Pretty when you cry. | Maegor Targaryen

024. - "Haven't I given enough?"

TW: Choking, mention of domestic violence.

Viewer discretion advised.

The day of Prince Aegons funeral arrived, and the Keep buzzed with a somber aura that hung over the castle like a heavy veil. The courtiers, attendants, and servants all dressed in dark colors, their expressions solemn as they prepared to pay their respects to the young prince.

Maegor, who had been somewhat subdued in the days following his heated encounter with Jaehaera, prepared himself for the ceremony. He donned a regal, dark ensemble, his expression a mask of stoic control.

Jaehaera stood pretty much alone among the mourners, not joining any particular bubble. The recent nights events weighed heavily on her. Her outfit was black and not really remarkable, however she wore gloves, possibly to hide the bruises on her wrists and hands.

Maegor eventually approached Jaehaera, taking in her attire and the choice to wear gloves, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. His eyes narrowed slightly, his mind once again drawn back to the memory of her defiance the previous night. "You choose to conceal your hands, my dear wife," he remarked, his voice low and laced with a hint of challenge. "Is there a reason for this... modest choice in wardrobe?

"No, it's just a fashion choice." Jaehaera lied right through her teeth. She didn't want anyone to know about this.

Maegor's gaze scrutinized Jaehaera in response, his instincts telling him there was more to her choice than mere fashion. "A fashion choice, you say." He raised an eyebrow, his voice sharp and tinged with suspicion. "How peculiar, considering your affinity for more extravagant attire. Pray tell, why this sudden change?"

"Erm.." Jaehaera struggled. "Convenience.." She lied again.

The king's eyes narrowed at his queens evasiveness. He took a step closer to her, his height and presence imposing. "Convenience, you say," he repeated, his voice a low, ominous purr. "And why is it suddenly more convenient for you to wear gloves, my dear wife, than to show the world the beauty of your hands?"

Jaehaera quickly grew angry at this silly remark. "You know exactly why."

Maegor's eyes darkened at her tone, his jaw clenching. "Ah, so it is not convenience but the bruises upon your wrists that you seek to conceal," he said, his voice filled with a simmering fury. "The marks left by my own hands upon your flesh. Is that what you wish to hide?"

"Yes. No one needs to know about your hiccup." She explained gently.

Maegor's tone became low and threatening. "A 'hiccup'? Is that what you call it? My own hand... placed upon my wife's wrists in a moment of anger. A mark that reveals a... weakness that should not exist." His gaze fixed upon her wrists, his expression unreadable. "No," he muttered, his voice a rough whisper. "No one shall know of this. It is... a humiliation... shameful... and yet..."

"I don't think you would lay a hand on me again, so yes, a hiccup." She said, focusing her gaze on the funeral pyre.

Maegor's eyes softened slightly as he studied her expression, a flicker of remorse crossing his face. He reached out gently, taking her gloved hand in his own. "No, I... should not have laid a hand on you in the first place," he admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of regret. "It was a moment of weakness... a mistake. I have never treated you thus before, and I promise you, it shall not happen again."

"You're lucky I believe you." Jaehaera smiled ever so slightly.

Maegor's expression softened further at her smile, a warmth spreading through him that he had not expected. He gently squeezed her hand, his rough thumb brushing over her fingers tenderly. "Your forgiveness is a gift, my dear wife," he murmured, his voice rough yet filled with a newfound sense of humility.