Maegor was a great warrior, skilled with a sword, the pride of his mother Visenya, who doted on her son and so desperately wanted her son to take the Iron Throne, and not Aenys, who could not even stand up for himself and no one took him seriously. Maegor's arrogance knew no bounds. He may have been the second son, but he was destined to be a ruler from birth: he was born larger than his half-brother, the blood of a dragon raged in him, his blade was always with him, as was the constant frown on his face that he gave everyone. But his father, Aegon I the Conqueror, was always favored by his first son with Rhaenys, which was confusing: how was he worse than this weakling? The brothers were never friends and hardly spent time together, and their younger sister was like a separate entity from them - always with the septons, learning to embroider and walking as a shadow, as she had been taught since birth.

His younger sister, just as snotty and weak, not like their mother, was more like Aenys in character. The sister did not know what a sword was and never held one in her hands, never wore anything heavier than silk fabrics - not red or black, as is customary for the Targaryens - her dresses were delicate, softly shimmering, like her platinum-gold hair, tightly braided into a beautiful, but modest hairstyle. Maegor had never been a kind brother - he had always hurt her as a child, taking her dolls and lifting them above his head, pushing or calling her names, tugging at her braids, but she had never fought back because she was afraid, just like now, when he roughly squeezed her cheekbones with his fingers, pressing into the skin, he ducked slightly to seem even more imposing than he already was, ignoring the way the young princess cowered, her violet eyes widening at him as she tried not to cry.

«You will be my wife,» — he shouts, shaking her slightly. «Not Aenys.» — He was angry that she dared to doubt that he would be the king and her husband. His eyes were bloodshot, like a dragon's.