Maekar
Red Keep
Maekar stood in a corner near the Iron Throne, observing his father, hold court. The Great Hall was filled with courtiers, nobles, and officials, all bustling with activity. The grandeur of the hall was evident, with its high vaulted ceilings, intricate tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen, and the imposing Iron Throne made of swords of the defeated men during the conquest. The courtiers, dressed in their finest attire, formed a colorful sea in the hall, whispering amongst themselves and watching the proceedings with keen interest.
He couldn't help but notice that only four Kingsguard were present. The once-mighty order had been diminished, with two of its members recently dead and one too old to serve effectively.
he watched, two petitioners from the Reach stepped forward, their faces flushed with anger. One was a stout man with a bushy beard and a fine green tunic, while the other was taller, clean-shaven, and wore a dark blue doublet. They began to argue vehemently before the king, each trying to outshout the other.
"He invaded my lands, Your Grace!" the bearded man shouted, pointing an accusing finger at his taller counterpart. "My family has tended those fields for generations. We have the right to them by law and tradition!"
The taller man scoffed, stepping forward to make his case. "Your Grace, those lands rightfully belong to my house. They were given to us by your grandfather's decree, and this man has no claim to them. He's trying to steal what is ours!"
The argument continued, with both men presenting their versions of the events.It was a petty dispute, one that seemed to bore his father as much as it amused the courtiers.
"Oh, poor Merek, still going on about his stolen lands," he heard a familiar voice from his side.
He turned his head to see Quenton Qoherys standing with a small smile on his face.
Quenton was a tall, well-built man with dark hair and piercing green eyes. His attire was always immaculate, reflecting his keen attention to detail and his desire to present himself as a man of importance. Around his neck hung a skull necklace, a subtle but intimidating touch of his house's sigil.
Quenton was a man with many connections in court and had been instrumental in his quick success with his projects in the city. He had smoothed out the worries of paranoid courtiers and was assisting with the rehabilitation of Flea Bottom. His connections with merchants had also been invaluable in relocating people from the city to new villages outside it.
"Yes, I believe I saw him the first month I came here," he said, looking at the bearded Merek angrily shouting at the other man.
"They have been feuding over that land for years, Merek and Alester," Quenton said.
"Who is in the right?" he asked, knowing Quenton had been here longer.
"Oh, Merek is, but I think Merek will be silent on the issue from now on," Quenton said with a smirk.
"Why?" he asked.
"Alester just got some important information about Merek that would keep him silent on the issue."
"What is it?" he asked, intrigued.
"Oh, you see, Merek only has one son," Quenton began.
"So?" he asked.
"His only son prefers men, and so Merek, to save his dynasty from ending, had taken it upon himself to well…..seed his gooddaughter."
He looked at Quenton with his mouth open. "Truly?" he asked, looking at the bearded man again.
"Yes, and he was very successful in that regard. Already five grandchildren," Quenton said, emphasizing the word 'grandchildren.'
"Well, it looks like he's enjoying it," he said, laughing slightly.
"And now it will be his undoing. Should have fucked her a bit more discreetly," Quenton said, his tone laced with amusement.
He watched as the guards escorted the room men outside; he did note that Alester was more happy.
"Tell me, Quenton, what is the court whispering about these days?" he asked.
"Well, nowadays it's mostly about the Kingsguard and the king's children," Quenton said, his eyes fixed on the next petitioner arriving, a noble from the Vale.
"The Kingsguard, yes. Well, Quenton, you are lucky that you know a prince. I can tell you that three new Kingsguard will be chosen in a large tourney that will be conducted next year," he said.
"Ah, I see. Next year," Quenton said, trying to deduce what special occasion was happening next year. "Aha, the three hundredth year of Aegon's Conquest. Must be planning a large celebration."
He nodded.
"Already reaping the rewards of being an acquaintance with a prince," Quenton said with a grin.
"Yes, yes. Now it's your turn. Tell me what they are so interested in about me, my brother, and my sister."
"Marriage, my prince, marriage," Quenton said, giving a signal with his hand to follow as he walked towards a small door to the side, which led outside.
As they walked, Quenton told him about how the courtiers were speculating who they would marry.
"So, who do they believe we are marrying?" he asked.
"Well, ever since Princess Rhaenys left for her tour of the Crownlands, many are convinced it will be someone from the Crownlands. This has caused a minor uproar in the other kingdoms."
"And Aegon?" he asked.
"Margaery Tyrell," Quenton said without much explanation.
He knew most of the courtiers from the Reach had been hyping up Margaery as Queen Alysanne come again, and somehow it worked.
'The Tyrells really are good at PR,' he thought.
"And for me?" he asked as they arrived at the end of the corridor by a window that showed the sea on the other side.
"Your aunt," Quenton said, "or the Wall."
"The Wall, eh? It will be hard with her being so cold all the time," he said jesting.
Quenton laughed but then adopted a more serious demeanor.
"Many of the staunch royalists want you gone, my prince," Quenton said. "Your recent success has not done you any favors among them."
"I am not worried," he said, brushing his warning off.
"Of course not, you are the prince," Quenton said.
"Speaking of your success," Quenton continued, his tone casual yet deliberate.
"Oh?" he asked.
"I have heard you are having problems with the Goldcloaks," Quenton asked, his gaze steady.
"How did you know that?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"I have my sources," Quenton replied smoothly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
"Hayford is a dangerous man, my prince," Quenton warned, his expression turning serious.
"I have no quarrel with the commander," he lied, keeping his voice even.
"And yet you aggravate him to no end," Quenton observed, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Oh, you learned this from your sources then?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Your new officers have not helped either. They are—" Quenton began, but he cut him off.
"—nobles from the Crownlands," he finished for him, his tone sharp.
"Yes, but—" Quenton tried to continue, but he interrupted again.
"There is nothing wrong with appointing officers to the Firewatch unless you know something I don't," he asked, his gaze piercing.
"No, prince, there is nothing," Quenton said, his face remaining neutral, a skill likely honed from years of playing the court's intricate game.
There was a reason he did not trust Quenton fully; he could never get a read on the man. It confounded him to no end.
"Make peace with the commander," Quenton suggested, but it sounded more like an order to him—a very subtle one.
He did not answer, instead turning to watch the sea through the window. The waves crashed against the shore, a soothing contrast to the tension in the room.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Quenton said, breaking the silence.
"What?" he asked, turning back to him.
"There are rumors that a dragon was spotted near Dragonstone," Quenton said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
'So the dragon has truly come back to Westeros.' he thought, his eyes widening.
His dream was true.
"Perhaps some tall tales from some sailors," he said, dismissing the news with a wave of his hand.
"Perhaps it is, though it is fascinating," Quenton mused, his eyes glinting with interest.
He smiled. "It is, yes, it is."
"Well, I will take my leave now, Prince Maekar," Quenton said, extending his hand.
He took it and felt a piece of parchment being slipped into his palm.
Quenton left, and he waited until the man was out of sight before looking at the parchment.
His eyes widened at the contents.
.
.
.
Lambert Harte replayed the conversation he had with Commander Hayford in his head.
"The prince is meddling in matters he should not be meddling in," Hayford ranted, pacing back and forth. "This is my city. The damn bastard—yes, he must have been the one to kill Mollander."
"Commander, perhaps—" Rollingford had tried to interject, but Hayford cut him off.
"No, he is the one! We are blind, you fools! Mollander is dead!" Hayford's face was flushed with anger.
"I want you four to teach the Fire Watch who truly rules this city," Hayford had said, his voice cold and dangerous. "Harte, their new barracks are in your district. Make them bleed a bit," he ordered, his eyes burning with fury.
Lambert had no choice but to accept. The consequences of defying Hayford were too severe to consider.
He did as he was ordered, contacting all the criminal elements in his district and ordering them to disrupt the Fire Watch as much as possible. The fire stations in his district were defaced, attacked, and sabotaged. When Hayford informed him of the prince's properties in the city, he had them targeted as well.
For a time, they seemed to be winning. The Fire Watch was stretched thin, constantly putting out fires and dealing with attacks.
But then, it began to happen—one by one, the many small criminal gangs started to disappear. The men under him too began to vanish. They started finding bodies, mangled and grotesque, in the darker corners of the district.
One such sight haunted him deeply. The body of a known thug was found hanging from a tree, his entrails spilling out onto the cobblestone below. His face was frozen in a mask of terror, his limbs twisted in unnatural angles.
The message was clear: the prince was striking back, sending him a warning.
Then yesterday, the incident happened. Twenty of his men had attacked the Fire Watch while they were putting out a fire. Many of the Fire Watch died, and the fire spread, burning down much of the buildings. The smallfolk, enraged by the destruction and loss of life, had risen up against the Goldcloaks in that part of the city.
Lambert couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had settled over him. The situation was spiraling out of control, and he felt powerless to stop it.
He needed to clear his thoughts.
To escape the mounting pressure he decided to leave for his hunting cottage outside the city, seeking solace in the quiet of the countryside.
As he now sat in his chambers in the cottage he heard the sounds of rain outside, accompanied by a knock on the door. He stood up, glancing out the large windows and the doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking a small lake. Lightning flashed, illuminating the darkened sky.
"Come in," he called.
Two of his men entered, dragging a girl that looked no older than fourteen in tow. She was beautiful, with dark raven hair, large eyes, high cheekbones, and pale skin. Her clothes were torn, exposing parts of her still developing form. He felt desire welling up in him as he took in her appearance.
"Who is this?" he asked, his eyes roaming over her.
"We found this one with a traveling merchant, this is his daughter," one of the guards replied. "He refused to pay, so we took her."
A smile spread across his face as he remembered the day he had acquired this cottage. It had been a similar situation. He had asked for the cottage to be sold to him for a fair price, but the wealthy merchant had refused. He got the cottage free of charge after the merchant's head was off, and his daughter... well, after he had her, he had tossed her to his men.
This was turning into something similar.
He needed to release some stress anyway, he thought, as his eyes roamed her petite body.
"Have her cleaned," he commanded, his voice filled with anticipation. "You can have her after I'm finished with her," he added with a smile, making the two men happy.
They dragged her out as she kicked and screamed, her cries echoing through the cottage. Lambert turned back to the window, watching the storm rage outside, feeling a dark satisfaction settling over him. Tonight, he would forget his troubles, even if only for a while.
==============
After having dinner, Lambert heard the expected knock at the door with a dark grin on his face as he walked towards the door.
He opened it to reveal the girl, now dressed in a small, fine dress. He motioned for her to come in, but she refused, standing frozen in the doorway.
'Why do they all do this?' he thought, annoyed.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her in forcefully.
"Please, I did ye no harm. Why are ye doing this?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"It's just a little fun," he said, moving towards her with a predatory smile.
"Please, don't do this," she begged, her eyes wide with fear.
A smile appeared on his face; he always liked it when they begged.
Suddenly, lightning struck outside, and one of the windows opened, letting in a gust of wind that extinguished some of the lanterns.
"Dammit," he muttered.
"Stay right there, sweetling," he said to the terrified girl, before going to close the window. He reached out to pull the window shut
As he wrestled with the window, he saw movement in the woods. His heart raced, and he strained to see through the storm. Then came the sounds of screams—his men. Panic surged through him.
'Am I being attacked?' he thought, terrified.
Through the window, he saw the silhouette of one of his men running towards the cottage, only to be struck by a spear in the back. The man fell to the ground, lifeless.
Lambert cowered in fear inside, too afraid to venture outside. He prayed to the Seven, hoping his men would find the strength to defeat these intruders.
More screams followed, each one more desperate than the last, and then—silence. The only sound in the room was the girl's soft weeping.
'Is it over?' he wondered, trembling.
As he was about to get up, he heard a loud and hard strike on the door, then another, each one more forceful, as if someone was trying to destroy it. He was proven right when the doors finally crumpled under the force.
Through the flashes of lightning and the dim light of the remaining lanterns, he saw it. A large, tall figure stood in the doorway, clad in armor unlike anything he had ever seen. The armor was black, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it, and the helm was shaped like a snarling wolf's head. In the figure's hand was a massive warhammer, also black, with intricate carvings.
The lightning illuminated the scene, casting stark shadows that made the figure even more menacing. The wolf's head helm seemed to come alive in the flickering light, the eyes appearing as dark voids. The warhammer, too, looked like a weapon forged in the depths of the Seven Hells, its surface etched with runes that seemed to glow faintly with each flash of lightning.
Behind the armored figure, a woman appeared. She was big boned, holding a spear in her hands.
"Tyene did a good job with the guards, and Nymeria too, very accurate with that bow," the man said to the woman.
"I did say Tyene was good with poison," the woman answered, her voice calm and composed.
Lambert's heart sank as he realized who they were. The prince had come for him.
"What's this?" the prince said, looking at the girl weeping in the corner.
"Well, well, Lambert, looks like your time in this world is at an end," the prince's terrifying form said, taking slow, deliberate steps toward him.
"Take the girl away, Obara. I will meet you outside."
"Please, let me live! I will tell you all I know! I will give testimony to the king! Please, please," Lambert begged, his voice cracking with desperation.
"No," the prince answered, to Lambert's horror.
The prince swung his warhammer, striking his leg with a sickening crunch. Pain exploded through him as he felt his muscles tear and bones shatter. He screamed, his voice raw with agony.
The warhammer came down again, this time on his other leg. Another jolt of excruciating pain coursed through him as his bones broke, and he felt the searing sensation of torn flesh. He writhed on the ground, his legs useless, and blood pooling around him.
"Please," he whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming.
The prince showed no mercy. The warhammer swung down once more, crushing his arm. He felt his bones snap, the fragments grinding against each other. His other arm followed, the same gruesome fate meted out by the merciless savage prince.
As he lay on the ground, a broken mess of shattered bones and torn muscles. He heard footsteps as the prince left, and for a moment, hope flickered in his chest. Had he been shown mercy? He lay there for some time, thanking the gods, believing he was going to live.
Then the room began to grow hotter and hotter. The air thickened, making it difficult to breathe. Smoke filled the room, acrid and suffocating.
"No, no, no, no," he screamed, panic rising. "Not like this, not like this! Please," he begged, his voice growing weaker.
The fire spread quickly, the flames licking at the walls and consuming everything in their path. The heat was unbearable, and Lambert could feel his skin blistering. The smoke choked him, making every breath a struggle.
The fire reached him, searing his flesh.
The pain was indescribable.
He screamed, but the sound was lost in the roar of the flames. His vision blurred as the smoke filled his lungs, and darkness began to creep in at the edges of his consciousness.
As the fire consumed him, his screams turned to gasps, then to silence as the fire reduced him to nothing but ashes. The last thing he saw before his world faded to black was the dancing flames, a fitting end for a man who had caused so much suffering.