"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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A heavy silence draped over Maegor's chambers, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth fire and the distant chirp of crickets beyond the stone walls.
The air was thick, not just with warmth, but with something unspoken, an invisible weight that hung between them.
Charlotte knelt on the cold floor, the firelight casting gold against her bare skin. Her breath was steady, her posture unshaken, her gaze lingering with quiet triumph. A faint glisten clung to her lips, a silent testimony to the intimacy they had just shared.
Maegor sat still, unmoving, his eyes fixed not on her, but somewhere distant. Reality was sinking in like a slow, cold tide. His jaw clenched, fist tightened around the goblet.
He-Maegor Targaryen, feared and unrelenting, had allowed himself to be pulled into a moment he couldn't command.
The woman behind him had breached his defenses, not with blade or threat, but with want and cunning. And that terrified him more than any weapon.
Charlotte rose, graceful and unhurried. Her smile wasn't loud, but it was victorious, soft and knowing. She had not just touched the king, she had reached the man beneath the crown. And Maegor felt it like a wound.
For the first time in a long while, he felt exposed.
"You may go, Lady Charlotte." His voice was cold, clipped, no longer laced with heat or tenderness. He poured himself a cup of wine, the crimson liquid sloshing slightly as his hand trembled. His throat was dry. He drank.
Disgust sat heavy in Maegor's chest. He didn't look at her. He couldn't. Not because he feared her power, but because he'd given something away. He wasn't even sure what.
He hated how exposed he felt.
She was Mellario's handmaid, he thought bitterly, guilt creeping through the cracks of his stoic mask. I let her break through a line I swore never to cross.
He swallowed hard, more wine than breath. "Leave..." he said again, quieter this time, but final.
Across the room, Charlotte stood frozen, humiliation settling into her bones like frost. She hastily pulling her dress into place, fingers fumbling with the fabric and laces. Her hair was disheveled, her pride in tatters.
She turned to him once, hoping, praying, for a glance, a word, anything to salvage the moment.
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