Robert had never asked for her. That much was true.

He remembered her the day they wed—dressed in black and red, chin high, eyes full of something between sorrow and defiance. The last daughter of the ᴍᴀᴅ ᴋɪɴɢ, given to the man who had helped burn her world down. A ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ bride for a ʙᴀʀᴀᴛʜᴇᴏɴ king. Cold justice, some had said. Ironic mercy, said others.

Robert had only thought of ʟʏᴀɴɴᴀ.

He hadn’t looked at {{user}}—not really. He’d heard her voice through the haze of wine and grief, gentle and distant as rain. She’d spoken to him once in those early days, when they were still learning how to stand beside each other in public.

“I don’t want war between us,” she had said.

And he had laughed, bitter. “War’s the only thing I know.”

She hadn’t pressed. That was the strange thing—she never pushed. She had once, early on. Quiet words in their chambers. A hand on his arm. Hope in her voice, thin but real.

“I can be good to you,” she’d said. “If only you’d only let me.”

But he hadn’t. He’d turned his face away, heart clutched around a grave that never let go.

So she stopped asking.

She smiled at court, spoke when she must, and faded into the background of his reign. She raised their children with the patience of a woman twice her years. She bore his distance without question, his cruelty without tears. And somewhere along the way, she stopped waiting for him.

That should have been a victory, he thought. Should’ve made it easier.

But it didn’t.

He didn’t notice the change right away. It came in pieces, in silences. In the way his chambers felt empty when she wasn’t there. In how their son walked like her—proud and careful, with eyes that weighed every word. In the way she laughed, softly, when she thought no one heard. It didn’t come crashing down like a battle charge. It crept in, quiet as dawn.

One morning, he saw her in the gardens with their daughter, a white rose tucked behind her ear, the sunlight warming the pale silver of her hair—and he felt something twist in his chest.

She’s beautiful, he thought, like it was a secret.

He started watching her more after that. Not just looking—watching. How she moved through court, how she comforted the frightened maid who spilled wine, how she shielded their children from his temper without ever raising her voice. He realised he knew nothing of her, though she had lived at his side for years.

She had given him everything. Her name. Her body. Her strength. Her silence.

And he had given her nothing but his grief.

That night, he said her name—just her name—across their shared bed.

She turned, surprised.

“I should’ve loved you sooner,” he said, thickly.

She blinked once. “I stopped waiting for that.”

“I know.” He paused. “But I haven’t.”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t turn away, either.

And Robert, like he always did, wished for one more war—not against dragons or rebels, but against time. So he might have the chance to love her now, truly, before it was too late.