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DUTY WAS a wretched thing, Maelys Targaryen had gathered in all her years on this earth. It was a serpent that slowly weaved its way around her neck—suffocating her, slowly but surely. And now, with the arrival of Lord Cregan Stark from the North, that serpent tightened, coiling around her like a promise of cold iron.
She stood in her private solar, overlooking the Red Keep's gardens, her violet eyes distant as they traced the familiar landscape. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a pale golden hue over the castle. Yet, despite the warmth of the day, Maelys felt a chill creeping through her, as though the winds of Winterfell had already found her, even here in the heart of King's Landing.
Lord Cregan Stark had arrived that morning from Winterfell to meet his bride for the first time. The news had spread through the Red Keep like wildfire, whispers trailing behind him like a cloak. The heir to the North, come to wed the blood of the dragon. An alliance forged in duty, not in love. And though Maelys had prepared herself for this moment, knowing it was inevitable, she could not shake the suffocating weight of it all.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Her handmaiden, Laina, stepped into the room, her face pale with nervous excitement. "Princess, Lord Stark has arrived in the Great Hall. The King has summoned you."
Maelys nodded, though the tension in her chest remained. She straightened her posture, smoothing down the soft fabric of her gown—a pale silver, with intricate red embroidery of dragons curling around her sleeves. It was regal, a reminder of who she was, but it felt heavy today, as though her very identity had become a burden.
The duty of a princess. The duty of a Targaryen.
She made her way through the corridors of the Red Keep, her steps light but measured. Servants and nobles alike bowed their heads as she passed, offering murmurs of greetings. But Maelys barely heard them. Her mind was occupied with thoughts of the man she was about to meet, the man she would soon wed.
When she entered the Great Hall, the sight that greeted her was as grand as she expected. King Viserys sat upon his throne, his face alight with pride as he conversed with Lord Stark, a towering figure draped in the furs of the North. His hair was dark, his features sharp and serious. Everything about him seemed cold, from his eyes to the way he stood, his presence commanding but distant, as if the warmth of the South would never touch him.
Maelys approached the throne with the practiced grace of a princess, her heart steady but her mind racing. She kept her chin high, her expression calm. She had to be. She was a Targaryen, after all, and weakness was not a luxury she could afford.
When Cregan Stark turned his gaze upon her, their eyes met for the first time. Time seemed to still for a brief, fleeting moment. His grey eyes, so stark and cold, locked with hers—violet and bright, the fire of her lineage burning behind them. There was no warmth in his gaze, no flicker of affection, but neither was there hostility. He studied her with the same intensity he might reserve for the wilds of his homeland—silent, observing, and unreadable.
"Lord Stark," Maelys greeted, her voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside. She gave a small nod of acknowledgment, her eyes flickering to her father, who watched them both with keen interest.
"Princess Maelys," Cregan replied, his deep voice a rumble that seemed to echo through the hall. He bowed slightly, a gesture of respect, but there was no hint of warmth in his tone, no charm or flattery. His words were as cold as the lands he hailed from.
King Viserys smiled, though there was a tension beneath it, the unspoken weight of expectations hanging over them. "My daughter, you will find, has the blood of the dragon running through her veins. She will be a fine match for you, Lord Stark."
Maelys kept her gaze fixed on Cregan, searching for something—anything—that would give her a glimpse into the man she would soon call husband. But there was only the cold indifference of duty reflected back at her.
"We are both bound by duty, it seems," she said quietly, though the words held a sharper edge than she intended. "The North needs its alliances, and House Targaryen... well, we all know the burden of legacy."
Cregan's eyes flickered slightly, the only indication that her words had struck a chord. "Aye," he said, his voice measured. "Duty binds us all, Princess. But the North honors its vows. I will treat you with the respect that is owed."
Respect.
The word tasted bitter on Maelys' tongue. She wondered if that was all she could expect from this union—respect without warmth, duty without desire. She nodded slightly, though the weight of her gown seemed to grow heavier with each passing second.
"Then let us fulfill our duties," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, yet strong enough to carry the weight of the words. "And may the gods give us the strength to bear them."
As they exchanged their formalities, the serpent of duty continued to coil around Maelys' neck, tighter and tighter. She would marry this man, this cold and distant Lord of the North. She would fulfill her role, bear her children, and secure the legacy of House Targaryen. But in the quiet recesses of her heart, Maelys wondered if she would ever truly be free—or if the serpent would strangle the fire within her before she ever had the chance to let it burn.
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