"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 morning sun had scarcely risen in full bloom, yet Maegor's chambers were already alight with a brooding tension. The hearth crackled, but its warmth did little to dispel the cold weight in the air.
Alicent stood at the cellar, her fingers clenched around the edge of her skirts, staring in disbelief at the canvas set before her.
It was blank. The paint brushes laid bare, untouched, the paints unsealed.
"Paint me a memory," Maegor had said, pointing to the easel with lazy authority as he sliced into his roasted pheasant. "Last night. I want to see it through your eyes."
Alicent remained frozen, her breath catching slightly. “I… I cannot,” she said at last, voice firm but low. “I do not remember. Your Grace”
Maegor looked up slowly, a piece of fruit on his knife’s edge. He chewed thoughtfully before speaking, his crimson eyes steady beneath the silver fall of his hair. “Are you always this skilled at lying Lady Alicent? Or have forgotten what happened last night.”
Alicent’s spine stiffened. “I do not lie, Your Grace,” she said with a controlled calm. “But I will not paint a night I cannot clearly recall. It was blurred. Like smoke on glass.”
He wiped his mouth with a linen cloth, finished his wine, and set the goblet down with deliberate care. Then, without a word, he rose from the table and approached her with measured steps.
She instinctively stepped back, only for his hand to catch her waist, pulling her sharply into him. Their bodies collided with sudden heat again.
“Your Grace,” Alicent snapped, voice rising. “This is inappropriate.”
Maegor’s mouth curved into a dark smirk. “Was it inappropriate when you watched me take Lady Selene by the fire? When your eyes lingered?”
She turned her head, cheeks flushing, the memory seared into her mind like a brand. “I advise you let me go,” she said, voice colder now, controlled, yet trembling underneath.
He leaned in, his breath grazing her cheek. “Or what?” he whispered. “You’ll run to my wife? Whisper into Mellario’s ear what her husband does when the moon is high?”
Alicent stared at him, caught in the blood-red gaze that mirrored dragonfire and death. His face was sharp, sculpted like a blade, unforgiving as steel.
His skin pale and cold, his jaw shadowed by stubble, his expression caught somewhere between hunger and disdain. He looked like a specter of war, or a man who had seen too much of it more ghost than king, as if he had been forged in fire instead of fate.
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