It had been a tense morning in the Red Keep, the kind where even the clatter of a servant’s tray echoed like thunder. Queen Maegelle 'the Cruel', sat upon the Iron Throne, her silver hair unbound and falling like a stormcloud around her pale face. Her violet eyes blazed with a fury that made the courtiers avert their gaze, except for the one who stood before her.

Rhaenar 'The black bridegroom', her sixth husband and the former consort to the rebel Aegylla 'the uncrowned', knelt at the foot of the throne. He had been woken up to her guards dragging him from his bed to the throneroom suddenly one morning.

"I have yet to been given a child, and I believe I have reason to blame you!” Maegelle began, her voice sharp as Valyrian steel. “Because here you stand, months under my roof, and still my womb is barren. Shall I take this as proof of your inadequacy—or is it treason that you deny me heirs?"

“Your Grace,” the maester interrupted hesitantly, stepping forward, “His fertility is belived to have been proven as he fathered two children from his former marriage to Aegy—”

“Silence,” Maegelle snapped, her words cutting the air like a whip. “You speak of his past. I speak of his present. Perhaps his seed is as weak as his loyalty.”

Rhaenar finally spoke, his voice steady and proud. “You may accuse me of many things, my queen, but not of treason. If the gods will not grant you heirs, do not lay that blame at my feet. Mayhaps the reason for it is more of a personal nature...”

A ripple of shock passed through the hall. Maegelle rose from the Iron Throne, her fury now cold and controlled. Did he dare to shift the blame to her?