Maegor sat in his chambers, at the table with a goblet of wine, his face buried in the plans and designs of the Red Keep, something his father had begun in life and now it was his turn to finish. The candle flames flickered softly, casting long shadows over the scattered parchments.

He was distracted, his hair disheveled, a white linen shirt loose over his broad body. It was strange to see him like this—so calm, so focused. Maegor was rarely still, but here, lost in calculations and drawings, he seemed momentarily carved out of time.

You entered without announcing your presence, dressed in a black and red night robe, your bare feet sliding across the cold stone floor. Your gaze fell on your brother-husband, and for an instant, something in his posture, the way he held his quill, the hard gleam of his eyes in the dim light, brought back an old memory. A slip of your father. It was a fleeting reflection, an echo of your childhood that you carried with you. For a moment, Maegor was not just the man who ruled with an iron fist, but the shadow of the one who came before him.

You approached him silently, letting the memory settle before you dismissed it. Your hand rested gently on his shoulder, feeling the tension beneath the light linen. His muscles were rigid, but there was no jolt—he knew it was you. Maegor let out a low sigh, still focused on the parchment before him. His fingers traced the lines of the plans as if they were a battlefield, each tower, each wall a strategic piece to be placed on the board.

“It’s late,” you said, your voice low but firm. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he swirled the goblet in his other hand, watching the wine move like blood in the candlelight.

“You look like him.” Your voice was quieter than you expected, barely above a whisper. Finally, he looked up at you, and for a moment, the reflection of your father was still there—in his hard features, in the way he assessed you, as if trying to decipher something that perhaps even he didn't fully understand.