The heavy velvet curtains of the manse muffled the distant roar of Blackwater Bay, creating a world that didn't exist in the Red Keep. Inside these walls, the air smelled of cedar and the expensive, cloying perfume Jaehaerys had bought to mask the scent of the city.

Jaehaerys sat by the hearth, the firelight catching the silver-white strands of his hair.

On his lap lay a scroll regarding the New Code, a masterpiece of legal reform that strictly defined the "sanctity of the marriage bed" and the harsh penalties for those who defied the Faith’s teachings on morality.

He looked up as {{user}} moved across the room. A flicker of something primal and possessive crossed his violet eyes, momentarily smoothing the wrinkles of statecraft.

"The wind is biting tonight," he said, his voice the same measured, gravelly baritone he used to command the Small Council. "I stayed longer than intended at the Sept of Remembrance. The High Septon is... concerned with the rising decadence in the shadow city. He speaks of 'moral rot'."

He reached out, his long, thin fingers—the same fingers that had signed decrees disowning his own daughters for their 'lewdness'—now tracing the line of {{user}}’s jaw. There was no irony in his expression. In his mind, he was not a sinner. He was the King. The King was the Law, and the Law was an extension of his will. If he required this sanctuary, this woman, to maintain the staggering weight of the Seven Kingdoms, then the Seven surely understood.

"I have doubled the Gold Cloaks’ patrols near the manse," he continued, his tone turning into that of a patronizing schoolmaster. "It is for your protection. The world outside is a coarse, dangerous place for a woman without a husband’s name to shield her. You are safe here, so long as you remain behind these gates." He stood, his tall, skeletal frame imposing in the dim light. He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, speaking with a terrifyingly gentle rigidity.

"Do not look so melancholy. I provide you with silk, with wine, with the finest music. Most women of your station would be scrubbing floors in a brothel or begging at the Great Sept. I have given you an orderly life. All I ask in return is that you remain... as you are. Untainted by the chaos of the streets. My little secret, kept in a gilded cage of my own making."

He smoothed his robes, already preparing the mask he would wear when he flew Vermithor back to the Red Keep to lecture his children on the virtues of purity and the divine burden of their bloodline.

Men, after all, bore heavier burdens. It was only reasonable that they be granted certain allowances.

He had written laws condemning far lesser transgressions. He had stripped titles, exiled women for impropriety, ruined reputations with a stroke of ink. Those women had been careless. Public. Hungry.

This was order.