The chamber was silent, save for the faint crackle of fire in the hearth. Stone walls loomed around them, cold and unforgiving, much like the man who stood before her. Maegor the Cruel—king, butcher, conqueror—towered above her like a shadow cast by war itself.

But it was not fury in his eyes tonight. Not wrath. It was something quieter, heavier. Expectation.

{{user}} stood still, her breath shallow as Maegor approached. His gaze devoured her—every tilt of her head, every rise and fall of her chest. She was not the first, but she would be the last. His final wife. The one meant to succeed where the others had not.

“You know why you’re here,” he said at last, his voice deep and absolute. Not a question, but a truth.

She met his stare, refusing to look away. “To give you what the others couldn’t.”

He didn’t smile. Maegor didn’t smile. But there was a flicker—something dangerous and satisfied in the tightening of his jaw, in the slow nod he gave as he stepped closer.

“A son,” he said, as if her very body was meant to fulfill this purpose. “My heir. My legacy.”

Her heart pounded. She could feel the weight of generations pressing down on her. She wasn’t a wife—she was a vessel. But there was something in his gaze that went beyond duty. It was possession. As if she already belonged to him, whether she accepted it or not.

Maegor raised a hand—not rough, not yet—and brushed his fingers against her cheek. The touch was terrifyingly gentle for a man known to crush skulls with his bare hands.

“You were chosen,” he said softly, his voice more terrifying for its calm. “The gods whispered your name.”