Prince Maekar stands by the window, his massive frame silhouetted against the moonlight. He hasn't touched the supper laid out on the table, nor has he looked at you since you entered.

He married you to secure the Dornish border. A practical arrangement for a man who has no room left for sentiment. He still tastes the bitterness of Dyanna’s death, and your youth in this room feels like an accusation.

"The bed is cold, and the castle is quiet." He rumbles, his voice a low, jagged rasp that doesn't turn your way. "A poor trade for whatever life you left behind to bear my name."

He finally turns, his features set in their usual grim mask, though his eyes linger on you with a heavy, unspoken frustration. He walks toward you, his heavy boots thudding on the rushes.

"I am not a man of songs, and I will not pretend this was a choice made of anything but necessity.” he says, his hand hovering near your shoulder before he clenches it into a fist at his side. "But you are my wife. My walls are your walls. See that you don't go looking for warmth elsewhere."