In a few short weeks, King's Landing had been transformed. A new city of tents, banners, and tournament fields stretched beyond the city walls, where towering timber stands had been erected for the lords and ladies of Westeros. Pavilions of every color dotted the landscape, each proclaiming the presence of great houses with sigils sewn into their rich fabric. The scent of roasting meats, fresh bread, and spiced wine drifted through the air as merchants hawked their wares to the swelling crowds from across the realm to witness and participate in the greatest tourney Westeros has ever seen.
Knights and squires trained relentlessly in the fields beyond the city, honing their skills for the coming trials. Some sought glory, some fought for gold, some were hedge knights eager to win the favor of a great lord, and younger sons hoped to carve their path through feats of arms. In the bustling streets, the common folk buzzed with excitement, placing bets on their champions. At the same time, noblewomen whispered of the most promising warriors, debating who among them would prove the mightiest in this grand tourney.
Yet beneath the grand spectacle, a deeper game was at play. This was not merely a tournament—but a display of power and wealth, a declaration of Maegor Targaryen's strength and the start of his rule.o
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The feast hall of the red keep was filled with color and clamor, alive with the laughter of lords and the clinking of goblets. Long tables groaned beneath the weight of roasted boar, honeyed capons, and fresh river trout. Goblets overflowed with Arbor gold and Dornish red, and the air hummed with conversation. A band played in the background, filling the hall with a lively strain of ballad, while nobles at the lower tables shared tales of past tourneys, jested about wagers, and eyed potential alliances in the flickering candlelight.
Maegor sat at the middle of the great table, clad in black and crimson, his violet eyes roamed the hall, ever watchful. He drank in the spectacle before him, feeling a rare sense of satisfaction. This was as it should be. The realm gathered under his rule, knights vying for his favor, lords bending the knee to his power. His father may have conquered these kingdoms, but Maegor would make it into one kingdom in his image. It is good to be king.
Beside him sat Queen Ceryse Hightower, adorned in flowing green silk embroidered with silver thread. A delicate lace veil framed her face, her auburn hair cascading in soft waves. Her presence was regal yet subdued, her gaze flickering between Maegor and the highborn guests. Now and then, she leaned toward him, whispering quiet observations about those in attendance, her voice a melody beneath the din. She tried, in her way, to influence him—subtle remarks about this lord's loyalty, that knight's ambitions. Maegor found it quite amusing, though he rarely heeded her words. He knew her nature, too soft and diplomatic, always seeking compromise. Good qualities in a queen but not for a king.
Ceryse on her part, felt unease at this feast, while she usualy liked these social events the noblewomen across the hall made it less enjoyable. She alredy caught a few bold ladies, meeting Maegor's gaze from afar with knowing smiles, their lips curving in invitation. One ran her fingers along the rim of her goblet, another let her silk sleeve slip just so, revealing the pale skin beneath. They were testing him, playing their game of courtly seduction.
Maegor barely acknowledged them, probably lost in his thoughts, but Ceryse noticed, and it unsettled her. Though she was the queen and bore the name Targaryen, she felt her position wasn't secure. Maegor was king now and a king needs heirs, something she failed to give him. While she knew Maegor would never abandon her what was to stop him from having an heir from another woman? It was his right she supposed... A herald announcement got her out of her thoughts.
"Entering: Prince Aenys Targaryen, his wife Princess Alyssa Velaryon, and their children Princess Rhaena, Prince Aegon, Prince Viserys, Prince Jaehaerys, and Princess Alysanne!"
Prince Aenys entered with his wife on his arm, their children trailing behind them. The prince was clad in a robe of lilac silk, the cloth-of-gold trim catching the torchlight. His curled hair was impeccably arranged, and rings adorned his fingers. Alyssa, with her silver-gold hair in intricate braids, wore a gown of deep sapphire, the color complementing her Valyrian eyes. Aenys was greeted with warmth, smiles, and toasts. Lords and ladies alike flocked to him, charmed by his easy grace.
Maegor observed it all in silence, his lips curling slightly in something that was not quite a sneer but not far from it. With his songs and gentle words, Aenys had always been beloved, the darling prince. He was soft, fragile. And yet, men gravitated toward him as if he were his father's second coming.
'Let Aenys have his songs and fests,' thought Maegor 'It doesn't matter —why would I envy a man whose rule would crumble when it was tested? Songs don't keep a kingdom running, they will all understand it in time.
Then came a man who caught Maegor's interest.
He was a man of late twenty years, tall and lean, with striking features—an aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw. His dark purple eyes held a cold intensity, and his thick silver hair, streaked with a single line of midnight black, marked him as something unique. Dressed in fine robes with a symbol of a sword and a falling star on a purple field.
'House Dayne.' Maegor thought, 'How interesting'
House Dayne was ancient, older even than House Targaryen. Lords of Starfall, their greatest sons had wielded the legendary sword Dawn, earning the title of the Sword of the Morning. But this man was not the Sword of the Morning. That honor belonged to the lord of the house. So who was this man?
Maegor watched him for a long moment. A Valyrian-looking knight from Dorne—a land that had resisted Aegon's conquest—was an oddity, and Maegor did not believe in coincidences. A curiosity, Maegor thought.
All the while the feast hall remained alive with movement and murmurings. Across the hall, noblewomen whispered behind jeweled hands, their eyes flitting between the most eligible knights. Lords conversed in low voices, testing alliances with subtle words and measured smiles. Servants moved like shadows between them, refilling goblets, carrying platters, and always listening. In the distance, the band shifted to a livelier tune, drawing a few younger lords to jest about dancing.
Then Maegor raised his hand. The music faltered, cut off mid-note in a discordant hush. A breathless silence fell over the hall. All eyes turned to the King.
"Tomorrow," Maegor's voice thundered through the hall, silencing even the softest murmurs. "The tournament begins. Knights from every corner of the realm will test their mettle—not only in skill, but in strength, endurance, and above all, loyalty." He let the words hang, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords and warriors.
This was more than a spectacle. This was the grand beginning of his reign—a reign that would be spoken of for generations. Strength would be rewarded, weakness cast aside. This tournament would set the tone for the future, a future forged in his image.
"The victor shall claim ten thousand golden dragons—and the honor of naming the Queen of Love and Beauty."
Beside him, Ceryse stiffened, her fingers tightening ever so slightly against the armrest. She knew, as did everyone, that Maegor was not a man of romance. And yet—some part of her dared to hope. She was his wife, the Queen, and if not that the daughter of one of the realm's most powerful houses. Him choosing her, would be a sign, a small gesture that she still held a place in his heart.
Maegor lifted his goblet high, "Let the games begin!"
A cheer erupted, goblets clinking, a momentary return to the earlier revelry. The night stretched on, filled with jests, wagers, and the first whispers of the tensions that would soon unfold. The tournament had begun—but it was not only steel that would decide the victors of the coming days.
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As the feast progressed, Ser Gerold Dayne felt a prickling sensation, a sense of being watched. He discreetly scanned the hall, his gaze finally settling on the King. Maegor's dark eyes were fixed on him, unwavering, assessing. Gerold met his gaze, a silent challenge passing between them.
He had come to King's Landing with a purpose, a mission far more important than simply competing in a tournament. He knew Maegor was a dangerous man, ruthless and ambitious, and that would suit him well.
Later that night, as the feast wound down, Prince Aenys approached Ser Gerold. "A Dayne," he said, his voice gentle, "You are a far way from home my friend, why is that i wonder. Maybe to kneel to my brother in your lord name?."
Gerold inclined his head. "I can't speak for my cousine your grace, I'm here on my own accord. When I heard of the great tourny in the city of dragons I've had to come and participate" he stated " And the chivalry and the ladys have a pull of thier own wouldnt you say? "
Aenys chuckled. "Indeed they do. Well, I wish you good fortune in the tournament, Ser. May your steel be sharp and your aim true."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Gerold watched as Aenys moved on, his smile a little strained. The prince was a good man, Gerold thought, but too naive for the game being played in King's Landing.
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Later that night, at the king's bed only the queen was sleeping soundly. Maegor stood naked and alone on his balcony, overlooking the city. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the sea. The banners, illuminated by torchlight, danced in the breeze, a kaleidoscopic display of fealty.
Fealty. He repeated the word in his mind, tasting its hollowness. He saw the banners, but he also saw the ambition that lay beneath them, the plots whispered in the darkness, the knives hidden behind polite smiles.
He clenched his fist against the stone railing. He would crush them all. He would break them. He would forge them into a single, unyielding force, bound to him by fear and respect.
He would show them what it truly meant to be King.