Chapter Text
The blazing sun on the island clashes with the grim interior of Dragonstone, Maegor thinks as he moves through the long corridors, two guards trailing him a couple of steps behind. The contrast is jarring. Outside, the sea sparkles as if untouched by war, betrayal, or the blood that once stained those same waters. The wind carries salt and life. Inside, however, the air is heavy and damp, and sometimes he wonders if this is the only way the stone walls can breathe out old memories that no one has bothered to bury.
Maegor doesn't slow his pace.
His boots echo with a dry, authoritative sound that seems to rise above even the distant murmur of the surf. The guards behind him say nothing—they wouldn't even if they wanted to—but he can feel their tension. And with good reason. Dragonstone is not a place that forgives mistakes.
His hand tightens around the hilt of his sword as he stares at the gates that draw ever closer with each step. The two guards flanking the gates shift uncomfortably, noticing their King approaching with a tense expression and purposeful strides. He notices. He knows they fear him. He relishes it.
He stops abruptly. Behind him, his guards do the same, almost in unison. He glances at the gates before him one last time and turns to face his guards, who avoid looking at him at all costs. Both lower their gazes to the ground, an almost instantaneous action that Maegor didn't command but that seems as if it were, in fact, an impossible order to obey.
"You wait here."
"B-But my King, we don't know...!"
The words on the shield fade as Maegor approaches him until their faces are mere inches apart, and he almost snarls with satisfaction as he feels the man shrink back, completely avoiding eye contact.
"Remind me: who are you and what is your duty?"
"R-Ryland Blackfort, Your Grace." The man stammers. "I-I am a member of the Kingsguard and... and it is my duty to protect you."
He nods, studying him closely. "And to obey when I speak. Don't forget that."
This time there is no protest.
He turns back to the gates, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword as he steps forward. The guards open the gates with a low, heavy clang. He doesn't even glance at them, simply stepping inside unannounced, letting the gates slam shut behind him.
With all the light outside, the interior is darker than he expected, but his eyes adjust immediately to the gloom, observing the few torches illuminating the room, casting long, distorted shadows that climb the black stone walls.
And he sees her.
This woman, unknown, seemingly from nowhere, brought down from the sky.
She seems too interested in the Painted Table, because from where he stands he can watch her, her back to him, tracing every detail with her fingers. She knows of his presence; she heard him enter and can surely feel him there, watching her like a predator stalking its prey. Even so, she doesn't turn toward him. She doesn't even say a word.
He doesn't know if that bothers him or intrigues him.
Maegor tilts his head slightly, looking at her with curiosity instead of feeling threatened. "I hear you didn't try to escape." Hisvoice breaks the silence as easily as a sword cuts through flesh. He takes a step forward, then another, then another. "I'm starting to think you're not as stupid as the rest."
He stops a few steps away. His eyes narrow slightly.
"But you have a dragon and a name no one knows, so tell me: who are you and where have you been all this time, my dear?"
The woman turns to face him.
"Would you believe me if I told you I'm from the future, uncle?"
He stops.
Not because of the High Valyrian that flows from her tongue with a naturalness he's never heard from anyone but his mother and himself. Not even because of the words themselves.
It's her.
His jaw tightens.
He has known beauty. He has taken beauty, possessed it, discarded it when it ceased to entertain him. Pretty faces, pleasing bodies, glances that broke at just the right moment. Yet today, for the first time in his life, Maegor finally understands what his mother meant when she said a true Valyrian beauty.
The nearest torch flickers, and the light glides across her face as if hesitant to fully touch it. Long, silver hair, very pale, not merely fair, but that impossible shade that belongs only to the ancient blood. Smooth, pale skin like winter snow, thick eyebrows, gorgeous pouty lips, and amethyst eyes that meet his gaze without hesitation.
A soft yet strong beauty. Unique. Extraordinary.
Completely ethereal.
Then he laughs.
Not at her, surprisingly, but at her words. Because it's funny.
There's no way this beauty could have come from his weakling brother and the useless Alyssa. Much less without him or his mother knowing.
The woman before him—20 names day old at most, at most—isn't offended by his cruel, mocking laughter. She doesn't even flinch. Instead, she smiles. Not a big smile, not even showing her pretty teeth, just a small smile that barely raises the corners of her lips. Her eyes don't leave him.
"I'm not Aenys's daughter." She clarifies, this time in common, as if it weren't obvious.
He stops laughing, quickly and suddenly, but the smile lingers on his face like a ghost. He tilts his head, looking at her with amused and dangerous eyes.
"I know." He says, still staring at her. He speaks High Valyrian like a second skin.
Then this woman, beautiful and utterly reckless, takes a step toward him. He straightens his head immediately, his smile vanishing instantly. Not because he feels threatened, but because he feels intrigued. His eyes scan her from head to toe, no shame in the way he observes her.
Far from seeming uncomfortable, she has the audacity to look amused, as if she's aware of the effect she has.
He takes a step forward.
She takes another.
He takes another.
Suddenly, they're close, too close. She looks at him with wide eyes, and he can almost see the fire in them.
It excites him.
"I'm his great-great-granddaughter."
He observes her more closely now. His gaze dips for just a moment, taking in the details he had previously appreciated purely for aesthetic reasons: her upright posture, the way she carries herself without wavering, the calmness in her hands. There's no trembling, no doubt.
"My brother's?" His voice no longer carries a trace of open mockery; it's lower and much sharper. His eyes return to hers. "From the future?" He's not mocking, but his voice takes on that ironic edge that, without him saying so, affirms his skepticism. "So what? You're my niece and a time traveler?"
She tilts her head briefly, a sly grin playing on her lips. "I wouldn't call myself that, no. Just... someone who died."
"Everyone dies, kid. You're not special."
"But not everyone comes back."
He raises an eyebrow. His expression doesn't change. "So you died in your own time and now you're here and... what, you expect me to believe that?" He pauses for a moment. "What's your name?"
"I am Rhaenyra Targaryen." She answers without hesitation. She raises her chin. "Daughter of Viserys Targaryen, granddaughter of Baelon Targaryen, great-granddaughter of Jaehaerys Targaryen, and you, uncle, are also my family."
Rhaenyra.
It's not familiar to him—it couldn't be—but the way she says it… well, she tries to convince him without actually trying, because it's not a bet or an attempt, it's just a statement. A woman saying his name. A woman talking about his family. Ordinary words, if you ignore the whole context.
His eyes narrow slightly, more out of calculation than doubt. "Viserys…" He repeats his nephew's name—though they're not talking about the same Viserys—slowly, tasting it on his tongue, searching for poison in it. "Jaehaerys…" He recognizes that one. His mouth twists slightly, almost imperceptibly. "So, according to you, my nephew not only manages to keep the crown, but his line continues long enough to produce you."
He doesn't sound impressed. He isn't.
He takes a step around her, beginning to circle her slowly, as if she were an interesting piece he's just acquired and hasn't yet decided whether to keep or break. He doesn't touch her, but her presence feels too close, too heavy. It's impossible to ignore a woman like this.
"And you choose to show up here." He continues in a low voice, looking her up and down. "On my island. In my castle. In my time." A pause. "With a dragon."
Interest comes to him in waves. He can't help it. He still hasn't decided whether to believe her or not.
He stops behind her for an instant, long enough for the shadow of his body to fall upon hers—much smaller, he notices, with something obscene twisting in his chest—on the stone floor.
Then he takes another step forward until he's standing in front of her again.
"You're a very beautiful thing. Has anyone told you that?" He asks, though he knows the answer.
She smiles. "All the time."
"Too beautiful." He murmurs, this time to himself, though he knows she can hear him. "You'll understand why I find it hard to believe that something so well-made came from my brother."
Rhaenyra looks him up and down and back into his eyes. "Really?"
"You didn't come from me."
"I still have your blood."
"If you lie..." He says dangerously softly. "I'll make you wish you'd never been born."
But she doesn't seem threatened, much less affected. She only gives him a brief, sly smile that vanishes as quickly as it appears. "I've wished I'd never been born since I was three and ten." She tells him, and for a moment she seems to be remembering something. "My father always wanted a son. I'm all my mother could give him. A woman. And when he had to choose between her and his son... he ordered her to be cut open like a fish so he could hold his longed-for boy in his arms... which, now that I think about it, is kind of funny. My brother didn't live more than a day." She sighs, with feigned pity. "What a shame."
He doesn't laugh.
He watches her silently, with a stillness that isn't calm, but restraint. There's something about the way she says it—without hesitation, without embellishment, without seeking his sympathy—that feels... familiar to him. Not in what she says, but in how she says it. It's not the words, it's the tone.
Almost... cruel.
His eyes barely lower, and for a moment it's almost as if he can see the scene she describes reflected in her untouched skin. A queen cut open like an animal. A king expecting a son. An unwanted princess.
"Your father was a weak man." He says, simply.
"Yes." She agrees without hesitation. She sounds a little tired. Sick, even. "I know. I always expected to see a dragon on the throne, and instead I only... got a puppet."
He tilts his head, watching her with renewed interest. "If you noticed, then you're better than him."
Rhaenyra holds his gaze. "I always have been. That's why he chose me as his heir."
That answer does elicit something from him. Not a laugh, not quite. But his mouth curves into something darker, more satisfied. "I do believe that." He says, and he means it.
He looks her up and down. Again. He looks at her once more.
"Tell me, niece, how did you die?"
Her expression hardens, but that only makes her look more... beautiful. More dangerous. "My brother killed me."
He blinks.
"Your brother?"
She blinks.
"Half-brother." She clarifies.
So her father remarried. And it didn't turn out well, obviously. That's a really stupid man, if you ask him.
"Mm." He murmurs, still looking at her. "Why?"
Her expression relaxes, and he sees her shrug with an inhalation that then turns into a sigh. "...the spoils of war, I think." She grimaces. For a moment, it seems she's just talking about the weather. "I don't blame him. I would have killed him too if I could have, so... yeah, it was fair, I would say."
He laughs, delighted. "You fought for your throne, then. Very well, I like that."
"He still won."
"Did your line die out?"
"...no. His."
"Then he didn't win." He tilts his head, amused. "Now tell me; if you were the king's firstborn... and also his chosen heir, why did you even have to fight for something that was yours?"
She looks away for a moment, not ashamed, just to inhale, before looking back at him. "Because not many agreed that a woman should rule."
Maegor narrows his eyes.
Now, what the hell?
"...which is stupid."
Rhaenyra snorts and smiles bitterly. "You can thank your nephew. He decided that women couldn't sit on the throne."
Not for the first time, Maegor feels sorry for himself. How is he supposed to stay sane, surrounded by such stupid people?
He almost closes his eyes.
Ugh.
"Of course." He mutters. "Of course he did."
"Don't you agree?"
Maegor tries not to take offense.
"I think…" He says slowly. "That the throne isn't a seat." He takes a step toward the Painted Table, resting his palm on the cold surface. "It’s a dragon." His fingers barely trace the contours of Westeros. "It doesn't care whether the rider is a man or a woman." He looks up at her again. "It cares whether it can stay upright." There's something else in his expression now. Not gentleness—that would be ridiculous—but a distinct clarity. "If your father decided to name you his heir and maintain that position even after your brother was born, then he saw you as the only person capable of succeeding him. But if you still had to fight, then he failed anyway."
"He always failed." She concedes, moving closer. She reaches his side, leaning her back against the table. "He never ceased to disappoint me."
He nods. It makes sense. He tilts his head, looking at the table.
"And the dragons?"
"Dead. All of them. The war... it was between family. There was no way we could die and the dragons could survive. Not when it was on their backs that we faced each other."
His fingers stop moving on the Painted Table, but they don't move away. They remain there, resting on Westeros, and for a moment he swears he can feel something throbbing beneath the carved wood.
"All of them?" He repeats at last, in a low voice.
He doesn't sound incredulous. He isn't. He's offended.
Rhaenyra nods once. She doesn't try to soften him, and he appreciates the gesture. "All of them."
He inhales, exhales.
Again.
"So that father of yours didn't just fail you, but our entire House."
And no one decided to stop him? None of this girl's relatives? They saw that her throne was at risk, her House, their House, and they never thought to help her? They never thought to overthrow the Weak King?
It makes sense that they are descendants of his brother. Fucking inepts. All of them.
"Anyone would say it was my fault."
Maegor lets out a short, dry laugh, humorless. "The dragons died with you, not because of you. It's different. And it could have been avoided if your father hadn't remarried. Or if someone had decided that he did not deserve to be called King."
"And if Jaehaerys hadn't been such a hypocrite."
He straightens up, turning to face her. She's small. He likes that. But she's still a dragon, and he likes that even more. She's sharp, cruel. He really likes that.
"And now you're here telling me all this. Why? You died and decided to come here to do what, exactly?"
Rhaenyra snorts, as if the idea were absurd. "I didn't decide to come here. I died, and when I awoke, I was back on Syrax. I came here because I thought it was my home, but... it turns out it's yours. And my family doesn't exist yet, and perhaps never will."
But she doesn't sound sad. Just objective. Almost cold.
"But you're telling me this. Why? What do you want me to avoid?"
"Shit, I don't know." She shrugs, moving away from the table to walk, gesturing with her hands. "Dying? Avoiding dying, maybe? Or we could just kill Jaehaerys and Alysanne? And Aegon and—and all your nephews? Not all of them did bad things, but they're all a nuisance. So yeah! We can just kill them. Hell, that would make us fucking lunatics, but I already have a reputation for that, and you don't exactly have a reputation for being a good, sane person, no offense."
He blinks.
"No offense?" He repeats, almost curiously.
Rhaenyra watches him as if she's just said something perfectly reasonable, when her suggestion could only really have come from someone completely insane.
He decides he likes it. Too much.
A low laugh escapes his chest. This time it's not dry or mocking.
It's genuine. Brief, but real.
His laugh makes Rhaenyra smile.
"You're really something else, aren't you?" He says finally, shaking his head. Then he looks at her, entertained. "You're cruel, Rhaenyra."
Rhaenyra shrugs. "They nicknamed me Maegor with Tits. Maybe they were right."
Maegor's smile doesn't fade; it grows more intrigued. "Maegor with Tits?" He repeats, savoring the words like a rare wine. Then he lets out a breath that's almost a laugh. "What a lazy insult."
Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. "It wasn't at the time."
"No." He concedes, taking another step toward her. "I guess not." He studies her with a different kind of attention now. Recognition. Something like that, only much more twisted. He feels like he's looking at a distorted version of something he understands all too well.
"If that's what they saw in you..." He continues, tilting his head. "Then they didn't hate you just for being a woman."
"...eventually, I found it a little difficult to control myself." She admits, her jaw clenched and her hands too still to be natural.
Honestly, he finds it hard to believe she's ashamed, especially after having expressed her desire to kill all his nephews. If you ask him, this girl is still battling that ruthless side of herself. If you ask him, he'd love to help her accept that part of herself.
After all, who said being crazy was wrong?
That, her words, his thoughts, does elicit a genuine smile on his lips.
"Good." He murmurs, nodding. "So at least they did something right."
Rhaenyra snorts, but doesn't contradict him.
Maegor moves closer to her, enjoying the way her amethyst eyes seem bigger when she looks up at him.
"And when you finally lost control, what did you do?" He asks, stopping in front of her.
It's not an innocent question, and Rhaenyra knows it, and she doesn't back down.
"The same as you." She replies. "Whatever it took."
He almost smiles. Almost. He vaguely wonders how much time has passed, how long he's been entertained by this girl. He's not a man who loses track of time, but this time it seems inevitable.
"Maegor with tits." He says again, almost to himself. He likes it. It means she's just like him. It means she's not weak. However... "If they'd been smarter, they would have called you by your name."
"They did." She clarifies, wrinkling her nose slightly. Then she smiles, with something akin to mockery, something ironic that catches his attention. "When they wanted it to sound like a threat."
He likes that.
He nods. "Good." He pauses, lingering a second longer than necessary on her pouty lips. Then he looks back into her eyes, which are still staring at him. Either she likes staring at people like a fucking owl, or she's trying to impress him. Or both. Either way, she's the only person, besides his mother, who dares to hold his gaze. That in itself is impressive. And something he undoubtedly appreciates. "Though I must admit I'm a little disappointed. They called you just like me, and yet you still lost."
"So did you." She bites back.
Instead of being offended, he smiles, delighted by her boldness.
She has fire, and it shows. He likes it.
He likes it, he likes it.
He likes her.
Maegor watches her silently for a long moment. Then he tilts his head, studying her. "Yes." He finally concedes, almost amused by the whole situation. "I guess we look a bit alike."
"I'm your niece."
"Whom I never had the pleasure of meeting." He looks at her lips for a moment. Again. They look so... soft. He doesn't try to hide it, why would he? He looks at her eyes again and nod. "I like that you're like me."
"And is that a good thing?"
Maegor smiles. "No." He says. "But that doesn't bother you, does it?"
"I can't remember the last time I cared what people said about me." She admits. She takes a breath, looking around. He wonders if he sees only stone walls or if she can see ghosts. "I understood too late that showing mercy was seen as weakness. By then, they were already calling me cruel." She finishes with a mixture of mockery and bitterness.
"And were you?"
"I could have been more so." She answers almost immediately, looking at him again. She sighs and makes a small grimace with her lips, as if she were dissatisfied with her own actions. Or the lack thereof. "I should have been more so. They were practically begging me to be."
"And now?"
Rhaenyra holds his gaze. "Now I have no more excuses."
He smiles. Slowly and contentedly.
She's got guts, this girl.
"Good."
He takes another step closer. Too close for any courtly treatment. Close enough that the size difference is impossible to ignore, that his presence weighs heavily.
"Will you... ever return to your own time?" He asks softly.
For the first time, she looks down. Just for a moment. Then she looks back at him. "I have no way of returning."
"So they didn't just send you to pay me a visit." He murmurs.
It's not a question, but Rhaenyra shakes her head nonetheless. "No."
Maegor watches her with renewed interest, taking her in again. He can't help it. He doesn't see her as a piece of meat, hell, no. This woman isn't just any woman, she's a Valyrian woman. A Queen, no less. A Dragon Rider.
Instead of looking at her as something he could have beneath him and discard afterward, he sees her as something, someone, who could fight by his side.
Fly by his side.
"It must be hard, isn't it?" His eyes return to hers. "No way back, no family, no time of your own..." He lists them slowly, savoring each absence.
"Not without family." She says. She looks at him intently.
He raises an eyebrow. "No?" he repeats softly.
Rhaenyra doesn't look away. "No."
Maegor barely inclines his head.
God, he likes this girl. This dragon.
"You have no one here." He says finally. He doesn't mean it; it's just a test. "They haven't been born yet. They don't exist. And if you want us to kill my nephew, then they never will. Not your grandparents, not your parents, not your children."
"You exist."
For a second, Maegor is still.
He is her family, then. The only one she has now, it seems. It's weird, if you ask him. That this girl appeared out of nowhere, claiming to be his family. Impossible to deny, but still weird. Though he doesn't dislike it; it turns out that being connected to her is one of the most pleasant revelations he's had in a long time.
A brave woman. A strong dragon. That's what he likes. It intrigues him. It excites him.
A soft exhalation escapes his chest, almost a soundless laugh. Not mocking. Not anymore.
"Family…" He murmurs, as if the word sounds strange to him. It's always been him and his mother, after all. "That's an interesting way to look at it."
Rhaenyra barely shrugs, as if it's no big deal. "It's the only one I have."
"So you were sent here for a reason." He continues, keeping his hands to himself. Still, the corners of his lips lift, just a little, a barely perceptible smile. "Do you have any idea what that reason is?"
"...perhaps."
He narrows his eyes. "Enlighten me."
Rhaenyra takes another step toward him, almost as if provoking him, but that mischievous little smile on her lips makes it impossible for him to be angry. "They said we were the Cruel Ones." She says, staring at him. "Could it be that this time we are the Lucky Ones?"
Silence.
For long seconds, only silence.
Then, without warning, he raises a hand.
Not to hit her. Not to grab her roughly. He just brings it to her chin and tilts it slightly upward, forcing her to meet his gaze the way he wants. Close. Very close.
"You and me?" He murmurs. His thumb barely grazes her jaw. It's not a caress. It's something worse. Or better. Possession.
Rhaenyra doesn't move away. She doesn't even blink.
"You and me."
His hand moves down to her neck. His fingers gently brush against her pale, sensitive skin until they find a necklace. A little thick, but elegant. Valyrian steel, he notices.
So she really isn't lying.
"Who gave you this?" He asks, but doesn't look at her eyes. His eyes remain on the necklace.
"My other uncle."
He narrows his eyes slightly. "And was this uncle of yours any good?"
For the first time, Rhaenyra is silent.
For the first time, Maegor sees her hesitate.
"...he was my father's brother." She finally says.
So no.
"Mm." He murmurs, nodding. Then, suddenly and forcefully, he yanks the necklace. Rhaenyra doesn't even blink as the necklace snaps off, yielding to his strength, and throws it into the hearth fire. "You won't need it, then."
He turns away.
"Come with me. My mother will like you."