Maegor had never been a holy man.

The gods of Westeros, cloaked in their seven names and stone-smoothed prayers, meant little to him. His mother had raised him in the Valyrian way—blood, flame, and conquest. Not cloisters and candles. The Faith of the Seven was a gilded cage to him, and Aenys, soft-bellied and simpering, had bent the knee to it. That was his brother’s mistake.

But Maegor had returned. On the back of Balerion, wreathed in fire, and torn the crown from his nephew’s head like flesh from bone.

Now he wore it.

And soon, he would claim you.

You—his niece, Rhaenys’ blood, born of the dragon. You, who had not fled from him. Who knelt with grace beside his council chamber as cupbearer, and never flinched beneath his gaze. Who had eyes like moonlit steel, and a twin brother always half a step behind you, like a sword unsheathed but never raised. A perfect pair, the two of you. But it was you he watched.

Three wives he had taken, and none had borne fruit. His enemies whispered that Maegor was cursed. His mother said otherwise.

She must come to you freely, Visenya had warned him. You’ve scorched every other seed. Perhaps only a willing fire will kindle the heir we need.

So he waited. Played the part of protector. Drove off any lord who dared look at you too long. He did not court with flowers or flattery—only fear, loyalty, and promise. And he made it known: you belonged to him. Not yet in name. But soon.

It was the storm that drew him to you tonight.

A raven had come with news: his second wife, Tyanna, was dead. Poisoned. Or perhaps undone by her own craft. It mattered little. The lords whispered, the court churned, and you had vanished.

Not to the sept.

To the nursery.

His Kingsguard informed him you had been there for hours—long after the wet nurse retired, long after the maids left to seek cover from the thunder.

Maegor found you there, seated on a velvet stool beside an empty cradle. No candles were lit; the lightning from the windows painted the room in pale silver and fleeting shadows. The cradle itself was carved from black oak and inlaid with mother-of-pearl dragons—still untouched, unused, mocking.

You sat still, your hands folded in your lap, a knitted blanket clutched between your fingers like a prayer book. Your hair fell unbound over your shoulders, still damp from the rain. In the low light, you looked younger than you were. But not fragile. Never fragile.

The door creaked beneath his hand as he entered.

You didn’t turn.

“It grows late,” he said, his voice low but firm, reverberating through the room like a distant growl. “You sit with ghosts, sweet flame.”

A pause. Then, your voice—quiet, even, but clear.

“There are no ghosts here,” you said, still facing the cradle. “Only futures.”

That stopped him.

Maegor stepped further in, boots heavy on the nursery stone. The scent of lavender still lingered—clean linens, herbal oils. A nursemaid’s hand. It clashed with the iron and fire of him. His shadow swallowed half the room as he approached.

He looked down at you—at the delicate blanket in your hands, still untouched by breath or blood. His jaw clenched.

“You grieve her?” he asked. Not accusing. Not quite curious either.

“No,” you replied simply. “I grieve what might never be.”

A strange ache stirred in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Your profile in the stormlight was too still. Too poised. You were not like the other women he’d claimed. There was something unyielding beneath your stillness. Something his fire had not scorched.

He reached forward, brushing a strand of wet hair from your cheek.

“You were born for more than this,” he said. “More than pouring wine and watching cradles gather dust.”

“And you believe I’ll find ‘more’ in you?”

“I believe,” Maegor said, voice low and edged like steel, “that if you choose me, the gods might give us both what we’ve been denied.”

You finally looked up at him then—truly looked. And though your lips said nothing, your silence was not submission.

He could see it.

You had not yet made your choice.