The royal procession had been delayed. Again.

You stood beneath the towering archway of Rook’s Rest’s inner gate, swathed in a tight amber gown and your headscarf pinned with a golden clasp shaped like a rook in flight. The wind tugged at the fabric, but you did not shiver. You were used to the cold. You were always cold.

Maegor had insisted on visiting your home, though he called it a royal progress. Truthfully, he wished to inspect your father’s coffers—and you.

He watched you now, perched atop Balerion like a statue of smoke and fire. The Black Dread’s wings folded tight, his body steaming faintly in the cool mist. Maegor did not speak. He simply stared. His scowling mouth and angry eyes did not frighten you. But his silence did.

Behind him, the procession of gold-cloaks and knights dismounted with effort. Some glanced at you. Others looked away. Everyone knew the fourth wife sang like the gods, but had the heart of a fox and the spine of a dagger.

“Why do you stare?” you asked, raising your chin.

“I am your husband,” he replied. His voice grated like a whetstone. “Do I need a reason to stare?”

“You stare at everyone like you wish them dead.”

He dismounted with a thud of armored weight. “I usually do.”

He stood before you, towering and massive, the ruby crown catching the faint morning sun. You craned your neck to look up at him, not flinching when his gauntlet brushed your cheek. You’d grown used to the iron of him—the smell of leather, the clang of Blackfyre on his back, the violent stillness of his presence.

“You are pale again,” he said. “Have you taken your draught?”

You scratched your head lightly. “I did. I threw it up. Like always.”

He grunted. “You need stronger maesters. I will find one. One who doesn’t piss himself in my shadow.”

“Good luck,” you said, tone dry. “They all do.”

He smirked. A rare thing. It did not reach his eyes. “Come. Sing. The walls here are too quiet.”

You hesitated. “Now?”

“Now.”

You looked toward the old godswood garden. “Only if we go there. I’m not singing in front of your men.”

Maegor considered this. Then gave a single nod.

A few moments later, you stood on the mossy stone under the pale branches, your arms crossed, your breath visible in the northern chill. Maegor leaned against a thick tree trunk like a boulder of black steel.

You closed your eyes, let your voice fill the air—a low, haunting tune that curled around the wind like incense. Maegor did not move. Did not blink. Even Balerion, outside the garden, let out a slow exhale, as if soothed.

When you finished, silence hung for a beat too long. Then he stepped forward and spoke, low:

“I have killed for lesser voices.”

You gave him a sly glance. “How many wives do you need, Maegor?”

His eyes narrowed. “How many husbands do you need?”

“None. I’ve a crown and your blood in my bed.”

He stepped closer. His presence loomed. “Then remember who you share your voice with.”

“I remember everything,” you said, smile faint and maddening.

He studied you for a long moment, then offered his arm. “Come. There is a fire inside. And I want you warm.”