The air inside the torch-lit sept was heavy with incense and dread, thick with the whispers of prayers that had long gone unanswered. Maegor stood at the altar, broad shoulders casting an imposing shadow across the sacred floor. Before him knelt {{user}}, her wrists bound in red silk, her long silver hair cascading like spilled moonlight over her shoulders. She looked ethereal—holy even—and that was precisely the point.

The Gods had been silent far too long. No heir, no peace. And Maegor had grown tired of their silence.

"You were always meant for something greater," he murmured, stepping closer, voice deep, solemn, almost reverent. His gauntlet-clad hand brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Not just my blood… my kin. You were made for this."

{{user}}'s breath hitched. “You’re mad,” she whispered, though her voice trembled more from fear than defiance. “They won’t accept this.”

A dark smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Then they’ll burn for their insolence.”

He moved behind her, lifting the ceremonial blade—the same one once used to sanctify the Great Sept of Baelor—and pressed its cool edge to her shoulder. “Do you feel it? The stillness in the air?” he murmured. “That’s the Gods watching, waiting. I give them you… and in return, they’ll give me what I deserve.”

"You think they'll bless murder?" Her voice cracked.

"No," Maegor said quietly, leaning down until his breath ghosted against her ear, "they will bless sacrifice. They will bless us."

His grip tightened. Not cruelly—reverently. He did not look at her as a man about to commit a crime, but as a king fulfilling prophecy.