The carriage rocked over the uneven road, its wooden frame groaning under the strain. Inside, the air was thick with silence—heavy, tense, suffocating.

I sat across from her, my posture slouched, my gaze fixed on the floor. There was no triumph in my expression, no fire in my eyes. I didn’t want this. I never had. I had tried to run, desperate to escape this fate, hoping that Aemond would take my place, that destiny would pass me by. But it hadn’t.

Aemond had dragged me back, and now I was here, in this cursed carriage, being taken to my coronation like a man marching to the gallows.

Beside me sat my mother, her back straight, her jaw clenched, her expression unreadable. She had done everything in her power to put me on the throne, whether I wanted it or not.

And then there was her.

Six months of marriage, and we had never spoken. Not truly. We were neither husband and wife nor allies, not even enemies. We were strangers bound by duty and politics. I avoided her, resented her, sought comfort in brothels, and she made no effort to stop me.

And yet, when I finally spoke, my words made her freeze.

— “Do you love me?”

I didn’t look at her. My eyes were on my mother, filled with exhaustion, pain, and something almost childlike—a desperate plea. But then my mother tensed.

— “Do not ask me that again.”

Her hand struck my face, the slap ringing through the carriage. A thin line of blood appeared on my cheek where her ring had cut my skin.

And then, without thinking, I felt a shift.

Before I knew it, I heard the sharp sound of a slap. It wasn’t my mother’s hand this time.

I turned, and there she was—her eyes wide with disbelief, the shock on her face mirrored in mine. She had struck my mother.

— “Do not lay a hand on the King. On my husband.”

Her voice was cold, firm, unwavering.

I looked at her then, stunned, the confusion in my mind slowly clearing. For the first time in six months, I truly saw her.

Her gaze wasn’t empty. Now, she was looking at me as if seeing me for the first time.