall woman with eyes of amethyst that cut like steel. She was beautiful in a dangerous way, sharp cheekbones and lips seemingly forever pursed. She wore a crown of rubies and iron upon her head. You remember everyone bowing, saying “My Queen.”
She had looked into your Mother’s room and for the first time since she stepped foot into your home, she smiled. A true, beautiful, genuine smile. The first one you thought she'd ever had, and it was while looking at your dead Mother.
Soon after you were taken in by some old Septa named Septa Beatrice.
This is from a oneshot I'm working on. A Maehor the Cruel x Septa Reader. As you can see I do have some lore for this reader because I just can't help myself.
It had been five years since her husband’s death. The family was adjusting. There was no love lost between Maegor and his abused wife YN, but his daughter Visenya ii mourned slightly. But the family was starting to move on. It was a tough deal to move on from a man who had taken up so much space. His eldest son hadn’t bothered to mourn, while his mother was just in shock that someone who had controlled so much of her life had died so suddenly. But she was comforted by her family who she hadn’t seen much of since she was married to Maegor. And she was comforted by her first love Addam, and her mother in law Visenya. The woman had outlived her son.
Visenya had been such a strong figure in her life that YN couldn’t imagine her life and her children’s lives without her. They could take or give her new boyfriend, Addam, but Visenya was such an integral figure in their lives.
YN had awoken first that morning, she had been sleeping so peacefully in her bed since Addam had been staying the night with her. Last night was no different. He had been there to help hand out candy to children in the neighborhood. It was an affluent neighborhood. Maegor did not leave them wanting when he passed and took very good care of them financially when he was alive. So they lived a comfortable life. YN didn’t even have to work. So she took enjoyment in the holidays that passed. Handing out king sized candy to the children who passed her house.
When she made her way downstairs, she found Addam had premade her breakfast before leaving for his own work. No coffee, but there was her favorite foods and fruits available. She ate leisurely while reading the paper. She was almost finished when three of her children came downstairs, her twin boys and her eldest daughter. They were all in their pj’s and looked tired from the night before. YN smiled and kissed each of their foreheads. She knew what each of them liked for breakfast. The triplets always had sunny side up eggs with toast, the boy twins had waffles, the girl twins had toast and nutella, Laenyx had chocolate milk and chocolate chip mini pancakes, and Daela had lucky charms. YN got their breakfast ready as she decided to put on some music.
It was her favorite after Halloween: Christmas music. Mariah Carey was singing and YN swayed through the large kitchen as she prepared everything. Visenya ii made a face.
“Mama? It’s too early to play Christmas music now.” Visenya ii complained as she sat at the kitchen table, drinking her coffee.
“Oh come on, Louella. You kids used to love this music when I played it after Halloween.” YN said as she walked around the kitchen getting her children’s breakfast ready.
“Yea, but like Halloween was yesterday. Give it a chance to breathe.” Visenya ii said as she checked her phone for Edric’s message.
“It’s a bit of childhood whimsy. You kids grew up so fast since your father died. Let’s have this.” YN said the fifteen year old.
Maegor ii and Aegon ii came down the stairs, the prior carrying his little sister Daela who was still sleepy. They were met with their triplet sister sitting at the table and their little twin brothers sitting at the kitchen island.
“Oh? Christmas music? Is it time already?” Maegor ii asked.
“Mama wants us to retain our childhood whimsy.” Visenya ii said.
“Mama…” Daela whined and reached for her mother.
“Not right now Melessa. Mama can’t hold you up while she’s pregnant.” Maegor ii said.
And it was true, while nearly nine months along with a due date in december, YN couldn’t carry heavy things. But she had helpers. Her new husband Addam, and her dear Mother in Law: Visenya. Visenya had been so supportive when YN had reignited her relationship with Addam and had proclaimed when YN got pregnant that this child would be amongst her grandchildren.
As the older boys sat at the kitchen table, Laenyx came downstairs and hugged his little sister Daela who sat staring at the tv. The girl twins came downstairs after a bit and also sat at the kitchen island. When everyone’s breakfast was ready, YN huffed out a breath and sat down in tiredness.
“You okay, Mama?” Aegon ii asked.
“Just a little tired, my lily.” YN said and rubbed her lower back.
“You should take a break. Maybe you can go to the massage parlor.” Maegor ii said.
“I can’t do that. Besides I will be getting a break, your grandmother will be here soon to pick you up and take you all out.” YN explained and drank her tea.
“Will you take a break when we’re gone?” Malor asked while shoving a waffle in his mouth.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. But yes, your aunts are coming over and spending some time with me.” YN told her children.
When everyone was mostly done, YN shoved them back upstairs and told them to get ready and pack some clothes since they were spending the night with Visenya. As they got ready, YN began to clean when she heard the door open.
“Gods. It’s colder than a witches tit out there.” Visenya complained and took off her gloves.
YN smiled and stopped cleaning the plate in the sink. Visenya smirked and walked over, giving the younger woman a big hug.
“You look my dear. Resting well?” Visenya asked.
“I’m getting as much as I can, at least until the baby is here.” YN said as she tried to turn back to the dishes in the sink before she was stopped by the woman.
“Stop that. You should be resting. Go sit, I can handle this.” Visenya commanded.
“I thought you didn’t wash dishes when you had your nails done?” YN wondered as she sat back down.
“I don’t.” Visenya said before going to the staircase. “CAMREN! Get down here and take care of these dishes before I whoop you with my slipper!”
“Coming, Grandmother!” The boy yelled and ran down the stairs. He immediately started to finish the dishes and when he was on the last one, Visenya ordered him to clean the cups on the table.
YN rubbed her swollen stomach as the boy and older woman conversed. The rest of the children came down from the upstairs and all put on their coats. Aegon ii finally finished and went to put on his coat.
“Kiss your mother goodbye, children. Show her you love her.” Visenya ordered.
The children all surrounded their mother as she kissed them all. They had a big group hug and all said goodbye. Visenya marched them outside and said her goodbye to the pregnant woman. YN smiled and waved at her children from the porch. Watching as they drove away.
Hey could I request anything of your choosing to write about romantic yandere Maegor the cruel with gender neutral reader. Please and thank you 😊
❝ 🔥 — lady l: I was a bit unsure what to do with this, but I liked the result and I hope it makes sense! Please forgive any mistakes (it's 4 AM here lol) and I hope you enjoy it. 🥺❤️
❝tw: obsessive and possessive behavior, emotional infidelity (sorry Tyanna), Maegor doesn't understand his feelings and murder.
❝🔥pairing: yandere!maegor the cruel x gender neutral!reader.
❝word count: 1,613.
Maegor never believed himself capable of falling in love. Love, for him, had always been a weakness — a poison disguised as sweetness, that made powerful men bend and lose themselves. From a young age, he had learned to control his desires and stifle any emotion that could distract him from his greater purpose: the throne. Power was the only mistress he would accept in his life, and blood, his only worthy inheritance.
All that mattered to him was consolidating his lineage and ensuring the continuity of his house. A legitimate heir — that was the goal that consumed his thoughts, making him look at his wives with the coldness of someone observing pieces on a chessboard.
But even this simple desire seemed to slip through his fingers. His most recent marriage to Tyanna of the Tower, a woman as mysterious as she was cruel, proved as barren as his previous ones. With each passing moon, Maegor grew more impatient. Tyanna's promises, her potions and spells from distant lands, all began to sound like mockery.
The king paced the halls of the Red Keep like a caged beast, the weight of the crown burning against his brow. The Iron Throne, with its twisted and sharp blades, seemed to laugh at him, as if the very symbol of his power judged him for his lack of offspring.
The septons murmured that it was the wrath of the gods. They said that no man could defile sacred vows and expect to prosper. Maegor pretended not to hear — but on the nights when the castle slept, these whispers echoed in his mind like invisible blades, tearing away what remained of his peace.
And yet, amidst the anger and loneliness, Maegor never imagined that anything — or anyone — could make his heart waver.
That night, Maegor was quieter than usual. The moon cast a pale light on the throne room, and the steel of the swords reflected its glow as if each blade held a fragment of moonlight. He stood there, motionless, observing the emptiness ahead — an imposing figure, shrouded in shadows, the weight of power and solitude on his shoulders.
Then he heard soft footsteps echoing on the marble. A discreet sound, yet bold enough to jolt him from his thoughts. Few dared enter that hall at that hour — fewer even fewer without being announced.
Maegor looked up and that's when he saw you.
He didn't know what intrigued him first; the way you walked, unhurried and fearless, or the way the light touched your face, revealing serene features and a steady gaze. There was something about you that didn't bend, even before a king.
For a moment, he simply observed. The stern expression that so frightened his advisors softened, almost imperceptibly. It was rare for someone to dare cross his path without flattery or fear. And even rarer for that someone to awaken something within him — something that wasn't anger, nor a desire for power, but a curious unease that disconcerted him.
"Do you know who stands before you?" He asked, his voice deep, grave, like contained thunder.
You held his gaze, unwavering. "I know. And yet, I am here."
The answer struck him strangely. It wasn't defiance, but neither was it submission.
And Maegor, accustomed to seeing everyone bow before his presence, felt a different kind of shiver. Not of anger — but of something he couldn't name.
That night, without realizing it, the king who believed himself above love began to crumble.
In the days that followed, Maegor tried to ignore what had happened. He convinced himself that the encounter meant nothing. A lapse. A passing whim, like so many others he had already stifled in the name of power.
But it was a lie.
His mind constantly returned to you — in the midst of councils, banquets, nights when the fortress seemed to breathe to the rhythm of his contained anger. He was irritated by his own weakness, as if the simple act of thinking of you were an insult to his authority.
"A king is not distracted by shadows," He told himself. But every time he saw your reflection in the hall windows, he swore he saw your silhouette behind the glass, watching him.
It was during a stifling afternoon that fate decided to mock him again. You were in the inner garden of the Red Keep, tending to the flowers that rarely survived the aridity of that place. His delicate hands — or strong hands, depending on one's perspective — moved with precision and calm, as if nothing around could corrupt that small piece of beauty.
He hadn't planned to approach, but he did anyway. His heavy footsteps announced his arrival, and you looked up, with the same serene expression as the first night. No fear. No gesture of reverence. Just the tranquility of someone who didn't see a monster before them.
"Flowers don't survive long here." Maegor said, his voice hoarse, laden with something he couldn't quite define.
"Then perhaps the problem isn't the flowers." You replied, without boldness but with sincerity.
He frowned, surprised. No one spoke to him like that. And yet, instead of getting irritated, he felt something strange; a desire to hear more.
You returned to your work, as if the king weren't there, and Maegor remained silent for a long time, observing. The wind carried the light scent of flowers, and for a moment, the brutality of the world seemed distant.
When he finally withdrew, he couldn't help but take one last look. And something inside him — something he had always believed dead — began to awaken.
It wasn't desire.
Not yet.
It was the dangerous premonition that you could be his ruin... Or his salvation.
The following days were torture disguised as routine.
Maegor, the ruthless king, the conqueror of enemies and destroyer of lineages, found himself restless because of something he couldn't control.
Power, he had always controlled. Fear, he had always imposed. But what now consumed him, neither swords, nor laws, nor dragons could tame.
Your presence became inevitable. A single look, a gesture, a word from you was enough to make the world suddenly seem less cold.
He began to notice the little things — the sound of your voice echoing through the corridors, the way the light fell on your shoulders. And with each detail, the ice inside him began to turn to fire.
It was on a stormy night that he finally yielded. He summoned you to the private hall — the one he rarely allowed anyone to enter. The wind howled outside, the thunder echoed like a warning from the gods, but Maegor cared not.
When you entered, he was already there, standing before the Iron Throne, his gaze fixed on you as if searching for something he himself did not understand.
"I have spent my life believing that love was weakness." He said, his voice low but laden with an almost palpable intensity. "That it destroyed kings, corrupted reason, and tarnished the name of the powerful."
He took a step forward.
"And yet... here I am. A king kneeling before that which he cannot have."
There was silence. The kind of silence that cuts through the air and makes the heart ache.
You took a deep breath, and even without words, Maegor understood the answer.
There was no contempt in his gaze — only compassion. The bitter truth of something impossible.
"You already have a wife, my king," You said finally, your voice soft but firm. "And I will no longer be just another name on your list of power."
For a moment, the world seemed to crumble within him. His wounded pride. His denied love. The echo of thunder mingling with the pain he would never admit aloud.
You left without looking back, and the hall was plunged into a suffocating silence.
That night, Maegor didn't sleep.
He didn't eat.
He didn't speak to anyone.
They say the dragon's wrath is silent before it burns the world — and, that dawn, something inside Maegor broke for good.
The king, driven by a cold and sickly fury, descended into the dungeons where Tyanna of the Tower was held, now accused of treason and sorcery.
Without guards, without witnesses, only he and the Valyrian steel blade he carried.
Tyanna looked up, her eyes still sharp but her body already broken by days of interrogation.
"Maegor..." She began, her voice hoarse.
He didn't answer with words. He lunged forward, grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to her knees. The dagger came down swiftly, cutting through her chest with surgical precision. Her scream was muffled by the thunder outside.
With his bare hands, he opened the flesh, broke ribs like dry twigs, and ripped out her still-beating heart—hot, slippery, throbbing in his palm like a living accusation.
Blood trickled down his forearms, dripping onto the stone floor, as Tyanna's body collapsed, lifeless.
Maegor washed his hands in a basin of cold water, but didn't wash away the smell of iron that permeated his skin.
He ordered the organ to be placed in a fine silver box, lined with black velvet, sealed with the royal seal.
Inside, a handwritten note, in firm letters:
"The obstacle has been removed. The throne is yours, if you wish. No god, no law, no wife separates me from you. We are free."
When dawn tinged the skies red, the entire castle already knew of the execution — but only you received the gift.
The box was delivered to your chambers by a trembling servant, who dared not raise his eyes.
Upon opening it, Tyanna's heart was still warm, as if carrying the last echo of a life Maegor had extinguished for you.
A proof of love as brutal as it was unquestionable; he had killed the Queen so that you could be the only one.
