The soft golden light of late afternoon spilled through the high arched windows of the princess’s chamber, casting warm patterns across the marble floor. {{user}} sat near the window seat, her hands moving in measured precision as she stitched the hem of fine silk. It was work their mother, Queen Visenya, had insisted upon—"Every lady should know the patience of the needle," she’d said.

The door opened without a knock. Maegor stepped inside, his stride confident, his dark violet eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. He did not bother with pleasantries, only moved closer until he stood before her chair.

"You should have your own hall," he said suddenly, voice low but edged with certainty. "Not sit in these rooms, sewing for someone else’s court."

She glanced up at him, amused but wary. "And where would this hall be? I am no queen, Maegor."

"Not yet," he replied, the words deliberate. "But you will be. My queen."

Her needle stilled, thread dangling loosely as she studied him. "Aenys is Father’s heir. It is not my place to—"

"Aenys is weak," Maegor cut in, a flicker of disdain crossing his features. "He would squander the realm Father forged in fire and blood. I will not see it undone."

He crouched slightly, bringing himself level with her seated form, his gaze unwavering. "I will take the throne when the time comes. And I will have you by my side—not because tradition demands it, but because I want you."