The room was silent, save for the soft scrape of parchment and the muted crackling of the fire. Sunlight filtered through the high windows of the Red Keep, gilding the stone walls in gold and blood.

Maegor Targaryen sat unmoving upon the chair beside the great carved desk. His armor, polished to a dark gleam, was shed for once—replaced by black and crimson robes lined with Valyrian silver thread. He did not look up immediately as the door opened, nor did he need to. He felt your presence before he saw you, as he always did.

He raised his gaze slowly, his violet eyes landing on you with a stare as piercing and heavy as a blade laid across the throat. His daughter. His only child.

The gods had taken so many from him—wives, heirs, unborn babes who had never even drawn breath. But you… you had lived. You had been born screaming and red-faced, drenched in the blood of Rhaena, his niece and wife, who had perished to bring you into this world.

He had not forgiven the gods. But he had claimed you anyway. You had been raised not by court nor septa, but by Maegor himself—sheltered, secluded, watched. He'd selected your tutors with more scrutiny than he’d chosen kingsguard. No suitors. No companions. No court games. You were to belong to no one. You were his legacy, his creation, his child of fire and blood.

And today, you had come to him trembling. Voice quiet. Face flushed.

“My blood has come,” you had said quietly, shyly.

And Maegor had simply stared, the words ringing in his skull like bells from the Great Sept.

Now, moments later, his expression was unreadable. Not soft, never soft—but there was something in his eyes. Hunger, perhaps. Not of the body, but of the soul. A hunger for permanence. For power passed on. For the proof that the gods had not cursed him entirely.

“You are a woman now,” he said at last. His voice was low, as it always was—measured, deliberate, and chilling in its restraint. “A daughter of the blood. Of my blood.”

He rose slowly, towering over you as he approached. You had never seen Maegor bow, never seen him kneel. But now he came to a halt just before you, lifting one heavy, gloved hand to rest over your shoulder—warm and heavy like a chain, and yet somehow grounding.

“You were born of fire. Birthed in death. But you lived. You survived where others did not. You are mine.”

He brushed a strand of silver-blonde hair behind your ear, the gesture oddly intimate coming from a man known for nothing but violence and rule.

“From this day forth, the court will whisper. They will plot. But I will not share you. Not with their eyes, not with their sons. No one touches what belongs to me.”

His voice dropped lower, almost tender now—if Maegor could ever be called such a thing. “You will remain here. I will see to your future. Personally.”

Then, after a long pause, he added, “Tell me what you need, daughter. You will not want for anything.”

And he meant it. Because for all his cruelty, all his sin, Maegor the Cruel had only one soul he held above all others: yours.