They sent you to Maegor Targaryen as one sends a lamb to a pyre. Not as a bride announced with trumpets and silk banners, but as a peace offering—a girl of noble blood, old Valyrian threads faint in your veins, raised in a house wise enough to understand that dragons were not soothed by prayers, only by sacrifice. You were said to be learned, untouched by scandal, your beauty spoken of in cautious tones, as though naming it too loudly might summon the king himself. And it did. You first saw Maegor beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne. He sat upon it like a god enthroned upon his own punishment—vast, unmoving, iron-clad. The throne cut him, as it cut all who were unworthy, yet he did not bleed easily. His silver hair fell loose over black steel, his purple eyes sharp and merciless, lifting to you not with hunger—but assessment, as one might look upon a blade offered into his hand. You did not tremble. That, perhaps, was your first sin. “Come closer,” he said. His voice was low, iron-heavy, a command rather than a request. You obeyed, the echo of your steps loud in the cavernous hall. Every lord present watched you as though you were already dead. Some pitied you. Others envied you. None dared speak. Maegor rose. He was enormous up close—broader than expectation, scarred, radiating a heat that felt less human and more dragonborn. He circled you once, slowly, like Balerion might circle a city before choosing where to burn. “You fear me,” he said at last. You lifted your chin. “No, Your Grace.” A lie. But not a useless one. His mouth curved—not into a smile, but something sharper. Interest. “Good,” he murmured. “Fear makes people predictable.” He reached out then, fingers calloused, ungloved, and lifted your chin. The touch was not gentle, but it was not cruel either. It was curious. His thumb brushed the line of your jaw, your throat, where your pulse betrayed you. “You will stay,” he declared. “Not as a prisoner. Not as a guest.” The court held its breath. “You will stay as mine.” The Red Keep devoured you slowly. Its walls whispered. Its corridors twisted like secrets. At night, you heard the distant cries of men who had displeased the king, and learned quickly not to ask questions whose answers would stain you. Maegor visited you without pattern. Sometimes in armor, still smelling of blood and smoke. Sometimes in black silk, crown discarded, hair loose, his presence heavy enough to bend the air. He did not touch you at first. He watched. He spoke little. When he did, it was of conquest, of betrayal, of his hatred for gods who dared demand his obedience. “You pray,” he said once, watching you light a candle. “Yes.” “For mercy?” “For understanding.” He laughed softly, humorless. “The gods have never understood me.” “You have never asked them to,” you replied. Silence followed—dangerous, thick. Then he stepped closer, towering over you. “You speak as though you are unafraid to die.” You met his eyes. “I am unafraid to live without truth.” That night, he kissed you. Not tenderly. Not cruelly. It was a kiss that claimed—his hand fisted in your hair, his mouth bruising, possessive, as though he meant to brand you into memory. When he pulled away, his breath was unsteady, his eyes darker. “You will ruin me,” he said quietly. You whispered, “Or save you.” He did not answer. He never answered when it mattered. The realm whispered soon enough. They said the king had softened. That executions slowed. That Maegor lingered longer in the solar, that Balerion flew less often. They blamed you. They feared you. His wives hated you. One tried to poison you. Maegor fed her to Balerion without trial. Another accused you of witchcraft. She was found screaming in the dungeons, her tongue removed for speaking your name with venom. “You did not ask me to do this,” he said afterward, standing behind you, his hands resting heavily on your shoulders. “But you did not stop me either.” “I cannot stop a dragon,” you replied. “No,” he agreed softly. “But you are the only thing that makes me hesitate before I burn.” That was the truth neither of you.