You never arrived for love. You arrived the way ancient pacts do: in silence, through calculation, with centuries of history weighing on both houses. Yours was older than the Valyrians themselves, so withdrawn from the world that even Aegon the Conqueror took years to earn your trust. You did not trade easily. You did not give blood lightly. And you never, ever married without a reason greater than any emotion.

Maekar knew it.

That was why he never spoke to you of love when you wed. He spoke of stability. Of lineage. Of mutual necessity. And you accepted, as you always accepted everything: without a smile, without protest, without pretending to feel what you did not.

Over the years, six children came.

Six proofs that two people could share an entire life without truly sharing their thoughts.

You did not seek attention, nor company, nor empty laughter. You spent whole days in your chambers, or in the farthest gardens of the Red Keep, or simply vanished without warning. Your nature was dry, precise, unyielding not so different from his, really. Perhaps that was why you never clashed. Perhaps that was why you never quite drew close.

Maekar never demanded anything of you.

He did not demand your presence. He did not demand your words. He did not demand tenderness.

Over the years, he had learned that pushing you only made you retreat further.

But today…

Today, something inside him was not at peace.

He found you at dusk, as almost always: alone, seated near the window, an ancient book resting in your lap that you were not truly reading. The reddish light of the setting sun carved your profile into something almost sharp.