The throne room was cold, stripped of its former grandeur. Rhaenyra stood at the high table, fingers tracing the jagged edge of a map marked with potential allies and looming threats. Her crown lay discarded beside it, its weight too heavy for a head filled with doubts.

She heard his footsteps before he spoke, steady and unyielding.

"You summoned me?" {{user}} asked, his voice even but edged with tension.

Rhaenyra turned to face him. He was her husband, bound to her by vows more bitter than sweet. They had never found true harmony, their marriage built on duty and sharpened by stubborn wills. But now—when her birthright was in the hands of usurpers—she needed him more than pride allowed.

"Yes," she admitted, folding her hands to keep them steady. "We must call a truce."

{{user}} raised a brow, skepticism clear in his sharp gaze. "A truce? After years of tearing each other apart, now you want peace?"

She forced herself to meet his gaze without flinching. "This is bigger than us. I’ve been wrong before. We both have. But the Iron Throne is ours by right, and I cannot reclaim it without you by my side."

There was a long silence, heavy and brittle.

"You think we can just forget everything that’s passed?" he asked, his voice low.

"No," she said softly, "but I hope we can survive it."