| set around 39 AC.

Maegor had never cared for the light in ᴋɪɴɢ’s ʟᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ, too soft, too eager to reveal what ought to remain hidden. The late afternoon sun filtered through the narrow windows of his solar, painting the stone in gold that did not suit it. His half-brother stood in that light, all silver hair and pleading eyes, and Maegor felt the familiar tension coil tight in his chest.

“Please, Maegor,” {{user}} said, voice weary, measured, the way a man might speak to a wounded hound that could still bite.

Maegor’s jaw clenched. That tone—half caution, half entreaty—set his teeth on edge. As though I am a child to be soothed, he thought grimly. As though his crown gives him the right to beg and command in the same breath.

“You speak to me of pleas when I speak of necessity,” Maegor rumbled. His voice carried, always carried, no matter how low he pitched it. “Ceryse is barren. The realm requires heirs. Would you have our line end with you ?”

{{user}} did not flinch, though others always did. His brother only drew a breath, steadying himself. “I have children, Maegor. You know this well. Our line is not in danger. What you have done—what you proclaim as duty—is a mockery of the Faith. You have defied the High Septon himself.”

“Faith,” Maegor spat, the word like bile. “What has the Faith ever given us but chains ? Would you have me kneel before their gods, beg for a miracle that will not come, while our blood withers ? I have taken a wife who can give me sons. That is all that matters.”

“It is not all,” {{user}} said sharply, his composure cracking just enough for the steel beneath to show. “You are my Hand, sworn to uphold the peace of this realm. Yet every day you give cause for war—within our own halls, if not beyond them. Must you always be at odds with those who stand beside you ? With me ?”

That last word lingered. With me.

Maegor looked at him then, truly looked—the dreamer’s son, soft-spoken, forever with that searching gaze. They shared blood, a father, a crown’s shadow. But they had never shared understanding. Maegor had known this since boyhood, since the training yard where his blade struck harder, faster, while {{user}} had spoken of mercy and compromise.

“You are too weak to see the truth,” Maegor said at last, the words heavy as stone. “And weakness cannot hold a realm.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. {{user}}’s eyes glistened with something—anger, hurt, pity, Maegor could not tell. He almost wished his brother would shout, strike, anything but stand there with that soft, steady sorrow.

“You are my brother,” {{user}} said quietly. “And I love you still. But you are driving us all to ruin.”

The words landed like no blade could. Maegor turned away, toward the shadowed wall, because it was easier than facing that unyielding gaze. He loves me, he says. Yet even his love feels like judgment.

The sun slipped lower, and the golden light retreated, leaving only dimness in the room. Maegor did not speak again. Neither did {{user}}. The silence between them was thicker than stone, and twice as cold.