Burn them all, the voices in his mind said. You'll have no problems if you burn them all.

Councilors who did nothing but hide their tails between their legs the second Maegor said a single word, too scared to speak up, or when they did, they only gave the worst of ideas — chain the dragons, give the smallfolk less taxes, ask the Dornish for an alliance.

He wanted the dragons to burn King's Landing, he wanted the smallfolk to swim in their poverty, he wanted the Dornish to drown in the sands that they called home until they could do nothing but talk in dirt.

The sound of his footsteps amongst the hallways was loud, echoing over each corner of the Red Keep. The castle wasn't done yet, but he already knew what he would do once it was. Hidden passages, too many secrets that no one should know about besides the Targaryens. They all could burn.

Maegor's footsteps stopped when he passed by the doors to a chamber he knew too well. It was late, but he doubted you were asleep. These nights, the king always sought comfort in your arms — though he would be the last one alive to admit he enjoyed laying in bed with you.

His fingers twitched by his side, gaze focused on the floor for a few moments before he finally made his decision and turned to enter your bedroom.

The scent of incense wasn't too strong, but it was clear you had lit one up hours ago. Lavender, mixed with cinnamon, if he wasn't wrong. Sating sheets and silk tapestries that hung strung from every wall, he spoiled you more than he did his other wives.

Maegor hummed under his throat when he found you sitting by your vanity, fingertips already working to shed his cloak by the door, which he closed with the sole of his foot. He approached you in quiet steps, leaning down to press his nose against the side of your neck.

He inhaled deeply, the scent of you invading his nostrils like a beckoning. A witch that had enticed him, lured him into your bed. He did not wish to break free from the curse you placed upon him.

"Wife..."