THE BREAKER

Maegor stood by the tall arched window of the royal solar, his dark armor gleaming faintly in the sunlight. His fists were clenched behind his back, the tension in his broad shoulders evident even in his stillness. The door creaked open, and he didn't need to turn to know who it was. Only one person entered his chambers without seeking permission.

"Brooding does not suit you well, my son" came Visenya's sharp yet calm voice.

Maegor glanced over his shoulder as she strode into the room, her black and crimson gown trailing behind her like a shadow. Her face, still striking even as age touched her, bore the same sharp Targaryen features as his—high cheekbones, piercing violet eyes, and an imperious air. On her hip, she carried Dark Sister, her ever-present companion, its hilt glinting ominously. A true valiryan queen if there ever was one.

"It suits me well enough, Mother" Maegor said, turning to face her. His tone was clipped, but there was no mistaking the respect in his voice.

Visenya studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. "Your father is dead, and by all laws of man that makes you now king", "There is much to do and the small council awaits your word," she said, coming closer. "Yet here you stand, brooding and lost in thought. What troubles you?"

"Nothing mother..." Maegor said. Visenyas voice became sterner, "I haven't taught you to lie to your mother Maegor". He hesitated, his jaw tightening. "It's about father; his greatness. They mourn his passing mother, as if he were a god, as if no man could hope to match his shadow. They see me as a pale imitation, a dragonless cruel replacement for their beloved king."

Visenya tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. "Let them whisper my son. Aegon earned their awe with fire and blood, as will you. If they call you cruel, let it be because they fear your strength. Strength is what holds a kingdom together, not their fleeting adoration."

Maegor's eyes flickered with a mixture of gratitude and frustration. "They say I lack his wisdom. That I am nothing more than his sword, swung too often. That Aenys should be king"

"Huh! As if that spinless boy could ever match you" Visenya stepped closer, resting a firm yet surprisingly gentle hand on his face. "You are my son, Maegor," she said, her voice softer now. "The blood of the dragon burns brighter in you than in any other. You are not Aegon, nor should you be. You are stronger than him, bigger than him, better than him in every way. I would know, I raised you like that, and the realm will learn that soon enough."

Her words steadied him, as they always did. Despite her stern demeanor, Visenya had always been there for him, she was the one to raise him, not Aegon. His most loyal ally, the one who saw in him what others did not, was his beloved mother.

"We will show them," she continued, her voice hardening once more. "The council, the lords, the people, everyone. They will kneel before you, not because you are Aegon's son, but because you are Maegor Targaryen."

Maegor nodded, his resolve hardening. "Let us go then," he said. "It is time the council understands who rules from now on."

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The council chamber was a cavernous room, its high ceiling supported by stone arches etched with Targaryen sigils. The long table in the center was surrounded by lords and advisers, their voices low as Maegor and Visenya entered. The atmosphere was heavy, thick with the tension that always accompanied the presence of the dragon-blooded rulers especially one such as Maegor. The air was filled with unease, even an undercurrent of defiance that rippled through the gathered lords.

Maegor strode to the head of the table, his black armor gleaming under the torchlight. His presence commanded silence, but the tension remained palpable. Visenya took her place beside him, her hand resting casually on the pommel of Dark Sister, her gaze sharp and unyielding.

"Your Grace," began the hand to his father Lord Alyn Stokeworth, his tone overly polite "First allow me to express my sorrow for your father's passing". Maegor nodded "Thank you, my lord". Lord Stokeworth continued "We were just in the middle of discussing the state of the realm. With your father's passing, the lords of Westeros are eager for stability."

Maegor's gaze swept the table, catching the flicker of unease in their eyes. "Stability already exists, the lord's will and realm bend the knee for me."

Lord Stokeworth hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the pin that marked his high position in the realm. "Of course, Your Grace. But... some might say that stability requires more than strength. Perhaps a king who inspires loyalty rather than fear. A king like—"

"Like my half-brother?" Maegor's voice was calm, but the edge in his tone sent a shiver through the room.

Stokeworth flinched, but before he could answer, Grad maester Gawen, a balding man with a quivering chin, spoke up. "Prince Aenys has always been well-loved by the people, Your Grace. His... gentler nature has earned him their trust. Perhaps there is wisdom in—"

"In what?" Maegor interrupted, his voice cold as winter steel. "Coddling rebellious lords? Giving the throne to a second son against the common law going back thousands of years? Tell me, Grad maester Gawen, would you have the Iron Throne ruled by weakness?"

Gawen's mouth opened, then closed, his face pale.

Lord Triston Massey leaned forward, his voice measured but pointed. "Your Grace, no one here doubts your strength. But strength must be tempered with wisdom. Aegon the Conqueror knew when to wield fire and when to offer peace. Perhaps—"

"Perhaps you think me unfit to sit the Iron Throne," Maegor said, his words cutting through Massey like a blade.

The chamber fell silent, the lords exchanging uneasy glances. Finally, Grad maester Gawen found his voice again, emboldened by the tension in the room and the support from his peers.

"Your Grace," he began, his tone firm despite the tremor in his hands, "Aenys is trueborn, he is beloved by the people, he has a dragon! He should be the heir of Aegon. His claim—"

He got no further.

Maegor moved like a shadow, his hand flashing to the hilt of his sword. The blade sang as it cleared its sheath, and in a single, fluid motion, cut off Gawen's head.

The lord's eyes went wide with shock, their mouth opening and closing as if to speak, but no words came. Maegor sheathed his blade, Bkackfyre the sword of kings, letting Beesbury's lifeless body slump to the floor.

The room erupted into chaos. Lords surged to their feet, their voices a cacophony of fear and outrage.

"Enough!" Visenya's voice cracked like a whip, silencing the room. She stepped forward, her presence as commanding as the blade at her side.

"My son is king," she said, her tone colder than the grave. "He is Aegon's first-born son, and any who question his rule will meet the same fate."

The lords stood frozen, their faces pale as they looked between the queen regent and the new king.

Maegor's gaze swept the table, his violet eyes alight with a terrifying resolve. "Let this be a lesson," he said, his voice low but filled with menace. "The Iron Throne is not a prize to be debated. It is mine by right, and I will not suffer dissent. Those who question my rule do not deserve the honor of serving this council—or this realm."

One by one, the lords lowered their heads, murmuring their reluctant assent. The defiance in the room was snuffed out, replaced by a smoldering fear.

As the council dispersed, Maegor and Visenya remained. The chamber felt eerily quiet now, the echoes of Maegor's actions lingering in the air.

"You have their obedience, for now," Visenya said, her voice softer now. "But fear alone will not sustain you forever."

Maegor cleaned his sword with a cloth, his expression unreadable. "It will sustain me long enough to make them kneel. And once they do, they will have no choice but to respect me."

Visenya regarded him for a long moment before nodding. "Then make them kneel, my son. But remember—the dragon must be more than fire and blood. It must endure."

Maegor sheathed his sword, his mind already racing with the battles to come. The council, for now, was subdued, but the realm was far from tamed.

He would prove himself, no matter the cost.