madame tunetone

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So I have seen a few different request pages like this and really liked it and thought it was cute and fun. So this is going to be the official format for requests. If you haven't done one of these, it's just as easy as putting your requests through the bakery options!

(examples in the blog)

Maegor closed his eyes without knowing of his great victory. And his mother, the Dowager Queen Visenya, had not closed her eyes since he had. But now someone has come to set things right for them all.

The Cruel Rule

w.c: 1,047

c.w: insane canon divergence from this point forward, mild description of a head wound

Series Masterlist | next

author's note: edited, not proofread

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍 did not know how many days she had been stuck in this vast room, with only she and Maegor in the room. The absolute foolhardy order of Maesters that came and went from the room every day was of no use until she had just about had enough of them and forbade them from ever entering the chambers again

She had since taken matters into her own hands in matters of keeping her baby alive until her call was answered.

“Prūmysa sōvīli..” Her long, cared-for nails combed through Maegor’s mussed hair as she quietly sang to him, before excessive commotion outside gathered her attention. Tremendous shadows fell upon what had been built of the Red Keep and the majority of the red-stoned castle, something no cloud or wall could mimic.

So large the shade, that the two silhouettes of a pair of heads were the only indication of two different beings. Oh, how familiar that sight remains to her.

Visenya gently moved Maegor’s head onto his pillow and slid on her silk, silver robe.

All attention turned to the rampart, where two beauties looked upon the yard of mortals.

Balerion's ghastly cadence was no doubt heard from the very end of Essos. To his left, in all her bronze glory, the blue-ish-green caught perfectly in the bright sun's rays. The great beasts snarled as their eyes locked onto the scene, and their mouths began to glow from the inside.

"Let them pass at once, you bumbling fools." 

High from the only balcony of the unfinished Red Keep came Visenya's voice, which those bumbling fools could never mistake.

 Under her austere glare, the bumbling fools were quick to retract their hands and step far from the family. And Alys smiled, relief washing through her tensed shoulders. Tyanna smiled and lifted Ravenna into her arms, swiftly gliding past the guards and into the castle.

Despite the distance and the lack of time spent with the women, Visenya did not doubt that it was easy for anyone, especially a witch, to see the toll of the past month that had been taken on the only living conqueror. In the four years before, there were a few times that Visenya had ever been relaxed in the presence of the "black-hearted wench" as Visenya adoringly called her.

But now, such a sight would be burned in the Pentoshi's brain, the Queen was sure.

Long gone were the terribly intricate and dramatically styled braids, with her long-grown silver-gold hair in a loose, simple one, carelessly thrown over her shoulder. Her face, despite the years that have flown by, had just now given the only sign of humanity within the queen, with fresh dark circles under those still hypnotizing purple eyes.

Her nightgown, an obsidian black falling in a single sweep to the ground, the colour of Balerion's scales. The bodice was neatly shaped, pulled and laced to be drawn close to her figure. At the square neckline, fine embroidery in colours of bronze, green, and gold traced an easy pattern.

She had slid back onto the bed and placed Maegor back in place, as if he hadn’t moved at all. The doors were soon opened, and guards accompanied the three women in. Alys immediately gasped at the admittedly uncomely sight and turned her head, rushing to stop her children from entering, and Visenya could distantly hear Maera’s whines and pleas.

"Alys," Tyanna approached the bed with a silver-adorned woman, "Why don't you take the children and see yourselves to sleep? This is no sight for you all."

Tyanna bid the children farewell with kisses on their heads and cheeks, then kissed Alys on the lips, sending them all off with a very reluctant, grimacing Myros.

The two who remained looked at one another briefly, with the silver lady taking the lead.

It must have been an odd sight for Tyanna. It was odd enough for Visenya.

Maegor, whom she fed at her own breast and trained and loved, sprawled front-facing on the great bed of velvet and silk sheets with head on her lap, like a boy hiding in his mother's skirts. In hindsight, the conqueror would prefer a cowardly son rather than a dead one. 

The Conqueror's crown perched on a side table near the body—he had become the King, but at what cost? Despite the near turn of the moon that had passed between the trial and her arrival, stitched scars and ointmented bruises were nowhere near healing or remotely on such a path.

His once silver-gold tressed hair was mussed, with parts varying in shades of red, the deepest red lying at the source; the Morningstar wound still open and gaping at the side of his large head. The crack let the light shine over the bits of brain exposed to the stenched air.

His arms and neck were wrapped with gauze that had long since absorbed as much blood as possible. Marks of purple and blue persisted long past 14 days, just to grace Tyanna's eyes, it seemed. They littered the King's body from shoulder to knee, with cuts and welts accompanying them.

"I never thought the day would come when you asked for my help." Tyanna lit the chamber candles while Daemalae laid out her various bottles, bowls, and vials, ranging in contents from hair to muscle, and from powders to liquids.

"If I had known you would not be up to the task on your own," The Valyrian Queen kept her eyes carefully trailing the red woman, a frown deepening on her beautiful face, "I wouldn't have."

“I did not call for her; Daemalae came to me.”

This Daemalae did not seem to pay any mind to the women’s conversation, moving Maegor suddenly onto his back and off of his mother. Returning to her bag, she pulls out a jar of leeches, crushed ladybugs, and a strange, red and glittery powder. "We all must choose. Man or woman, young or old, lord or peasant, our choices are the same. We choose light, or we choose darkness." Smearing a coat of crushed ladybugs across the various wounds, the leeches follow suit. 

"What does this mad woman speak of?"

Daemalae looked at Visenya. And said nothing else. Other than…

The bells of King's Landing toll for the death of King Aenys I Targaryen. But none could hear them over the bellowing roar of Vhagar flying over the Narrow Sea to Essos to retrieve Westeros' new King.

The Cruel Rule

wc: 2,363

CW: Depiction of Childbirth, mixed (and albeit confusing) POV

Series Masterlist | next

author's note: edited, not proofread. Really excited to keep going, though!

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 and the cloying smoke of Pentoshi incense, those which Tyanna had burned when the first gush of blood had come. Jasmine and lemons, Alys' favourite. Maera had picked the lemons only seconds ago.

The walls were deaf with the shrill cries of labour, and bloody handprints pawed at them, accompanied by the trails of blood and other bodily fluids sliding across the floors.

Shadows flickered across the chamber walls, cast by seven dozen low-burning candles that dripped wax into holders. In the bed's center, the Lady Alys Harroway screamed well after her throat began to bleed. Her voice rose and fell, raw and ragged, echoing off the stone, swallowed by the foreign silks and perfumed draperies that tried and failed to make the place feel gentler. Sweat slicked her skin. Her body, spent and shaking, trembled beneath the weight of labour that had been dragged from dawn to dawn.

She couldn't believe the sun had come around before the child had even been born to witness it.

Tyanna stood above her, dark hair unbound, hands red up to the wrists. There was an intensity in her eyes, passionate when looking upon her lover and cold and unforgiving when glancing at the helpers as she surveyed their handling of Alys and her babe. "Breathe, sweetling," she murmured, voice low and musical. Her Pentoshi lilt spoke sweet nothings into her ear. "Breathe and push. The child is near now, I can feel it."

"I ca-- can't, Tyanna, take it out of me, I beg you, please. FUCK, it hurts, and I want it out. Take it out of me!" Her voice failed momentarily as she pleaded.

Alys broke out into a series of cries, many sounds that were anything but words. Her hair clung to her damp face. Tyanna took a cloth, wiped the sweat from her brow, and whispered against her ear, "You will see him soon. It'll all be well. I can hear his heart."

Outside the door, Maegor paced.

The stone hall was cool, though the torches spat and hissed, their flames restless in their iron sconces. Maegor Targaryen's steps were heavy enough to shake the tiled floor. The Magister of the house, Tyanna's father, stood by, wringing his hands nervously. After it did bode well for him and his family, should the lady perish at the hands of their healers?

A few paces off, two small girls sat side by side, one pair of little legs swinging off their chair whilst the other was as still as a corpse.

Maera, the eldest of the two, had her father's silver blonde locks. At only two years, she already bore the makings of a dragon. She tugged at her father's cloak as he passed. "Why does Mama scream so much, Papa?" she asked, blinking up with grey-lilac eyes that might one day conquer hearts or kingdoms.

Maegor's mind was running a marathon, so lost in his mind to acknowledge his daughter's question.

Beside her, Ravenna watched in silence. Tyanna's child-pale, strange, and solemn beyond her years-sucked thoughtfully on her thumb. Her eyes, seeming almost soulless, reflected the torchlight like glass. She had not spoken once that night. 

She hadn't even reacted to all the vaginal blood that had decorated the floors when they moved Alys from the gardens to the room. Maegor caught her gaze, and for a heartbeat, something in her stare made him still. 

Maegor, stopping in his tracks, looked to her little girl. So fearless she was, like he often had been for his own mother.

"Mother is already scared very much; I do not want her to worry about my fears too," she had said when the Magister had asked if she was worried for her mother.

He crouched down to Maera's level, somewhat, still twice and a half her size, but craned his head to look at her and brought her into his arms. "Your mother is doing something very brave, sweet girl. Just as she was brave when she brought forth you. A brave woman she is, your mother."

"Like grha'ñdmôdkhærā (grandmother)," She asked, stars in her eyes. Maegor smiled down at her and nodded, "Just like your grha'ñdmôdkhærā. Strong and incredible like her, too. She is in pain right now, but she is strong, yes? We need to have no fear."

Maera nodded, her furrowed brows smoothed over now and something of a small smile.

Then he turned away at the long-awaited cries of new life.

A child. His child.

He had sworn he would have one from every womb that could bear him. 

Ceryse had failed him, gods curse her piety and frailty both. His first lady-wife, Ceryse, had given him two beautifully perfect girls.

Their two daughters—Aerianna and Daenaera—had lived, thank Tyraxes, witty girls they were, incredible they are now, from what Aerianna tells him in her letters. Every time he had looked upon them, he saw their mother, his mother, and the dragon, the exact opposites of his half-brother and his children's weakness that plagued that line of House Targaryen. 

Ceryse had tried to give him a son, and so she did. A sweet, quiet boy whom he named Visenon, after his mother. Maegor had heard his cries just as he had heard every one of his children's. He named his, as he did with every single one of his children. And he held the small, squirrelly babe to his naked chest and sang him old Valyrian lullabies to him as he passed on to the afterlife.

"My prince," a maid emerged from the room with something of a fat bundle of champagne-coloured and red velvet covers.

In less than two paces, Maegor took his child from her hands in haste, "It is a boy," the now weakened cries and whimpers of a, how Maegor could only describe as strained and worked through. Alys dragged their attentions away from the little, grumbling babe in his arms.

The maid swiftly turned and returned to her post.

The Magister shifted beside him, offering a tremulous smile. "My prince, my practitioners are the finest in Essos. They shall see the Lady Alys through, worry not. The gods will bless your boy with a life at his mother's breast, surely."

"The gods?" Maegor turned, his face catching the torchlight, cruel and beautiful. "The fucking gods have no part in this."

Inside, Alys began to cry again.

He ought to enter and make orders, do something, but Alys had begged him not to, as she did not want him to see her in this state, just as she did not when bringing Maera forth. And Tyanna had, with a bound and gagged boy at her side, told him it was best for all, that not a soul but those necessary enter to disturb her. 

Not the healers and doctors.

Maegor knew his wife's lover was something of an oddity just as their daughter was, and she did not do much to put down the rumours of her witchcraft.

"It burns," she gasped. "Gods, it burns."

"Good," Tyanna said softly. "Pain is life's price. Pay it well, and you shall be blessed." He could hear them through the oak door.

Her hands worked deftly, pulling soaked linen aside. The chamber reeked of copper and herbs. Alys's nails dug into Tyanna's wrist as another wave of agony tore through her very soul. "He will love me for this," she panted. "He will love me if it is a son."

"He already loves you," Tyanna said, brushing a damp curl from her face. Her voice was thick, almost tender. "As I do, as we will love this boy."

But Alys did not hear her. Her mind was drowning in pain. Her brain felt as though it were pressing against the confines of her skull, just as another contraction wrestled her. She felt so fucking tired and just wanted to sleep for a mere moment. 

But not a soul would let her. Fucking swine, the lot of them.

The weight of Maegor's affection was its own torment-an endless hunger she had chosen to feed, a flame that burned everything it touched. Once, she had dreamed of being a queen, her son on the Iron Throne, her name sung beside his by the bards of Westeros. Now she only dreamed of living long enough to hear her son's name one time. 

Her body convulsed again. The room swam in her vision. Tyanna's voice came as if through water, telling her something about one thing and another.

Outside, Maegor's pacing slowed, bouncing his boy in his arms. Even the infants seemed to sense it-Maera's restless questions ceased, and Ravenna's glassy eyes turned toward the door. Maegor strained to hear. Then, finally, all the sound on the other side of the wall fell into a dead silence. And the door opened.

Tyanna appeared behind the practitioner, blood on her lips and a strange light in her face. Over her shoulder, Maegor could see the boy from before-or more accurately, he saw his corpse. The babe's cries began to fill the corridor. His fists were clenched and swinging about, his skin still flushed with the heat of new life. 

Maera and Ravenna rushed past the two of them and into the room.

"He has your eyes," Tyanna murmured, but Maegor barely heard. The child's weight in his arms was heavier than any blade he had ever held. He could feel the pulse beneath the soft skin.

The two joined the rest of the family in Alys' labour rooms, where Maera was at her mother's side, and Ravenna was picking the remnants of the corpse laid across the floor. 

Maegor sat on the bed, near Alys' thighs, close enough to appease himself and the fussy baby but far enough that Alys could breathe in her own space. "Thank you," He whispered, looking at his tired wife.

"What will you name him?" Tyanna asked, smiling faintly.

Maegor looked down at the boy, at the small mouth that still howled its defiance at the world. "Vaelor," he said. "It is a good name. For the valour of his family, both mother and father." Alys blushed red, though whether she was abashed or simply overworked, Maegor could not properly tell.

The chamber door opened again, and with it came a gust of colder air-a presence like winter itself. Visenya Targaryen stepped into the hall, draped in black and red. Her face, austere and severe as ever, betrayed no emotion. But her eyes-those sirenic violet eyes-were heavy with urgency.

"Grandmother!" Ravenna and Maera cheered gleefully and ran to the Queen Mother without a sense of hesitation, their fascination with their baby brother quickly forgotten. Visenya, as rarely as she ever did, smiled and crouched down to greet her granddaughters, whom she called her "precious loves".

Maegor turned toward her, still holding the infant.

"Mother," Alys greeted with a soft bow of her head. "You come at an hour most blessed."

"Blessed?" Visenya's voice was as sharp as Valyrian steel. "Perhaps for us. But the realm is anything but." Maegor glanced at Tyanna, expecting her to have a look of confusion, only to be met with an expectant, almost satisfied, smile. "What's happened, Mother?" 

Maegor thought her tone fake in ignorance, but did not press it.

"Aenys is dead."

The words struck him like a hammer. His grip on the child tightened. "Dead?"

"Gone to the gods," Visenya said. "And with him, the last pretense of peace. His weakling heirs will not hold the throne. The realm will fall into chaos unless you claim it. I mean to restore our house to the greatest that myself, my husband and sister-wife brought to it."

Maegor looked down at his son, whose cries had softened to small, fierce breaths. "You mean..." Maegor muttered. It was not as if Maegor was any better than other second sons. Well, he was in every way that mattered. But he was a second son as people know them. He often envisioned his brother's death in the dead of night and the quietness of solace. He and his mother and he entertained the concept of his father's crown being placed upon his own head.

"This is much different from conversation, mother."

Visenya remained indifferent and stoic. As she tended to be when something was of the utmost importance.

"Then you know what must be done, my son."

He did. He could see it-the Iron Throne gleaming beneath candle fire. Aerianna sat at the foot of the throne, waiting for her turn. A child upon his knee. His line, the true dragon's line, ruling unbroken. He had burned the Ironborn to ash. He had slaughtered rebels and heretics alike. Now he would take what should always have been his. What needed to be his.

Visenya watched him, her gaze unreadable. "We will fly now," she said. "Westeros awaits."

Maegor's jaw tightened. His eyes, the deep, burning red of molten steel, met hers. He then handed the child to Tyanna, his hand lingering a moment on the babe's head. The touch was almost tender. Then he turned toward the door, toward destiny.

Tyanna looked down at the infant and smiled, kissing his head, and she waltzed back towards the bed.

He called his daughters to his arms, enveloping them tightly. "Be good for your mothers, my girls. In time, I will see you again. I love you very much."

Ravenna did not respond, only pulled away promptly from the hug, kissed her fingers and then pressed them to his cheek and shuffling away wordlessly. Meanwhile, Maera reciprocated Maegor's affection twice over and clung for a second longer.

Alys Harroway lay slumbering, pale as snow, her breath shallow, her body broken but alive. Maegor pressed a kiss to her lips, giving her his thanks once more. When Tyanna returned to her side and sat by the cleaned bed, the babe craddled in her arms as she sang to him.

Outside, Maegor strode into the night. The air of Pentos was warm, the sky bruised with the dying light of sunset. In the courtyard, Balerion waited, a mountain of pure black wonder, his eyes burning like coals. Maegor placed a hand upon his flank and felt the old fire stir within him. The smell of blood still stung his nostrils. The cries of his newborn son still echoed in his ears.

He did not look back.

When Balerion's wings rose, the torches below immediately died. The dragon's roar split the air.

sword divider (which will be used the entire maegor saga): @priestboy

What if King Maegor the Cruel had children? How would history change? Westeros already trembled beneath Maegor's reign of blood and fire, yet imagine his legacy multiplied. Sons and daughters plenty, heirs to his cruelty and ambition-each one a spark ready to ignite the realm anew. As the Iron Throne groans under the weight of Maegor's rule, his progeny bring fire and blood to every corner of the realm. Do these poison apples fall far from their rotten tree?

cross-posted on Ao3 & Wattpad

The Cruel Rule | the reign of King Maegor I Targaryen

prologue

long will live the king

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started: 04/26/26

last updated: 04/26/26

total works: 0

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“Their house was founded on the bodies of frail, snivelling babes. And yet, 250 years later, they remain as strong as their Valyrian steel.”