TO LOVE A KING || Maegor II Targaryen [SLOW UPDATES]

066▪️ THE LADY IN THE LAKE

It had been one year and seven months since Queen Mellario of Dorne passed from the world. Grief no longer walked plainly through the halls of the Red Keep, yet it lingered in its corners, silent and brooding.

Life had gone on, but peace was an illusion. Terror did not scream, but it watched. And when it moved, it did so in King Maegor's shadow.

The realm continued as realms often do, festivals were held, marriages celebrated, crops sowed and reaped. But beneath it all was a stillness. A hush.

A lurking terror that no one dared name aloud. For the King's tyranny, though dressed in velvet, was sharp as razors beneath the folds.

The King ruled with a heavy hand. Merciful to the weak, yes, in his own twisted way. But when it came to judgment, he was a shadow of his namesake: brutal, unrelenting, a storm given human form. Like his ancestor, he bore no softness when it came to betrayal, to defiance, to insolence. His justice was fire and ash.

And yet... there was Charlotte.

Lady Charlotte was often seen at his side now. Graceful, poised, perpetually dressed in gowns of pearl and lavender, she had become a fixture in the royal court.

She had become a near-constant presence at court, her laughter echoing down the marble corridors. her perfume trailing behind her like a whisper. To the courtiers, it looked like a budding romance.

But Maegor... Maegor had begun to doubt.

She was beautiful. Soft-spoken. Always eager to please. She was clever. She was pretty. And she was always there. She played her part to perfection humble, charming, affectionate.

She brought warmth, yes, and ease. But not filling the void. But was she queenly? Could she wield the weight of a crown without breaking beneath it? Could she bear his legacy?

His small council, made of hard-eyed men and grumbling lords, were relentless in their urging.

"You need a wife," Lord Beesbury had said just the week before. "The realm needs stability."

But Maegor, who had buried a queen, did not forget how quickly love turned into ash. And something about Charlotte something in the perfection of her began to unsettle him. Her smile was too smooth. Her eyes, always too wide. She played to the gallery, not the throne.

Alicent Hightower on the other hand, stayed away, faded from his view

She never graced his presence. Not anymore.

She painted still, but no longer brought her work to him. That role now belonged to Charlotte, who would carry Alicent's pieces with smug satisfaction, as if claiming credit by proximity.