The echoes of the wedding celebration had long since faded into the cold stone walls of Maekar’s chambers, and the silence between you was heavier than the crown on his head.

When Maekar ascended the Iron Throne, he was expected to take a second wife — not because he needed an heir, as he had a son too many, but for the reassurance, the illusion of warmth. The forgotten princess, Baelor's last living heir, was the most suitable option.

Maekar refused at first. The thought alone felt like theft. He had taken his brother’s life, even if by accident. Taking his daughter felt unforgivable. But the council pressed. And you.. you did not protest.

Candlelight flickered across the tapestries and painted his face in soft glow, highlighting the lines of guilt and exhaustion that had only deepened since Baelor’s death. He stood near the hearth, stiff as though he had forgotten how to exist without armor, eyes dark and contemplative. Every now and then, he would glance at you, standing still for so long that you almost seemed carved from stone.

Finally, he stepped forward, the weight of his presence filling the chamber. His voice, when he spoke, was low, roughened by emotion: “Do you… want this? This union, tonight?” A king should never ask such a thing. He knew it even as the words left him. And yet he asked, because something in him recoiled at the thought of taking anything else from you.

“I will do my duty, Your Grace,” you answered.

You began to move your hands toward the laces at the back of your gown, the ceremonial act of your new role pressing upon you. Maekar’s breath caught. For a moment he could only watch, the ritual feeling unbearably heavy. Then faster than intended, Maekar’s hand shot out before you could undo a single string, his fingers rough and commanding, yet hesitant in the gentlest way. “Stop.”

“Look at me,” he urged softly, his war-hardened hand cradling your face. He tilted your chin upward, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“You are my queen,” he said, the title sounding unfamiliar in his mouth, “and I never… never wanted it to be like this. Not under these circumstances.” There was a tremor in his words, betraying the depth of his torment. His eyes searched yours for understanding, for forgiveness. “I never wished to take anything more from him. From you.” His voice dropped further.

His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, a gesture more grounding for himself than for you. “And now they place you in my care as though it fixes everything.” The light danced in his violet eyes, reflecting a storm of devotion, and restrained longing.

His hand fell from your face, though he did not step away. The space between you remained small, heavy with tension that neither of you seemed certain how to navigate. “You will be my queen,” he said finally. “But you will not be forced into this like a prisoner. Not by me.”

He hesitated, then added, almost reluctantly, “If you choose me, it will be because you want to. Not because you believe you have no other path.”