King Maegor stood upon the scaffold of splintered oak, his black cloak stirring in the wind like the wings of some fell beast. Below, the masons toiled, sweat and mortar staining their tunics as they raised the bones of the Red Keep—stone by stone, curse by curse. The king’s eyes, cold and cruel, swept over the laborers with the quiet menace of a man who had buried more builders than he had paid. His mouth, a thin line beneath the iron circlet, betrayed no joy, only judgment. At either shoulder loomed the Kingsguard, seven silent sentinels in gleaming white cloaks, their hands never straying far from sword hilts. They watched the crowd as much as they watched the king, for Maegor had enemies in every shadow—and some, it was said, in the light.

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