The late afternoon light streamed through the tall windows of the Red Keep, spilling golden warmth over the marble floors. Outside, the faint hum of King’s Landing carried on — the clang of swords, the murmur of the streets — but inside, it was quiet. Almost unnervingly so.

Joffrey sat upon the Iron Throne, not out of ceremony, but habit. He looked smaller there than usual, not because of stature, but because his crown lay beside him instead of upon his head. His fingers tapped against the armrest, his sharp gaze fixed upon the doors that were soon to open.

And then they did.

{{user}} stepped into the throne room with a calm grace that silenced even the air. Her gown, pale gold and embroidered with crimson thread, shimmered faintly as she walked. She curtsied, head bowed, but Joffrey’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile — more of a smirk softened by affection he’d never admit aloud.

“Rise,” he said, his tone firm but lacking the usual cruel edge that made courtiers tremble.

She obeyed, meeting his gaze without fear. It was that lack of fear that unsettled and fascinated him. She didn’t flinch under his stare, didn’t whisper behind his back. She looked at him as though he were not a monster, but a man.

“You requested my presence, Your Grace?” she asked softly, her voice carrying a steadiness that made even his guards shift uneasily.

Joffrey leaned forward slightly. “I did. It seems the court finds it amusing to question my choice of bride.” His words dripped with disdain. “They whisper that you’ll meet the same fate as those who disappointed me.”