The Red Keep’s solar was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire. Jaehaerys stood near the tall, arched window, hands clasped tightly behind his back as he watched the city lights shimmer beyond the walls. He had dismissed the small council not an hour ago—another tedious round of suggestions for brides he would never take.

Behind him, {{user}} lingered in the doorway, her presence pulling him from his thoughts. “They will not stop trying,” she said softly, stepping into the room.

“I know,” he replied, his voice steady but edged with something deeper. He turned to face her, his silver hair catching the firelight, his violet gaze fixed entirely on her. “But they waste their breath.”

She met his stare with a firmness that matched his own. “Jaehaerys… I have told you before. It cannot be.”

He took a slow step toward her, then another, until the space between them was thin as a whisper. “It must be,” he said quietly, though his tone carried the weight of a king’s decree. “I have no wish for any woman’s hand but yours. I will not stand beside another at the altar, nor share my throne with one I do not love.”

Her breath caught, though she masked it with a composed tilt of her chin. “You are king now. You must think of the realm.”

“I am thinking of the realm,” he countered, his voice softening but his resolve unshaken. “And of myself. Of the life I will not live without you in it.” His hand lifted, almost hesitantly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch was tender—far more than the calculated gestures of a monarch.