I leaned back against the high wooden bench, resting my elbows on the grease-stained oak, and slowly cast my eyes across the chaos of the hall.
Tonight marked the conclusion of the crown’s victory tourney, and as custom dictated, a feast was currently underway inside the great hall of my father’s fortress.
The number of attendees packed into the room was far smaller than one might expect for a celebration of this magnitude, owing entirely to the fact that the hall had never been built to accommodate half the nobility of Westeros when Aegon first raised these walls.
Even after years of continuous expansions, stone additions, and defensive fortifications, the grand chamber remained stubbornly cramped, reeking of roasted boar fat, spilled arbor wine, burning tallow candles, and the sweat of two hundred heavily perfumed aristocrats.
Still, virtually every lord paramount, small council member, and highborn heir who had traveled to King’s Landing managed to squeeze themselves inside, eager to drink the king’s mead and gorge on garlic-rubbed capons.
Up on the raised dais at the high table, I could see my father, King Aegon, sipping leisurely from a heavy silver chalice of dark red wine.
Beside him sat my mother, Queen Visenya, looking monumentally bored as she rested her sharp chin upon her pale fist, her bright violet eyes drifting lazily over the drunkards below.
On the other side of the king sat my frail elder brother, Crown Prince Aenys, methodically picking at a slice of cold pigeon pie with the enthusiasm of a man eating sawdust.
Only a short while ago, I had been sitting up there beside them, trapped in the rigid stifling atmosphere of royal etiquette, but I had eventually grown annoyed with the dull political chatter, veiled insults and slipped down to the lower tables to drink with the squires and young lords instead.
Honestly, why would anyone willingly subject themselves to that?
It dampened my spirits to become a king.
What do you mean I’ll have to sit at council with courtiers who knew no better and listen to their endless useless chatter!
The great gods surely blessed me by giving that responsibility to Aenys because for now, I would simply like to enjoy my time.
At the time, it had felt like a brilliant, liberating decision, but as I sat here listening to the endless, deafening jabber around me, I was rapidly beginning to regret my choices.
“Tell us again, my lord prince!
By the Seven, how in the hell did you manage to unhorse the Kingsguard so cleanly?” Tristan Strong gloated at the top of his lungs, his boisterous laugh echoing off the stone walls as he deliberately side-eyed Steffon Darklyn from the corner of his eye.
Letting out a heavy, suffering sigh, I rubbed the bridge of my nose, wincing slightly as a sudden coughing fit took hold of me.
Davos Baratheon immediately reached over and delivered a bone-shattering slap to my shoulder blades, nearly knocking my head into my plate.
“Clearly our brave tourney champion is exhausted from carrying the entire honor of the realm on his back,” Davos declared with a wide grin, turning his attention to Steffon Darklyn, who was currently attempting to hide his face behind a wooden goblet of watered wine, brooding in silence.
“Allow me to explain the glorious defeat to you instead, Steffon, so you do not miss a single detail!” The young Baratheon proceeded to launch into an excruciatingly detailed, play-by-play breakdown of my final tilt against Ser Robin Darklyn.
Davos mimicked every single lance strike with his thick arms, making absolute sure that the young Darklyn heard every agonizing word of his uncle’s defeat.
By the time Davos reached the part where Ser Robin went airborne and crashed into the dirt like a sack of turnips, Steffon slumped down in his seat, a tired, defeated grin touching his lips as he realized it was simply his designated turn to be tormented by the rest of the crew.
All was fair in love and war, after all.
I, meanwhile, sat staring down at the wooden cups of watered wine arranged in front of my plate, debating whether or wrists were worth risking over a few sips of fermented grape juice.
In the end, I decided to leave the alcohol entirely untouched.
I genuinely didn’t see the appeal, and getting my liver and kidneys completely wrecked by medieval gutter wine at the such a young age was definitely not on my personal life bingo card.
Old Bobby B would undoubtedly be heartbroken and disappointed by my absolute lack of drunken degeneracy, but fortunately for my long-term health, the hammer-wielding Baratheon titan wouldn’t even be born for another two hundred years.
Instead, I reached out, grabbed a heavy earthenware mug filled to the brim with scalding hot cow’s milk, and downed the entire contents in one long, continuous gulp, wiping the white foam from my upper lip with the back of my sleeve.
Man, no wonder Homelander was so obsessed with this stuff.
Fresh, hot milk was the absolute undisputed king of dairy beverages, though I was fairly certain the caped lunatic preferred his milk sourced from a vastly different kind of vendor than the heavy-uddered cow currently chewing cud in the castle stables.
“Ah, sweet Seven!
I wish I had been knighted with half as much grand fanfare as you, Maegor,” Davos sighed heavily, shaking his shaggy head as he leaned back against the bench.
“There will be sweet-voiced bards singing grand ballads about your heroic glory for the next fifty years because of this day.
As for poor Davos?
I had to hunt down a band of filthy, flea-ridden bandits in the rain and get dubbed in the knee-deep mud while covered in their cheap blood.
Not a single lick of poetry or glory in that, aye.” “Fighting off bandits in the mud is a damn sight more respectable than breaking wooden sticks on a grassy lawn, especially for someone as young as you,” I replied casually, setting my empty mug back down on the table.
“Besides, my friend, comparison is the death of all human happiness.” The profound modern philosophy did not seem to have the slightest impact on his mood, as the Baratheon simply smirked, shook his head, and reached for another thigh of roasted capon.
A brief, comfortable silence descended over our end of the bench as everyone fell into their own thoughts.
Steffon Darklyn instantly saw his opening to strike back, his dark eyes glinting with newfound malice as a sly grin spread across his face.
“You unhorsed my uncle Ser Robin entirely dishonorably, Maegor,” Steffon asserted loudly, pointing a grease-stained finger across the table.
“There was no true knightly honor in dropping low and targeting his arm.
A real warrior stands tall in his stirrups!” Daemon Velaryon let out a loud, mocking snort, his silver-gold hair whipping through the air as he broke into a sharp laugh at the dark accusation.
“Honor?
It was a bloody tourney joust, Steffon, anything goes down on the lists!
I fail to see how utilizing superior agility and striking a man’s arm joint is remotely dishonorable.
It sounds to me like poor old Ser Robin simply got outmaneuvered and might need to consider retiring from his position.” Daemon’s declaration instantly reignited the squires’ competitive spirits, and within seconds, the entire table began hounding poor Steffon over his uncle’s dramatic defeat, much to the young Darklyn’s visible annoyance.
Even Edwell, who usually did not like to interfere in such matters, joined in with a grin on his face.
Mhm, it was immensely satisfying to have loyal, big-mouthed friends who willingly did all your dirty verbal fighting for you without you ever having to lift a finger.
That is precisely what you get, you arrogant little bastard, for daring to accuse me of cheating in front of the entire court.
Well, to be completely fair and intellectually honest, I technically was utilizing an unfair mechanical advantage if you took into account the custom high-backed saddle and angled stirrups I had designed, but setting that tiny engineering secret aside, every single strike had been delivered through my own sheer martial skill and lightning reflexes.
Besides, actually getting permission to enter the tourney in the first place hadn’t been an easy feat.
As a last resort, I had been forced to corner the master of the games in a dark hallway, subtly reveal my royal identity, and exert a bit of heavy-handed Targaryen intimidation to force him into allowing a young squire into the official knightly jousts.
Turning my body around on the bench to ignore the endless shouting match, I looked out across the hall and noticed that the serving men were actively dragging the long oak tables toward the stone walls, clearing a wide open space in the center of the room for the formal dancing that was scheduled to begin.
To be completely honest, I had attended several of these grand formal dances at various feasts over the past few years, and they weren’t entirely terrible.
They could be a bit dry and tedious at times, but whenever I grew thoroughly bored with the polite posturing, I would simply stand up and wander off to the armory or the kitchens without asking for permission.
The single best aspect of these aristocratic gatherings, however, was the incredible opportunity they provided for me to discreetly insult highborn lords and ladies straight to their arrogant faces just to see if their dense medieval brains could actually process the fact that they were being made fun of.
Whenever I occasionally got caught red-handed, I would instantly put on a sweet, innocent smile and pretend to be a harmless, naive child who simply didn’t know any better.
I stared lazily toward the center floor as the court musicians finally tuned their lutes, pipes, and fiddles, breaking into a lively, fast-paced medieval tune.
Highborn lords and ladies immediately gathered in long, parallel lines, taking each other’s hands and stepping through the traditional, rhythmic dance movements before switching partners at the turn of every stanza.
While I might have participated in the festivities with far more enthusiasm had we been celebrating at a lesser castle, tonight I felt remarkably hesitant to join the crowd.
The reason behind my reluctance was delightfully simple: the only people granted entrance to tonight’s feast were the immediate families of the small council and the highborn representatives of the Great Houses.
At the larger, more chaotic feasts, which were usually crammed with ambitious lesser nobles from minor landed houses, there were always dozens of desperate young ladies willing to do absolutely anything to climb the imperial social ladder.
That usually meant leaning down low, subtly brushing their scented bodies against a royal prince, whispering scandalous invitations in your ear, and generally making a complete nuisance of themselves.
Just thinking about the entire political dynamic made me sound like a sick pervert in my own head.
Now, let us get one crucial detail clear: I was undoubtedly a pervert, but I was a refined, highly selective pervert, not a desperate predator.
Shaking my head free of the lingering thoughts, I ran my fingers through my silver hair, pushed myself off the wooden bench, and stood up to stretch my back.
Looking around the table, I realized that every single one of my companions had already abandoned their seats to chase after wine cups or flirt with milkmaids, leaving me completely alone.
It was officially time for me to make my move as well.
While it was funny to ponder all those absurd courtly shit, I was never going to allow myself to be brainlessly led around by dick.
After all, falling for cheap, transparent female manipulation was far too embarrassing for an guy like me.
Yet, as if the universe actively enjoyed testing my iron resolve, the moment I stepped onto the polished flagstones near the edge of the dancing area, a striking figure stepped directly into my path, blocking my exit with a sweeping flourish of fine silk.
“My Lord Prince,” a velvety, melodic voice purred through the music.
I looked up to see Lady Elinor Tyrell standing before me, curtsying low with an agonizingly slow, practiced elegance that offered me a rather generous view of her smooth, cream-colored chest, it took me a long second to recognise her.
If I was not wrong then she was a distant cousin of Theo Tyrell.
The only reason I recognised her was because of her looks.
Particularly her dark, chestnut curls, dark almond eyes, and a voluptuous, hourglass figure that her dressmaker had taken great care to emphasize.
She was clad in a gown of sea-green Essosi silk, intricately embroidered along the bodice with shimmering golden vines and blooming Reach roses made of spun yellow thread.
“Lady Elinor,” I replied smoothly, bowing my head just enough to satisfy protocol while offering her my best, most dashing royal smile.
“I was not aware the flowers of Highgarden bloomed so late into the evening.” I internally cringed at the corny line, but as they say, when in Rome, do as Romans do.
“They bloom whenever a dragon walks into the garden, Your Grace,” she whispered, her dark eyes flashing with sharp, hungry ambition as she extended her delicate, pale hand toward me.
“Surely the undisputed grand champion of the tourney will not deny a humble maiden a single dance?” “It would be an absolute crime against the Seven to refuse such a vision,” I lied seamlessly, taking her small hand in mine and leading her directly onto the crowded wooden floor just as the bards struck up a fast-paced saltarello.
The dance required us to step close together, hold hands at eye level, and spin in tight, fluid circles before parting and coming back together.
As the music swelled, Lady Elinor wasted zero time initiating her tactical assault.
With every turn of the dance, she deliberately closed the distance between our bodies, her thin, sea-green silk dress sweeping against my velvet doublet.
As we spun through a quick turn, she aggressively leaned forward, her soft, warm breasts pressing firmly against my chest, the sheer pressure of her full bust pushing through the fabric of her bodice as her sweet, rosewater-scented breath washed over my collarbone.
“They say you ride your warhorse with the fierce, wild power of a fully grown man, Prince Maegor,” she murmured softly into my ear, her plump, painted lips brushing against my earlobe as her delicate fingers traced a slow line up my shoulder.
“I wonder…
do you possess that same relentless stamina in all your grand endeavors?” As the dance rhythm dictated a close embrace, I instinctively placed my broad palm flat against the small of her back, my fingers naturally sliding lower to rest upon the soft, lush curve of her wide hip and backside.
The flesh beneath the smooth silk was remarkably soft, warm, and yieldingly pliant under my hand, and I couldn’t resist giving her rounded hip a subtle, appreciative squeeze as we spun across the floor.
Outwardly, I offered her a dark, deeply sinful grin, leaning down to whisper right back into her ear.
“My stamina is the stuff of legends, my lady.
You would do well not to test it unless you are fully prepared for the heat of dragonfire.” She let out a soft, delighted gasp, her dark eyes flashing as she pressed herself even tighter against my hip, clearly believing her intoxicating feminine charm was working its magic on the young prince.
Meanwhile, behind my smiling, very handsome facade, it is paramount to the plot that mention my very handsome looks, my brain was rolling its eyes so hard it almost detached a nerve.
She really thought two firm Reach tits, a nice rose perfume, and some heavy silk embroidery were going to turn me into her family’s personal political puppet?
I mean, it wasn’t that bad of an offer in my opinion, but self respect that all that.
You get the point.
Before she could press her advantage any further, the song reached its natural cadence, and the traditional rotation of partners forced us to part ways.
Lady Elinor offered me a lingering, promise-filled look as she melted back into the crowd, only for her place to be instantly taken by another highborn predator who had clearly been waiting in the wings for her turn.
Lady Alyce Vance of the Riverlands stepped into my arms without a single second of hesitation, this time, I really had to wrack my brain to come up with her identity.
Honestly, I was rather disappointed in myself, why did I remember some random nobody?
It seemed that my mother’s teaching skills were better than my forgetting ones.
She was a taller, beauty with hair the color of spun copper and piercing, icy-blue eyes.
Her gown was constructed from deep sapphire-blue velvet slashed with glittering cloth-of-silver along the sleeves and torso.
These people really spent too much time on their dresses didn’t they?
“Prince Maegor,” Lady Alyce purred, taking my right hand and resting her left palm directly upon my chest as the musicians transitioned into a slow, rhythmic pavane.
“I must confess, watching you tear through those brute Westermen on the lists was the most thrilling sight I have ever witnessed.” As we glided across the polished stone floor, Lady Alyce proved to be far more physically aggressive than her Reach predecessor.
With every slow, deliberate step of the pavane, she intentionally pushed her body flush against mine.
Her soft, heavy breasts pressed directly against my chest with every breath she took, the thick velvet of her bodice doing absolutely nothing to disguise the firm, intoxicating warmth of her body.
As we turned near a dark pillar, she deliberately misstepped, sliding her leg between mine and leaning her entire body weight into me, her soft stomach and hips grinding lightly against my thigh.
“The Riverlands are vast and rich, my prince,” she whispered, her icy eyes looking up into mine with unvarnished, predatory desire as her hand slid down my arm to rest heavily on my belt.
“My father controls three major river crossings.
A strong, ambitious prince with a house like mine behind him could accomplish truly terrifying things.” I resisted the urge to snort and burst out laughing.
What kind of offer was that to a Prince of House Targaryen?
I didn’t miss a single beat of the dance.
Reaching around her waist, my hand settled firmly upon the plush, soft curve of her backside, my fingers sinking into the thick sapphire velvet as I held her flush against my body to prevent her from falling.
The flesh beneath my hand was wonderfully soft, thick, and wonderfully shaped, and I allowed my palm to rest there for a few extra seconds, enjoying the physical sensation while guiding her smoothly through the turn.
“Your father’s river crossings are indeed impressive, Lady Alyce,” I responded smoothly, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel as I looked straight into her blue eyes.
“But I have always preferred flying over rivers rather than paying tolls to cross them.” A shiver visibly ran down her spine at my tone, her lips parting as her chest heaved against my doublet, her fingers tightening around my biceps as if she were desperately trying to anchor herself to my strength.
Inwardly, however, I was trying not to cringe and laugh at the political theater.
God Almighty, did these lords literally train their daughters in the art of aggressive chest-bumping?
She was practically trying to suffocate me with velvet.
Actually, they probably did train their daughter’s in that aspect.
Honestly, I could respect the grind it took to up to a prince and make these kind of offers.
As the pavane came to an end, I gracefully bowed to Lady Alyce, leaving her breathing heavily by the pillar, and immediately found myself pulled into a third dance by Lady Jeyne Westerling.
She was surprise that I did not expect on seeing, according to the lore, the woman was supposed to be the fifth?
Or sixth wife of the original Maegor.
I had seen her from afar before, but never gotten the opportunity to talk to her, which was a shame, because I was very interested in getting to know her.
As the lutes struck up a fast-paced, lively trot, Lady Jeyne stepped directly into my space with remarkable grace, wrapping her long, slender arms around my neck and pressing her firm, perky breasts straight into my chest before we had even taken three steps across the floor.
“My Lord Prince,” she murmured softly, her sweet, berry-scented breath warming the skin of my neck as she pressed her small, tight waist flush against mine.
Her voice lacked the heavy, desperate pretense of the other maidens; instead, there was a light, quiet amuse in her tone.
“The entire hall has been talking of your victory all evening, though half the lords seem quite unsure whether to toast you or fear you.” Fear me?
I doubted that, but I was willing to accept some idle ego stroking.
As we spun through the dizzying rotation of the dance, her hands roamed smoothly across my shoulders, her fingers lightly trailing along the back of my neck.
During a sudden, dramatic cadence in the music, she leaned back, exposing the long, delicate line of her throat, before pulling herself back up and deliberately pressing her soft, tight bust straight into my chest once more, letting out a soft laugh as she met my gaze.
I caught her effortlessly around the waist, my right hand resting low on her hips, feeling the supple, extremely soft flesh beneath the cool crimson satin.
I gave her hips a firm, commanding pull, bringing her lower body right up against mine as I spun her around the floor with flawless, practiced grace.
“And does terrifying half the lords of the realm make me poor company for a dance, Lady Jeyne?” I asked with a fake chuckle, looking down into her wide, observant eyes with a warm smile.
“Not in the slightest,” she replied smoothly, her icy eyes sparkling with humor.
“I have always found that men who frighten foolish lords are far more interesting to speak with than the lords themselves.” Hmm, not a very cringe worthy response, I can respect that.
No ridiculous theatrical speeches about burning in dragonfire, no rehearsed lines straight out of a cheap romance novel.
Though what tickled my brain was the fact that she was alive.
If my knowledge was not wrong, then she should have not been born by now.
Then again, the wiki was never very specific when it came to the birth of the people not born in main timeline.
She did look young however, older than me for sure though.
When the final song concluded with a loud flourish of trumpets and lutes, the crowd erupted into thunderous applause.
I offered Lady Jeyne a bow, taking her small hand and brushing my lips lightly against her knuckles.
She offered me a smile before turning to rejoin her ladies, leaving me to smoothly retreat toward the shadowed perimeter of the hall before another maiden could intercept me.
Wiping a light sheen of sweat from my forehead, I grabbed a fresh cup of cold water from a passing servant’s tray and leaned back against a cold stone pillar, watching the rest of the feast unfold from a safe distance.
That had been interesting and as my gaze flickered around the room, there were quite a lot more interesting people that I could dance with, but now my social battery has dried up, and I only wished to fall into my bed and fall asleep.
Standing there indecisively for a moment, I looked around and saw that my friends were still dancing, and I could even spot Aenys from here.
Curiously however, neither my mother or Alyssa were here at this moment.
With my mind made up, I simply turned on my heel and left.
…
Word Count: 4017.