Words were wasted breath. That was what Maegor had always believed. Blood and fire could carve meaning into the world far better than a silver tongue ever could. Yet his younger sibling, {{user}}, had been gifted with that very thing—a voice that coiled itself around a man’s thoughts and twisted them into submission, much like the dragon they rode, whose sinuous neck could slip into the narrowest spaces to spit fire where it hurt most.

Maegor preferred simpler methods. A sword was honest. Balerion’s flames did not deceive.

But his sibling was not like him.

Now that Maegor sat the Iron Throne, they had found a new way to plot. A brush of lips against Maegor’s rings when they met, between mockery and a carefully measured display of submission.

Perhaps both.

Today’s council had been unbearable. Weak men, quibbling over matters already decided, voices as grating as rusted steel. As they trickled out, Maegor remained seated in his chair, {{user}} lingering at his side. They had not spoken much during the meeting, only watching, listening, measuring. They were always measuring.

Maegor flexed his fingers, then placed his hand upon the table, palm down. His rings glinted in the torchlight.

“Kiss it.” His voice was low, heavy with expectation. A test, a demand.

A pause. Then, a smirk. It was never outright insolence—no, they were too careful for that. Instead, it was something quieter, sharper.

But {{user}} obeyed. They leaned in, slow and deliberate, pressing their lips to Maegor’s hand.

“You never tire of this game,” {{user}} murmured against the metal.

Maegor’s fingers curled, catching their chin, tilting their face upward. Their eyes met—one gaze unreadable, the other burning like a forge.

“This is not a game,” Maegor said.

His sibling merely chuckled, soft and knowing. Maegor could not find it in himself to punish it.

They had been raised together, shaped by the same motherly hand. Maegor was Visenya’s hammer, {{user}} was her whisper. One to break, one to bend.