"Beast. Tyrant. Merciless. They whisper these names behind my back. But when I say, I love you, it is not out of desire, nor out of denial. It is not for my sake at all. I love you for what you are, for what you do, for how you fight. I have witness...
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The afternoon bells of the Great Sept tolled in a muffled rhythm across the capital, echoing through the towers of the Red Keep like an omen. In the King’s private solar, silence reigned, thick and expectant.
The golden light of the sun crept through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors across the stone floor.
Lady Charlotte Hightower sat gracefully on one of the cushioned chairs, a goblet of deep red wine resting in her hand. She wore a pale lilac gown that brought warmth to her icy beauty. She did not sip the wine. Not yet. Her eyes lingered on Maegor, who stood by the hearth, arms folded, his back half-turned to her.
He had summoned her.
That meant something.
And yet, when he finally spoke, the words were more formal than intimate.
“The Small Council is urging me to remarry.” His voice was calm, yet detached. “It seems the realm wants for a new queen.”
Charlotte’s heart wrenched like fabric torn at the seam, but she trained her lips into a soft, obliging smile.
“A good and kind queen will give comfort to your subjects,” she replied, voice gentle, measured. Always cautious. Always curated. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, though her knuckles had gone white.
She tilted her head, voice lilting with feigned casual curiosity.
“Does the Small Council have a particular lady in mind?”
For a moment, Maegor’s expression faltered, just barely. Then he answered with a flicker of discomfort.
“Lord Corlys Velaryon has offered the hand of his daughter. Lady Laena.”
A pause. It stung like a slap. Charlotte felt the air rush out of her lungs, though she smiled as if she had swallowed nothing more than a polite surprise.
“A very strong match, Your Grace,” she said, her voice betraying no hint of the storm brewing beneath. Her heart, however, sank to the bottom of her stomach like a stone hurled into the sea. Laena Velaryon? A girl barely of age. Outrageous. Useless.
Maegor seemed troubled himself. He shifted his stance, one hand brushing over the ornate hilt at his hip. “I must admit… I don’t know Laena well.”
“I’m sure she is good and kind,” Charlotte said sweetly, her voice a careful balm. “And that she will enjoy your company as I have, Your Grace.”
That final line hung in the air like a dagger hidden behind a smile.
A silence fell again, but this time Charlotte broke it.
“I brought you something.”
She reached to the side, lifting a polished wooden box off the nearby table with both hands and holding it toward him with care.
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