"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 bells tolled softly as dawn broke over King's Landing. A grey blush of light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the royal bedchamber, casting crimson and gold slants over the polished stone floor.
The fire in the hearth had long since died, leaving the room cold. The heavy curtains stirred faintly in the breeze, and the scent of lavender oil and sweat still lingered in the air like ghosts of the night before.
King Maegor groaned. He lay sprawled naked on the silken sheets, his body a map of old scars and hardened muscle.
A low grunt escaped his lips as he turned onto his side, the coldness of the sheets registering slowly on his skin. His eyes fluttered open bloodshot, reluctant.
He blinked against the morning light, rubbed his face with a calloused palm, and reached lazily to the right side of the bed.
His hand met only empty sheets.
She was gone.
Alicent.
He turned his head slowly. The pillow still held the faintest indentation of her form, her scent still clung to the linens sweet, perfumed, real. And yet... the spot was cold. And there, unmistakable on the snow-white sheets, was a blotch of blood. Stark. Accusing.
Maegor's breath caught. His chest tightened. He sat up fully now, staring at the blood like it might vanish if he blinked hard enough.
She was a maiden. She had given herself to him.
His jaw clenched, and a flush of emotion rose in him, unexpected and unwelcome. His heart sank, not with guilt, but with a weight he couldn't name.
That primal knowing, the one every man feels when he takes a woman's maidenhood. The knowledge that something irreversible had happened. She had crossed a threshold with him, trusted him, bled for him.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I love you," she had whispered last night in the dark, her body trembling in his arms.
He hadn't said a word back. What could he say? He liked her, more than most. He respected her, even desired her. But love?
No. That part of him had died with Mellario, years ago, in Dorne, in a different life. That kind of fire had long turned to ash.
A sudden knock broke his thoughts.
Servants.
Maegor rose, yanked the duvet aside, and stood bare, cold, and unbothered. He pulled on a robe of black velvet with crimson trimming, cinching it at the waist.
"Enter," he growled.
The double doors opened swiftly. A small army of servants poured in, silent and purposeful, well-trained in their routine. Two went to work on the fireplace and floors, sweeping and scrubbing. Two others prepared his bath in the adjacent chamber, steam already beginning to rise.
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