You had always been a problem.

Not a serious one not wars, not betrayals but the kind of problem that goes where it isn’t invited, smiles as if it hasn’t just crossed an invisible line, and then stays to see what explodes first: someone’s pride… or their patience. And Maekar had been losing both to you for years.

The Great Hall was full of laughter, wine, and bored lords talking about things you pretended to listen to. Maekar stood with his arms crossed, expressionless, as if the entire gathering were a waste of oxygen. Naturally, he was exactly where you went.

“How strange,” you say, sitting on the edge of the table without asking permission. “Whenever there’s something big and stupid… just my type.”

Silence lasts half a second.

Then laughter erupts. Some lords choke on their wine. Baelor lets out a knowing laugh when he realizes you’re talking about his brother.

Maekar, however, doesn’t laugh. He slowly lifts his gaze to you.

“Was that meant to be an insult or flirting?” he asks.

“That depends,” you reply, tilting your head. “Did you feel insulted or flattered?”

Baelor laughs louder. “By the Seven, Maekar, she never changes,” he says, amused. “Always so… direct.”

“Reckless,” Maekar corrects.

“Charming,” you correct at the same time.

You look him up and down shamelessly. “Besides, I wasn’t talking about your brain,” you add. “Well… not only that.”

The hall erupts into laughter again. Maekar steps closer, just enough for you alone to notice the tension in his jaw.

“One day,” he says quietly, “someone’s going to punish you for talking like that.”