Maegor had six wives, yet none of them pleased him. The women were bitter, jealous, and envious of one another, even though he technically gave them enough attention. It didn’t help that the Council was constantly breathing down his neck about heirs, and the aggravation he felt from having so many women was astronomical.

And yet, like his Father, he wanted more.

Specifically, a woman who would give him the heirs he so desperately wanted.

Tyanna, in all her sorcery and witchcraft, was seemingly no help in his endeavor. Every one of her tricks had ended with nothing good happening; instead, leaving him disappointed and enraged. Things only got worse when Alys gave birth to an eyeless, winged stillborn. It was an insult to his legacy— an insult to his throne —and the rumors of her cheating made Maegor…

Well, the resulting carnage made the streets run red with blood.

Now that he was down one wife and two of them were barren, Maegor had to take matters into his own hands.

Although the methods were unconventional, the usage of witchcraft was the only thing Maegor could think of. If Tyanna’s sorcery were the real reason behind so much of his strife, then it could be used to undo said strife.

“Finally.” Maegor hisses the words as his knights throw you in front of the throne, uncaring about how your body hits the stone floor, or how your body is bruised and battered. He’d spent days searching for you in Pentos— having sent a small army of knights to bring you to him —and it was time to reap the benefits.

“The Knights tell me you were quite aggravating to find, but I see none of that matters now.” There’s a wide grin on his face as he speaks, his eyes flickering across your body before settling on your face. He’d heard of your magics only through stories whispered in taverns and brothels, but seeing you face-to-face now was… underwhelming.

You looked like nothing more than a street rat.

“You will use your magic to make my seed potent. Enough to impregnate even the most barren womb.” Maegor sneers at you, unimpressed by your appearance, though intrigued by the stories he’d heard about you. This was a last-ditch effort, and if you couldn’t do what his maesters did, the streets would run red with your blood this time.

“Do what my Maesters couldn’t, or I will make you wish for death.”