Ascent of the Falcon (SI)

48 AC

Maegor pov

"I will kill the treacherous bitch Alyssa and her children" ,I thundered.

"I will make her watch how they burn In Balerion's flames especially my nephew who has been crowned along with my traitorous wife and when she begs for mercy for her children is when I will behead her and put her head on a spike right outside the Red keep to help the other traitors to remember what happens when they cross my path".

A sheep, loyal in tongue but filled with trepidation, dared to voice the unease that danced in the hall like shadows in a moonlit night. 'House Baratheon amasses its forces, Your Grace, and with the Queen's retreat, we find ourselves outnumbered.'

I dismissed their worries with a regal wave, a mask of confidence concealing the tempest within. 'House Baratheon shall reap the harvest of its own recklessness,' I declared, my words laced with the certainty that only a king could muster. 'As for the treachery that stains my marriage bed, the mighty Balerion shall bring swift justice. Let three dragons rise against me; the Black Dread shall cast a shadow over their futile resistance.'

"We stand at the precipice of a kingdom undone, with a mere four thousand men as our last bastion of defense," the voice of the faint-hearted Hayford quivered, the echoes of his suggestion hanging heavily in the air. The great lords, once allies, had abandoned me, leaving me to face the storm alone. Hayford's spineless counsel lingered like a shadow, and his head now rested on a spike as a chilling smile curled upon my lips.

The images of my enemies' heads impaled upon those cruel stakes brought a sinister satisfaction.

"No forgiveness shall be sought, and no black cloak shall shroud my presence," I declared, my voice a thunderous proclamation that resonated through the hallowed halls of power. The echoes of my resolve rebounded off the stone walls, a testament to the unyielding determination that fueled the heart of a king. "Our enemies may revel in the illusion of victory, but they shall soon learn the staggering cost of underestimating the indomitable might of the true dragon."

The murmurs of dissent among the sheep were drowned in the commanding timbre of my words. Faces adorned with skepticism now wore a mask of reluctant submission as the weight of my proclamation settled upon them like the cloak I would never don. The fire of defiance burned in my eyes, a reflection of the flames that coursed through the veins of the true dragon.

"Fire and blood," I pronounced with a chilling certainty, the words weaving through the room like an incantation. The sheep, compelled by the gravity of the moment, repeated the mantra with a mixture of fear and awe. Each repetition, a pledge to the impending reckoning that awaited those who dared challenge the dominion of the dragon.

"Out, all of you!" I barked, my voice echoing through the halls like a storm. The spineless creatures, those who dared to question my rule, scurried away like shadows retreating from the dawn. My blood boiled with a fiery intensity, a wrath that consumed reason in its wake.

As the last of them hesitantly exited, leaving only the solemn figures of the Kingsguard behind, a sense of solitude settled in the air like a heavy mist. The weight of the crown, the burden of power, pressed upon my shoulders as I prepared to ascend the iron throne.

The stairs, cold and unforgiving, groaned beneath my weight as I climbed towards the seat of absolute authority. The moonlight caressed the jagged edges of the throne, casting an ethereal glow upon the twisted metal. Despite its ominous reputation, I couldn't deny the undeniable allure of this symbol of dominion.

Seated upon the iron throne, I marveled at its twisted beauty. The moonlight, like a celestial spotlight, made it shine with an otherworldly radiance. It was a truly magnificent creation, even if its malevolence cut deeper than any blade.

As my palms rested upon the cold iron, a sharp pain shot through me. Blood trickled down my hands, staining the seat of power. "Fuck," I growled, the frustration escaping in a low rumble. The throne, a malevolent entity in its own right, seemed to relish in its role as an instrument of pain. Yet, no matter how many times it cut me, I could not deny its magnetic pull.

"You are worthy of it, my son," I heard my mother's voice in the recesses of my mind. For a fleeting moment, as I closed my eyes, I saw her standing before me.

But then, a voice sliced through the stillness of the throne room, its cadence carrying a peculiar wisdom. "Do you know that there is a saying, Maegor? If the Iron Throne cuts you, it means you are rejected."

I rose abruptly, Blackfyre unsheathed, the gleam of Valyrian steel reflecting the tension in the air. "Who are you?" I demanded, my eyes scanning the shadows for the source of the mysterious voice.

"Your time has come, Maegor," the voice persisted, resonating from an unseen realm.

And then, like a specter materializing from the shadows, a boy of merely fourteen namedays stood before me. A flicker of confusion crossed my face, replaced quickly by a sinister smile.

Hearing the proclamation, laughter escaped my lips like a torrent. "Do you know how many times I have heard that? I have faced hundreds of assassins, and in the face of such threats, a mere boy is nothing."

"That's the thing, Maegor," the voice persisted, now embodied by the young figure before me. "In this blasted world, everyone seems to underestimate a kid. Yet, that very underestimation has been the key to my success."

The echoes of his words reverberated in the vastness of the throne room, a cryptic truth hidden within the enigmatic persona of the boy. As I approached the base of the throne, a chilling realization dawned upon me.

"Enough of this game; show yourself!" I commanded, my hand gripping Blackfyre with unwavering resolve.

Suddenly, the room erupted in a deadly symphony. The twang of bowstrings, the hiss of arrows, and the sickening thud as my Kingsguard fell.

As the moonlight bathed the throne room, the boy emerged from the shadows, his features becoming clear. Sandy hair framed his face, and one eye bore a deep shade of blue while the other echoed the starkness of grey. An aquiline nose and dimples adorned his countenance, forming a visage that seemed too innocent for the treacherous game he played.

His suit of armor proudly displayed the sigil of a Falcon.

"I will burn the Eyrie after I am done with you," I declared, the fiery threat lacing my words as I swung Blackfyre with the might of a true dragon. The boy, to his credit, blocked the blow, but the force behind the strike compelled him to retreat into the shadows.

"Damnit, old man, you are good," he conceded, a smirk playing on his lips as he acknowledged the prowess displayed in my every move.

"Loose," he commanded, and the room erupted in a deadly symphony as arrows pierced my body. The searing pain coursed through me, and I crumpled to the cold stone floor.

I called out to my men, a desperate plea for assistance, but the boy dismissed it with a mocking tone. "Shout louder, man, but I would not bet on it. They must be busy trying to save their own skin," he taunted, laughter dancing in his eyes.

Amidst the agony, I glimpsed flames rising outside the keep. The realization struck like a thunderbolt. "You do not seriously think that I would come alone, did you?" The boy's playful tone revealed the calculated cunning beneath his youthful exterior.

"Who sent you, boy? How much did Rogar Baratheon pay you?" I demanded, my tone a mixture of anger and curiosity.

The mirth that had once danced in the boy's eyes vanished at the mention of his employer. The air thickened with tension, and in the next heartbeat, his sword descended with a swift, deadly precision. I tried to defend myself, but before I could react, my right wrist fell to the cold stone floor, severed by his blade.

"I did not know that a Valyrian steel sword comes along with a free hand," he remarked, his voice dripping with a macabre sense of humor as he casually picked up Blackfyre. The pain surged through me, but I held back the cries of agony that threatened to escape.

Regarding my question about Rogar Baratheon, he sneered, "A stag has no right to command a falcon." His indifference to my inquiry suggested that the motivations behind his actions ran deeper than a simple purse of coins.

"Let's just wait for my friends to come," he continued, his movements with Blackfyre exuding a certain confidence. It struck me then – this wasn't just a confrontation; it was a carefully orchestrated performance, and he reveled in the chaos he had unleashed.

"No matter how many of your friends are there, you will still be outnumbered," I retorted, my words fueled by a mix of defiance and desperation.

He chuckled, a sound that resonated with a crazed amusement. "Oh, wow, man. I didn't know that four thousand ill-equipped men could defeat five thousand Knights of the Vale, not counting the two thousand strong Faith Militant. Seven thousand men, what a holy number indeed," he mocked.

My rage burned hotter than dragonfire at his words. "I will burn you all, you hear me? Each and every one of you!"

"Amazing. Genes are everything, I guess. The last time a king said that, his own Kingsguard stabbed him, but that's in the future," he said, laughter ringing through the hall.

As I grappled with the pain and bewilderment, the boy ordered, "Remove the arrows." Shadows stirred, and men appeared to remove the arrows embedded in my body. The pain intensified, and I gritted my teeth to endure the torment.

As I writhed, the great doors of the hall swung open, revealing a host of knights and the Faith Militant. The boy's laughter echoed against the approaching tide of allies, creating a surreal tableau of chaos and impending confrontation.

"My brothers in arms!" the boy's voice reverberated through the hall, rallying the gathering of knights and Faith Militant. "We have all gathered here together by the guidance of the Warrior himself."

Before the assembled, I lay on the cold stone floor, weakened and disarmed. The boy continued his impassioned address, declaring, "Before us lies a man whom I defeated in single combat. A man who has caused countless deaths—for lust, for power. The crimes that he has committed are countless."

A fervent cry erupted from the crowd, their voices joining in unison, "Take his head!"

A concealed smile played on the boy's face, his mastery of deception veiling the satisfaction he derived from the crowd's zealous response. "I believe that death is the only punishment suitable for the likes of him."

The men in the hall, inflamed by a sense of justice or vengeance, hollered and shouted in agreement, their collective fervor escalating into a crescendo of chaos.

A knight stepped forward, bringing forth the wooden stump that had served as a macabre stage for various beheadings. It was placed in front of me, a grim reminder of the impending judgment.

"Do you have any last words?" the boy asked solemnly, his gaze fixed upon me.

I cast a glance at the sea of faces before me, all contorted with anger and disdain. In that moment of impending judgment, I felt the weight of my reign, the consequences of my choices.

"I wish I would have done things differently," I began, a semblance of remorse coloring my words. I took a deep breath, the air heavy with the scent of anticipation.

"I SHOULD HAVE KILLED EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU. I SHOULD HAVE BURNED YOU IN YOUR HOMES AS YOUR FAMILIES WRITHED IN AGONY!" I roared, the words unleashed in a tempest of defiance. The crowd, fueled by the venom of my confession, brandished their weapons, their faces twisted with rage.

"STOP!" the boy's voice cut through the rising chaos, a command that echoed with authority. At his word, a sudden hush fell upon the hall. The blades lowered, the angry fervor momentarily silenced.

The boy, his countenance unreadable, observed the tumult he had wrought. "Your words reveal the true nature of a tyrant's heart," he remarked, a cold detachment underscoring his tone.

The boy, relishing the moment, continued to speak in a soft, measured tone that cut through the charged atmosphere of the hall. "Do you know the two mistakes that your stone-faced, incestuous bitch of a mother made?" His words hung in the air, a venomous revelation poised to shatter the remaining fragments of my pride.

A deliberate pause followed as if he savored the weight of his own declarations. The gathered audience, a sea of expectant faces, awaited the unveiling of long-held grievances. "The first was giving birth to a stupid, murderous cunt like you," he uttered, each word carrying the weight of disdain. The room, already tense, seemed to contract with the gravity of his pronouncement. "But I guess that is just genetics at work."

As he continued, the boy's tone grew darker, and a sinister smile crept across his lips like a shadow overtaking the moon. "And the second mistake, in hindsight," he sneered, "was that she did not throw my father from her dragon."

"Who are you?" I stammered, fear coursing through my veins as I gazed into his mismatched eyes, a chilling reflection of impending doom. His presence seemed to unlock a vault of memories, and I saw the reel of my life play out in the depths of his unwavering gaze.

"This incestuous monster asks me who I am," he retorted, a hint of scorn underlying his words. He drew in a deep breath, his chest rising with an air of confidence.

"I am the son of Ronnel Arryn, the last king of the Vale and the Mountains, and the former princess of the North, Lady Eddara Stark," he proclaimed with an air of regality. "I am the grandson of the former King of the North, the great King Torrhen Stark. The blood of the Falcon Knight flows through me, and I am the chosen one of the Seven, the man who will rid the Seven Kingdoms of your tyranny, Maegor the Cruel. I am Artys Arryn."

In the same breath, Blackfyre came crashing down, a flash of steel that heralded the darkness that enveloped my vision.