| circa 43 AC

“Make it bigger.”

Maegor hummed, tilting his head. “How much bigger ?”

“Bigger,” they repeated, petulant and insistent.

His gaze flickered toward the tank that dominated much of the throne room, and a brow arched. By any reasonable standard—his standard—it was already massive. The glass cage stretched from one side of the grand doors to the other, connected by a passageway that allowed movement in either direction. It angled at the far end, rising just below the stairs leading to the Iron Throne itself. The space was not barren; sand, rocks, swaying seaweed, and scattered jewels adorned the depths.

And yet, it’s still not enough, he mused, clicking his tongue in mild irritation.

His hand tightened around the sharp armrest of the throne before he forced himself to relax. “Let’s be precise,” he said, voice edged with warning. “How much ?”

The air between them grew thick with tension. It was always there—an undercurrent that even those who merely glimpsed the creature could sense. His wives felt it, the courtiers whispered of it, the servants and Kingsguard knew it well.

{{user}} was a defiant thing. Stubborn. He blamed it on the sea—their very nature, for they were child of it long before he snatched them out of it. The ocean was ever-changing, shifting and unruly, and they had inherited its temper. But Maegor had spent his life bending the will of men, shaping them like molten steel.

“I want a tank as large as that Dragonpit you speak of,” they finally answered.

A sharp laugh escaped him as he traced the edge of a bent sword with one finger. “You’re no dragon. This is more than enough.”