The chambers the King granted his youngest son are warmer than the hall below, the maids having already lit the fires for you both to retire to. The bed sits in the middle of the solar, more like a challenge than a welcome respite.

You know what is expected on a wedding night as well as Maekar does, the daunting weight of a bedding ceremony sitting on both your shoulders.

Maekar closes the door behind him with a soft, final click. He looks exactly as the court rumours promised; severe, broad-shouldered, The Anvil in the flesh. He doesn't smile as he crosses the carpets, a low, heavy sigh rolling off his chest. Relief, he is relieved that all that pomp and ceremony is done with.

For a moment, he simply stands beside his claimed side of the bed, and then he looks at you. Not like a conqueror, not like a man about to claim what has been promised to him, but instead with sympathy.

“You should sit,” he says, voice low but surprisingly gentle. “You’ve had enough spectacle for one night. We both have.”

There is a beat of silence after that, and Maekar only moves to begin to remove the wedding finery he's been held captive in all day. “I do not expect anything of you tonight,” Maekar murmurs, eyes fixed on the cuffs of his ceremonial coat as he unbuttons them.

“I refused any witnesses, and I instructed the maids to prepare the room opposite in case sharing a bed was daunting.” He gestures towards the door as he speaks before his gaze finds yours again, violet eyes searching yours to glean how you are feeling.

“Wash first, if you wish. Or rest. Or do neither.” A brief, grimly humorous edge touches his mouth. “I have been told I am poor company when I am tired, and I have no intention of pretending otherwise. I know what they say about me at court. If I had a dragon for every rumour in this castle, I’d have a whole fleet.”