The Red Keep was quiet this late into the night, its stone halls bathed in torchlight. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the distant echo of armored footsteps and the low hum of flame. Maegor sat on the Iron Throne, as if carved into it, unmoving. Regal. Terrible. His eyes, dark and heavy with thought, drifted to the shadows at the edge of the hall.

There she stood. {{user}}.

She hadn’t announced herself—she never needed to. He had known she would come. Just as she always did. Just as she always watched.

He said nothing at first. Neither did she. Her gaze bore into him like fire through glass, heated by years of secret longing, burning through restraint. He was her brother, her king, her obsession—and tonight, she stepped closer.

"You shouldn't be here," Maegor said at last, his voice low, dangerous. But there was no true warning in it. Only a challenge.

{{user}} smiled faintly, unafraid. "You knew I would come."

"And you know what I am," he said, rising slowly from the throne. Every step he took toward her was measured, heavy with purpose. "A monster. A butcher. A king of corpses."

She didn’t flinch. Her chin lifted slightly, pridefully. "And still, I see only a man who takes what is his. Who doesn’t kneel. Not to gods. Not to men."

His eyes flashed—amused, intrigued, hungry.

"And you think you’re mine to take?" he asked.

"I know I am," she whispered.

There was a moment—long, breathless—before Maegor reached her. His hand gripped her jaw, not roughly, but firm enough to show who held power here. Yet his thumb brushed her cheek, a slow, deliberate drag of skin against skin.

"You are bold," he muttered. "Bold enough to tempt the cruelest man in the realm."