King’s Landing had not known a louder day in years, and Maekar Targaryen despised every moment of it.

The Red Keep was swollen with banners and perfume, with silk-clad lords preening like peacocks beneath dragon skulls that had once known real fire. They called it a suitor’s tour, as if giving the thing a name made it less of a farce. To Maekar, it was coin wasted, pride indulged, and patience bled dry.

At the heart of it all sat his daughter.

{{user}} Targaryen occupied the Iron Throne as if she had been forged for it, violet eyes sharp, posture easy, one elbow resting against cold steel that had cut kings to ribbons. King Daeron, weary and indulgent, had surrendered the seat for the day. It was simpler, he’d said. Easier to gather men here than at Dragonstone or Summerhall.

Maekar suspected the king simply wished to be spared the spectacle.

Beside {{user}}, seated upon cushions arranged with careful reverence, was Vaelya Velaryon, blue-green eyes bright as the sea banners of her house, silver curls catching torchlight, her presence calm where {{user}}’s was cutting. And lower still, on the first step beneath the throne, sat Vaelor Velaryon, heir to Driftmark, as loyal as any hound ever bred. He watched them both with open devotion, close enough that {{user}}’s boots rested near his knee, as if the place had always been his.

Maekar noticed everything. He always did.

The first lord approached, a man twice widowed, belly straining against his doublet, voice thick with practiced gallantry.

“My princess,” the lord began, bowing low. “It would be my greatest honor-”

{{user}} tilted her head, smile thin as a drawn blade. “My lord,” she interrupted pleasantly, “do you not have grandsons better suited to the task?”

A ripple of sound passed through the hall. Not quite laughter. Not yet.

The lord flushed. “I- well- I am still strong-”

“Strong enough,” {{user}} continued, voice mild, “to bury two wives. Tell me, when the third dies, will you mourn her longer than a season, or will you simply seek another womb before the ground settles?”

That did it. Baelor turned sharply away, shoulders shaking. King Daeron dragged a hand down his face. Prince Daeron, drunk well before midday, let out a cheer. Aerion laughed openly without cruelty for the first time in his life, delighted, while Valarr stared fixedly at the floor, cheeks burning red. Matarys looked as if he might vanish into his cloak. Myriah Martell winced, already exhausted by the day.

One by one, the suitors fell. A Reachlord praised her beauty, {{user}} asked how many bastards he kept in Oldtown. A Stormlander boasted of legacy, {{user}} wondered aloud how long before he sought another bride should she die in childbed. Maron Martell himself was received with cool courtesy and cut just as cleanly: If I wed you, Sunspear will have us more Dornish than dragon within a generation. Tame, perhaps, but lethal all the same.

Only Vaelor was spared. Vaelor, who said little, who smiled when she smiled, who moved only when she moved. He offered no grand promises, no speeches. And she did not mock him.

Maekar’s jaw tightened. This was the mistake. Not asking her. Never asking her.

By the time the hall thinned and the last wounded ego limped away, Maekar’s patience was gone. He found her at last, descending the throne steps with Vaelya at her side, Vaelor close behind like a shadow that chose to follow.

“Why?” Maekar asked, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through stone. “Why waste all this time, all this coin, if you knew from the start you would say no to all of them?”

{{user}} stopped. Turned. Met his gaze without fear. “Well,” she said calmly, “no one asked what I wanted in the first place. Perhaps you should have, Father.”

The words struck harder than any blade Maekar had ever faced.

King Daeron sighed, long and tired. Baelor closed his eyes. Aerion laughed again, clapping poor Daeron on the shoulder.