THE BREAKER

"Aegon the Conqueror is dead."

The words hung in the air like the scent of blood after a battle, heavy and unyielding. They echoed in Maegor's mind long after the grand maester announced them to the small council, long after the silence had settled over the Red Keep like a shroud. Even now, standing alone before the towering windows of the great hall, the sun casting long shadows across the stone floor, those words felt unreal, impossible.

Aegon. His father. The Dragonlord who had conquered the Seven Kingdoms in a single, blazing campaign. The man whose name was spoken in awe and fear, whose banner still flew over every noble house in the realm. Aegon the Conqueror—the greatest king Westeros had ever known.

And now he was dead.

Maegor closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as the memory of his father surged in his mind—the gleam of his valyrian steel crown, the proud smile he wore when he mounted Balerion, the way the whole of Westeros had trembled beneath his command. Aegon took a bunch of squabbling kingdoms and built an empire from their ashes, bending the world to his will with nothing but his fire and his dragons. Maegor had watched it all with reverence, as any son might.

But that reverence… had slowly turned to something darker, something sharper. Something harder.

He had admired his father and revered him. Perhaps he had loved him, at some point in his way, although he never got love back from him. That honor was kept for Aenys, his brother from another mother. Oh, how happy Aegon was when Aenys's dragon hatched for him. While he, the first born stood on the sideline, neglected, humiliated. He began to see his father differently, and slowly that admiration, the reverence that he like the whole of Westeros held for the Conqueror, became something more—something twisted.

Anger, Jealousy.

Maegor's fingers curled into fists, the sound of his armored gauntlets scraping against his palms loud in the emptiness of the hall. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, the ghost of Aegon's presence filled the room, towering over him like an unassailable mountain.

Aegon had been everything that Maegor could never quite be. The great conqueror, the ruler who had united a fractured realm with a single stroke of ambition. Every lord of every house, from the Starks to the Tyrells, had pledged loyalty to Aegon. Every corner of Westeros bore the mark of his reign. The Iron Throne was his—his alone.

But Maegor… he was just 'the son of'. The one who followed in the footsteps of the giant dragon, he was never quite able to match his father's greatness. Not in greatness, not in glory. Maegor had tried. He had always tried. He won turneys, fought in the field, led soldiers, and wielded a mace like none other. Yet, no matter how many victories he claimed, no matter how many heads he chopped off, no matter how well he did at council meetings…

He was always seen as the shadow of his father's brilliance.

The Iron Throne had been built for Aegon's ass, and Maegor had to share it with the legacy of a god-like conqueror. Even in death, Aegon's name was immortal. The people of the Seven Kingdoms didn't whisper the name Maegor in awe. They whispered it in fear, calling him the Cruel—a name earned through his brutality against all who stood in his way. Truthfully he would rather be called cruel than... dragonless.

Dragonless they called him. He could hear their snickering and laughter when they thought he couldn't hear. The whispers about why Aenys the preferred child, the one with a dragon should be king and not him. "Fools..." Maegor muttered to himself in the empty hall. They will see why I'm dragonless still, only one dragon is fit for me, only one that would match my greatness.

Maegor's gaze shifted to the tapestries that adorned the hall's walls. One of them showed Aegon riding Balerion across the sky, flame spilling from the dragon's mouth. The other depicted Aegon sitting on the Iron Throne, regal and untouchable.

How could I ever live up to that?

Maegor turned away from the tapestries, his fist slamming against the stone wall in frustration. He had been born to greatness, born to conquer. But the world was no longer the same as when his father had risen. After aegon what was there left to conquer?

Dorne, a dessert nation filled with disgusting roynish scum and the Stepstones, a bunch of pirate-infested rocks... everything that Aegon had built was delivered to him, and now, Maegor's mission, so it seemed would be to keep it all from falling apart.

But he refused to be a mere line in the history books: "The son of the great Aegon whose only job was to keep the status quo." He would be more. He would inherit the throne. And he would see it forged anew—stronger, fiercer, and more his own than anything Aegon had ever done.

But even as he thought this, a gnawing ache remained. Would it be enough?

Maegor's mind wandered to the stories of Aegon's wars, the way he had burned his enemies and crushed all who opposed him. His father's name was spoken in awe because he had achieved everything. And Maegor… Maegor was just a son born into that legacy, struggling to be remembered.

He had already begun preparations to march on Dorne, to finally break the last of Aegon's unfinished work. But even that, a feat of vengeance and retribution, seemed small compared to what Aegon had done.

But perhaps that's how it's supposed to be.

Maegor turned from the tapestries, his eyes cold with determination. The people would see him in time. They would fear him, revere him—just as they had feared and revered his father. And when it was all said and done, Maegor's name would be spoken alongside Aegon's, perhaps in the same breath, as the second dragon to conquer the world.

But he would not just conquer—it would be his legacy. He would ensure the world remembered him not as the son of Aegon, but Aegon as the father of Maegor.

And in the end, even death would bow before me.