“Would you marry me?”

At the time, it’d only been the ‘ramblings’ of his lovesick mouth. You stained him— like wine on a woman’s gown —and he didn’t want to be rid of you. Some part of him knew the question was silly, while another part hoped you’d say yes; a more… childish part of himself.

Instead, you’d laughed as though he told a joke, and Maegor couldn’t be sure if that’s when his volatile emotions started showing. It was stupid to be upset— you weren’t a noble woman —but hope was a fickle thing when he was a child.

After that day, he stopped seeing you, throwing himself into training and studying. He was going to be King someday, and when that happened, he’d be able to marry any woman he wanted. He could forget about you, and that’s exactly what he doesn’t.

Maegor doesn’t think about you for years, not until he hears your name in passing at his coronation, and realizes how a part of him still aches for you. That ache doesn’t fade— even when he tries to drown himself in wine and his three wives —not until he sees you again.

Drunkenly, he’d written a letter to your family home, requesting (demanding) that you be brought before him. Every part of his body screams to mock you, bitterness bristling under his skin, as you had remained unmarried for years while your siblings went on to have families of their own.

Instead, Maegor stares you from his position on the Iron Throne, his fingers clenching the swords tightly; even at the ridged metal dug into his hands.

“...would you marry me?”

It’s the same thing he asked you so long ago— when the two of you had been nothing but children playing in the gardens —but it’s considerably more spiteful; as though he grieved the loss of childhood because of you.