You had once tried.

Gods, you had tried.

To smile for him. To kneel beside his massive throne and braid your fear into silk. To offer him warmth, devotion, obedience. You had tried to be what the realm said a wife should be—dutiful, quiet, full of hopeful wombs and half-prayers. You prayed for a son every day, even as your own soul splintered beneath his weight.

But none of it mattered.

He had reminded you, more times than you could count, what you were: “A broodmare.” That was all. That was everything. Not a queen. Never an equal. Just flesh. Just a vessel.

That night—when he had pinned you with that scowling mouth and angry eyes, reminding you again of your place—something inside you cracked. Maybe it had always been cracked. Maybe it had simply shattered fully now.

Since then, you found sanctuary in prayer. In the cool marble halls of the Sept. In silence. In the illusion of being clean.

You had stopped going to his chambers. Stopped speaking sweetly. Stopped hoping.

And that is when he noticed.

He found you alone, wrapped in soft linen, kneeling at the foot of the statue of the Mother.

The candlelight flickered across your face, highlighting the distance in your eyes.

You didn’t see him enter—but you felt it. Like a storm crawling up your spine.

His voice curled around you like smoke, deep and low.

“Where has my wife been?” “How I’ve missed your kind hands.”

You flinched—barely. Your hands trembled slightly as you kept them pressed together. Your voice was low. Dutiful. Hollow.

“I have been praying, Your Grace.”

Your Grace.

Not husband. Not my king.

Maegor's eyes narrowed, and the quiet sound he made in his throat was something like a growl. You stepped to the side—to walk past him—but his large hand closed around your upper arm.

Firm. Immovable.

“You have not been visiting me,” he said, voice laced with something unreadable. “How are you to be my wife if you won’t see me?”

Your lips parted, but no answer came.

Because what could you say?

That your heart bled in his presence? That your dreams no longer knew peace? That every kiss felt like penance and every touch felt like shackles?

He leaned in closer, his breath warm at your ear.

“Or have the gods given you new vows I should know of?”

His grip tightened—possessive, angry, confused.

And you realized— The cruelty that made kings had no idea what to do with silence. No idea what to do when the thing he thought he owned began to vanish without leaving the room.