maegor I targaryen
The crash of thunder echoes across the keep. Lightning strikes somewhere in the Kingswood. Maegor startles awake. His hand catches a blade and slices open, blood spilling onto his sleeve and the Iron Throne.
“Are you alright, my king?”
Maegor looks up. Lightening illuminates the throne room, and, for a brief moment, he can see his queen walking towards him, before the darkness returns. “It’s this damn chair.” He says, clutching his wound closed.
“Let me.” He hears a rip of clothing, and suddenly Jeyne is there, wrapping his hand with tender efficiency. He tries to look up at her, but can see nothing but black. He can imagine her face though: her brow furrowed in worry and thought, her brown eyes darkened by the lack of light, her lips pursed and focused. She’s always been his favorite wife, the one he takes to bed the most, the one who disappoints him the most when, month after month, her womb refuses to bear him a son. Still, he cannot make himself kill her. He kills all the other ones, the ones who are of no use to him, the ones who disappoint him, or refuse him, or simply annoy him. But not Jeyne Westerling. He cannot make himself kill his queen.
“Come here,” he says, dragging her down onto his lap. She laughs and lifts up her skirts, twisting around so that she straddles him. “Shall we make a king upon a king’s throne?”
He can feel her smile against his lips as she pushes his coat back and rips his shirt down the middle, her hands roving over his bare chest until they come to rest over his heart.
In the pitch black, Maegor doesn’t see her blade until it’s already in his chest.
Her mouth is still pressed against his when she pulls the dagger out and stabs him once more. “You will never kill another woman again.” His queen whispers against his lips, her hand twisting the blade. “Your reign is done.”
Lightning strikes, and when she pulls back, he can see his blood on Jeyne’s lips, before everything turns dark.