The wedding feast stretched long and loud beneath the blackened beams of the hall, though the noise never quite reached the high table.

Maegor Targaryen sat rigid beside {{user}}, a crown of Valyrian steel heavy on his brow, his expression unreadable as smoke-stained stone. He did not drink much. He did not laugh at all. His presence alone pressed the air flat, as if the room itself feared drawing breath without permission.

To Maegor’s other side sat Tyanna of the Tower.

She wore pale silks that clung like a second skin, her dark hair unbound, her eyes sharp and gleaming with an intelligence that never slept. She smiled often—but never at anyone in particular. When her gaze slid toward {{user}}, it lingered a second too long, assessing, measuring, peeling layers away without ever touching.

It was not hatred in her stare.

It was curiosity. Which was worse.

The lords and ladies toasted. Cups were raised. Someone praised the strength of the crown, the blessing of the union, the promise of heirs. Maegor acknowledged it all with the barest incline of his head, one hand resting on the table, close enough to {{user}} to be a warning rather than a comfort.

“This marriage,” he said at last, voice low but carrying, “is not a celebration. It is a declaration.”

His eyes turned to {{user}} then—direct, unflinching.

“You sit beside me now. That makes you mine to defend… or to destroy. Do not force me to decide which.”

Tyanna’s soft laughter followed, delicate as a knife brushing bone.

“How fortunate,” she murmured, eyes never leaving {{user}}, “that we will all have so much time to learn one another.”

The feast continued.

But the hall felt smaller. And every guest knew—this was not the beginning of a love story.

It was the start of a reign.