For as long as Maegor could remember, he was told you, his half-sister, would be his wife one day. The sweet, timid flower that to everyone’s surprise was the Conqueror's daughter. And you were to be his.

In his youth, he attributed your shy nature around him to just that, shyness. He and Aenys would be loud and wild so he could understand why the excitement of two young boys startled you.

But as you both grew and matured, he found that you still shied away from him. Maegor soon realized you were seemingly avoiding him, regardless of his attempts at courting you.

However, Maegor's ideas of courting were a lot to say the least. Fancy jewels and large gifts, flashy shawls or head dresses he thought would accent your features. But at everything you simply smiled across pink tinted cheeks and thanked him quietly, but yet, nothing in return.

With your nuptials less than a moons turn away, Maegor grew restless. He was beginning to get angry with himself for not having made any progress in your affections. Or so he thought at least.

It was a festive night, some celebration for a new courtier of some sort, Maegor could care less. He stood beside his father, watching you and Aenys twirl the dance floor in a way that made him grit his teeth. You should have been dancing with him. He did not blame Aenys, but his brother was not helping matters any.

Aegon spoke up after some time, "Son, have you attempted something personal for her?"

"Personal?" Maegor quipped back.

"A letter, or something of your own, something not suggested by those fools you spend your time with?" Aegon all but scolded, "You frighten her with the exuberance."

And then Maegor's outlook changed. Instead of going to find you expensive jewels fresh from Lannisport, he ventured towards the gardens where he often found you, holding a simple flower as he moved to your seated figure under the Weirwood reading a tome.

"Sweet sister," Maegor's voice was softer than normal, his hand held behind his back as he waited for you to face him.