The hall was alive with music and laughter—Aenys' name day was a grand affair, all silk and song. Lords and ladies clapped along with minstrels, cups overflowing, when the heavy doors of the Red Keep slammed open with a thunderous crack.

Silence fell like a blade.

Maegor stood in the threshold, armor still dusted with blood, the black and red of House Targaryen gleaming beneath torchlight. No announcement, no invitation. Just him, and the weight of dread that followed.

{{user}} felt it in her chest before she even saw him—like fire licking at her spine. The air changed, thickened. She rose slowly from her seat at the high table, eyes locking with his.

He moved through the hall with the slow certainty of a man who feared no one. Lords bowed their heads. Some did not look at all.

He stopped at the base of the dais, gaze never leaving hers. "You look like fire made flesh," he said. The words weren’t sweet. They were possession dressed as praise.

"Aenys won’t like this," she whispered, heart racing.

Maegor smirked. “Aenys doesn’t matter.”

Before she could respond, he held out his hand. Not a request. A command.