THE BREAKER

The corridors of the Red Keep were unnaturally quiet. Servants moved like shadows, their heads bowed low as they scurried to and fro. Lords who once whispered boldly in corners now spoke in hushed tones or fell silent altogether as Maegor passed.

The shadow of the Grand Maester's execution hung heavily over the castle. Rumors spread like wildfire—the old man's betrayal, his desperate pleas, and Maegor's cold, unflinching beheading of him. The King's blade had gleamed crimson by the end of it.

Maegor strode through the halls, his black-and-crimson cloak trailing behind him, the sound of his armored boots striking the stone floor echoing like the tolling of a bell. He could feel their eyes on him, the mixture of fear and awe as palpable as the heat of dragonfire.

Two serving boys froze as he rounded a corner, their hands trembling as they clutched a bread basket. Maegor's piercing violet eyes swept over them.

"Out of my way," he said, his tone even, but with the weight of authority that brooked no delay. They scrambled to obey, nearly tripping over each other in their haste. Maegor said nothing more, his face a mask of stern resolve, though inwardly, he felt the familiar flicker of satisfaction. They feared him. They respected him. That was how it should be.

He made his way to the fighting courtyard, where the clang of steel on steel rang out like music to his ears.

Knights and squires practiced their drills under the watchful eyes of their commanders, but as Maegor stepped into the open air, a hush fell over the space. Maegor, clad in black armor edged with crimson, exuded an aura that commanded fear and awe.

At the center of the yard, Ser Corlys Velaryon, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, supervised a group of young knights sparring. His silver hair, tied neatly back, glinted in the sunlight, a proud mark of his Valyrian heritage. The white cloak of his station billowed behind him as he turned to bow deeply to Maegor.

"Your Grace," Corlys said, his voice rich and steady. "To what do we owe the honor?"

"I come to see the strength of my sworn swords," Maegor replied, his tone sharp, though not unkind. "And to test it myself."

Corlys smiled faintly, his pride in his station evident. "The Kingsguard is ever ready to serve, Your Grace."

"Then draw your sword, Ser Corlys," Maegor commanded, unsheathing Blackfyre. The great blade shone in the midday sun, a weapon of legend in the hands of a man who would not be questioned.

Corlys hesitated only a moment before drawing his sword. It was a beautiful weapon, though far less imposing than the blade Maegor carried.

The courtyard fell silent, every eye turning to watch as Maegor and Ser Harrold took their positions.

The duel began with an explosion of movement, Maegor's strike coming down with the sheer force of a thunderclap. His raw strength and unrelenting aggression made every swing of Blackfyre a test of endurance for anyone who dared face him. Ser Corlys Velaryon, however, was not just anyone.

The Lord Commander moved with a grace honed over decades, his precise parries and fluid footwork allowing him to redirect Maegor's blows rather than meeting them head-on.

Corlys's expression remained calm, and focused, as though he were playing a game of wit rather than trading deadly blows.

The crowd in the courtyard, initially hushed, began to murmur with astonishment. Steel clashed and rang, the force of Maegor's strikes sending echoes that seemed to rattle the very stones of the Red Keep. Corlys, while outmatched in brute strength, managed to turn each strike into a display of technical mastery, his white cloak flowing behind him like a banner of defiance.

But as the minutes passed, it became evident that Maegor had the upper hand. His attacks came faster, harder, and more unpredictable. Corlys deflected a blow aimed at his shoulder, only to dodge a lightning-quick thrust at his midsection. When Maegor swung next, Blackfyre cleaved through the air with such force that Corlys staggered back a step.

The final exchange was a blur. Corlys attempted a counterstrike, his blade slicing toward Maegor's side, but Maegor anticipated it. He sidestepped and brought Blackfyre around in a sweeping arc that disarmed the Lord Commander with a flourish. Corlys's sword clattered to the ground, leaving him defenseless.

Blackfyre's point hovered just over Corlys's chest, the blade gleaming in the sunlight. The silence was deafening as the onlookers held their breath.

Corlys raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, then took a step back, his expression unflinching. "Well fought, Your Grace," he said, his voice steady despite his loss.

"You are a fine swordsman, Ser Corlys," Maegor said, lowering Blackfyre. "But you are only one man. The Kingsguard is too few. Seven knights cannot alone protect a king against the realm's enemies. It is simply not enough to ensure my safety, nor the realm's stability."

Corlys frowned slightly, straightening. "The Kingsguard has stood for decades, Your Grace, serving loyally and with honor. We are sworn to shield you, even at the cost of our lives."

"And your lives may be the cost," Maegor said bluntly. "The realm is vast, and loyalty is not enough. Seven knights are not enough, Strength is needed, and numbers are. I will not trust my life to tradition alone."

His eyes swept over the courtyard, taking in the knights and squires who gathered to watch.

Corlys regarded him with a steady gaze, neither challenging nor cowering. "I serve, Your Grace. If you see fit to reshape the Kingsguard, I will uphold your will."

Maegor inclined his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Good. Loyalty, Ser Corlys, is a trait I value. See that yours remains unwavering."

His Kingsguard would not be a mere symbolic relic. It would be a force that inspired terror and loyalty in equal measure, as unbreakable as the Iron Throne itself.

"we will discuss it further at the next council meeting, there is much to be done" With that, Maegor turned on his heel and left the courtyard.

The servants and guards bowed as he passed, their movements quick, their eyes avoiding his. Maegor paid them no heed, his thoughts consumed with his vision for a stronger realm, one molded by his hand. He would not falter, not if he sat on the throne.

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The gardens of the Red Keep were a stark contrast to its stone walls and imposing towers. Blooming roses and fragrant herbs filled the air with their sweet aroma, while fountains murmured in the background. Maegor strolled among the paths, his dark attire striking against the lush greenery.

Lords and ladies in fine silks bowed as he passed, their conversations halting. Maegor's presence was udenyable, his reputation preceding him.

"Your Grace," a lady in emerald green and black curtsied, a Byrch probably, her eyes lingering on him. "The gardens seem all the more splendid with you gracing them."

"Indeed," Maegor replied, his lips curving into a faint smile. His gaze lingered just long enough to make her cheeks flush.

Another woman, older but no less bold, stepped forward. "Your Grace, perhaps you'd allow me to show you the roses? They were brought from the Reach, as beautiful as anything neer Cider Hall."

"I'm sure they pale in comparison to their keeper," Maegor said smoothly, his tone carrying just enough charm to leave her flustered.

Even as he humored their advances, he kept his intentions opaque. He offered a smirk here, a fleeting touch of his hand there, but never more. They intrigued him, these women who sought to tame the dragon, though he viewed their efforts with the detachment of a man who saw himself as above their schemes.

The sun started to set in the distance and Maegor felt that he had enough talking for the day, he wanted a bath.

As he turned to leave, he caught sight of one lady—married, judging by the ring on her finger—lingering near a hedge. She met his gaze with a boldness that almost amused him. Maegor tipped his head slightly, acknowledging her audacity before walking away, leaving her to wonder what, if anything, she had accomplished.