ππ
ππππππ π
πππ πππ ππππππ ππππππ.
You had no intention of flinching from a dragon's gaze, but beneath the surface as you meet the gaze of the man you are to marry, your bite might prove far more deadlier than either of you expected.
ππππππ πππππππππ Γ π
πππππ!πππππ ππππππ.
ππππ π
πππ.
Honest, I could have done better, but they say you are always your most greatest critique.
ππππ'π πππππππ loomed ahead like a wound carved into the horizon, as it rose from the cliffs in a sprawling mass of blackened stone and blood-red roofs, its walls swallowing the last warmth of the afternoon sun.
Countless towers clawed toward the heavens like grasping fingers, while the Red Keep crowned the hill above them all, a fortress of crimson that looked less like a castle and more like a throne built for monsters, no, but rather that of dragons.
Smoke curled endlessly into the sky from a thousand chimneys, staining the clouds a sickly gray. Even from this distance, the city seemed to groan beneath its own weight, as though every alley concealed a secret and every stone remembered spilled blood.
Winterfell had always felt ancient, solemn, and watchful, its weathered walls promised shelter against the cruelest winter, its silence carried the wisdom of generations.
βSeven hells, not this again. I have spent an entire month and a half on this fucking road, watching you sulk, and by the old gods and new be my witness, I will not have another moment of it.β
King's Landing possessed none of that quiet dignity. It was louder, larger, greedier, a beast with too many mouths, forever hungry. It did not welcome as much as it devoured.
The closer your party rode, the fouler the wind became, your nose wrinkled in disgust.
Salt from Blackwater Bay mixed with smoke, sewage, sweat, and something metallic that lingered unpleasantly on the tongue. The cries of gulls were drowned beneath the distant roar of tens of thousands of voices, the clatter of wagons, and the ceaseless tolling of bells.
It felt less like approaching a city and more like marching willingly into the jaws of a dragon, which you supposed you were.
Beside you, your brother shifted in his saddle, staring toward the towering walls with unmistakable relief. βThank the gods, sister, as I have said numerous times before. You are getting married to the fucking Anvil, not a fat lord that's neither seen combat or cannot tell his belly from his cock,β Rodrik muttered beneath his breath.
You cast him a flat look, βEasy for you to say.β
In a matter of moments, those monstrous gates would swallow you whole. Behind them waited the court, the nobles, the endless eyes that would measure every breath you took and, worst of all, the man you were meant to marry.
Your future husband, the very thought soured your stomach. You had never laid eyes upon him, yet already you resented him. Not for who he wasβhow could you?βbut for what he represented.
Because it was just another bargain struck in your name, another duty wrapped in silk and sealed with promises that had never been yours to make.
The reins creaked beneath your tightening grip.
You wanted to turn your horse north, to ride until the cold bit your cheeks and the familiar gray walls of Winterfell stood before you once more. To trade this suffocating southern heat for snow, silence, and freedom.
βDo not even think about it,β Rodrik murmured, and without uttering a word, you urged your horse onward, βI am in no mood to explain to a Prince as to why his future bride decided to grow cold feet.β
The gates of King's Landing waited with open jaws.
Prince Maekar looked up from the whetstone with an expression that suggested the messenger had personally offended him by existing. βWhat is it now?β
The young guardsman hesitated just long enough to regret being chosen for the task, shifting beneath the burning gaze of a violet storm. βMy prince... the Stark party has been sighted. They'll be here before the hour.β
Silence as the steady scrape of steel against stone stopped. βFuck." The word hung in the room like a thrown axe.
Maekar pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply. βOf all the cursed days.β
βI had hoped that the fucking storm that passed naught a fortnight ago would have delayed their fucking progress, but the gods themselves mock me,β Maekar tossed the whetstone onto the table with a sharp clack. βNorthmen and the little northern girl, Seven bloody hells.β
The messenger stood awkwardly, βShall I have your attendants prepare your court clothes?β
βThey've already begun airing the formal chambersββ
βI said no, are you fucking deaf?β
Maekar stood, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. He glanced down at the plain black tunic he'd been wearing since dawn, spotted with dust and oil from the practice yard.
βThis is clean enough.β He had no intention of making a good first impression, and he'd rather stick a sword through a fucking Blackfyre rebel than pretend he hadn't spent the last few days pacing about.
β...Your Grace, Queen Myriah specifically requestedββ
Maekar sent the messenger a withering glare, βI know what she requested, and I am not fucking doing it.β The prince reached for his sword belt rather than a ceremonial cloak. βIf the Starks are offended because I greeted them dressed like a man instead of a painted peacock, they'll survive the disappointment.β
The door opened before the messenger could risk another objection. Prince Baelor entered with his usual measured calm, immaculate in crimson and black, every fold of his cloak precisely where it belonged and one look at his younger brother told him everything.
βYou haven't changed.β
Maekar shook his head, βNo, good eyesight brother. Now piss off and leave me be.β
Baelor did not move an inch and instead inclined his head, dismissing the messenger with a wave of the hand. βYou intend to greet our guests dressed for the training yard.β
βI'm dressed.β Baelor's eyes drifted to the discarded ceremonial garments lying untouched across the bed.
βMother asked for at least the appearance of effort.β
Maekar snorted, βShe'll get the appearance of my face. That's effort enough.β His lip curled into a scowl. βI agreed to one conversation, Baelor. I'd rather watch Father's plans go to ash than bend the knee to some bitch from the North.β
Baelor let out a slow, measured sigh through his nose. βIt would be appreciated if you did not refer to the young lady in such terms.β
Maekar answered with a dismissive grunt.
Baelor continued, his voice calm despite the edge creeping into it. βI have every reason to believe she desires this arrangement no more than you do.β
βSo,β Baelor replied, βshe is no more responsible for our parents' ambitions than you are.β
βShe wears the wolf.β
βAnd you wear the dragon.β
Maekar folded his arms more tightly across his chest, as though the very thought of the comparison left a bad taste behind, his expression sharpening into something defensive and almost wounded.
βThat is hardly the same,β he said at last, each word clipped with a controlled impatience that did not quite hide the unease beneath it.
Baelor did not look away from him. He leaned back slightly, as if he had all the time in the world and no interest in being hurried along by Maekarβs temper, his tone gentler, almost thoughtful.
βNo? Then enlighten me. Tell me where the difference lies, if not in the fact that both of you are being bound to something decided long before you had any say in it.β
Maekar let out a short, humourless breath, shifting his weight as though the stone beneath his boots had grown suddenly uncomfortable.
βI do not intend to spend the rest of my life tied to a stranger because Father wishes to strengthen the realm,β he said, and though his voice remained steady, there was a raw edge to it now, something younger and less polished slipping through the princeβs usual restraint.
Baelorβs gaze softened, just slightly, the way it did when he was no longer speaking as a prince but as a man who understood more than he often admitted.
βNor, I suspect, does she,β he replied quietly.
That landed between them with more weight than Maekar seemed willing to acknowledge. His jaw tightened, and for a moment he looked as though he might argue further, might sharpen his refusal into something cutting enough to make it final.
Instead, he scoffed, but it lacked conviction. βThen we have something in common,β Maekar said at last, as though conceding even that much irritated him.
βIndeed,β Baelor agreed.
A brief silence settled between them, not uncomfortable so much as uncertain, like the pause between drawn breath and spoken truth, with Maekar staring past Baelor as though the walls of the keep might offer him a better answer than the one standing in front of him, and Baelor simply watching him with the patience of someone who had already begun to understand that duty was rarely kinder to those it chose.
A brief silence settled between them before Baelor stepped closer, lowering his voice as though even the stone corridors might carry words too far if given the chance.
βWhich is precisely why you should extend her the courtesy you would hope to receive yourself,β he said, steady and unhurried, the sort of calm that made Maekarβs impatience burn brighter in contrast.
Maekarβs jaw tightened at once, a muscle flicking near his cheek as he stared ahead rather than at his brother, as though looking at Baelor directly might make the argument harder to refuse.
βI donβt want courtesy,β he muttered.
βNo,β Baelor said with a faint, knowing smile that didnβt quite reach mockery, only recognition. βYou want freedom. There is a difference, and you are pretending they are the same thing because it is easier than admitting you cannot have either on your terms.β
That made Maekarβs gaze drop for a moment. His fingers flexed once at his sides, restless, before he forced his expression back into something sharper, more guarded.
βI want to be left alone.β
βI know,β Baelor replied, and there was no teasing in it now, only a quiet certainty that suggested he had known his brother long enough to recognise when solitude was less a preference and more an escape.
Baelor reached out then, resting a hand briefly on Maekarβs shoulder, light enough not to restrain him, firm enough to be felt, like an anchor offered rather than imposed.
βBut none of us are entirely free to choose our burdens.β
Maekar shrugged him off at once, not with anger so much as deliberate finality, as though even comfort felt like a trap he refused to step into. He turned his head slightly, avoiding Baelorβs eyes entirely now, his attention fixed somewhere down the corridor where banners hung motionless in the still air.
βIβll speak to her,β he said.
βI made no such promise,β Maekar replied at once, flatly.
Baelor gave him a long, almost weary look, the kind reserved for people he loved despite their worst instincts.
Another pause settled between them, heavier this time, stretched thin by Maekarβs obvious reluctance. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, as though the very request offended his sense of dignity.
Baelor raised an expectant brow, waiting, and Maekar exhaled through his nose, already sounding as though he regretted every word before speaking it. βI wonβt call her a bitch to her face.β
Baelor closed his eyes for a fleeting moment, like a man praying for patience he knew he would not be granted. βThat is, somehow, both progress and profoundly disappointing.β
A crooked smirk finally tugged at the corner of Maekarβs mouth, brief and unwilling, as though even that small crack in his armour annoyed him but did not quite stop it from happening.
He still didnβt look at Baelor for long, but his posture loosened by a fraction, the resistance in him not gone, merely less absolute than it had been a moment before.
βThe Starks have crossed half the realm,β Baelor said, as if the distance itself carried weight that Maekar was refusing to acknowledge.
βThey chose to,β Maekar replied at once, leaning back against the stone column with the lazy posture of someone determined not to be moved by honour, or anything else his brother considered important.
βThey are honoured guests.β
βTheyβre still coming to Kingβs Landing.β
Baelor folded his arms, studying him with that steady, infuriating patience that made Maekar feel as though he were being slowly outwaited rather than argued with.
βYou could at least comb your hair.β
Without thinking, Maekar ran a hand through it, fingers dragging through silver-toned strands in a gesture that started with intention and ended in predictable chaos. βThere.β
Baelor stared at him for a long beat. ββ¦You made it worse.β
βI know,β Baelor said quietly, like it was neither accusation nor approval, simply fact.
Baelor stepped closer then, lowering his voice so it no longer echoed against the corridor walls, as if what he was about to say belonged only between them. βThis isnβt about what you care about. It is about the Crown.β
Maekar rolled his eyes so deliberately it was almost theatrical. βThere it is.β
βYou are a prince of House Targaryen,β Baelor continued, unmoved.
βIβve noticed,β Maekar muttered, βGods, Baelor. I do not need a fucking lecture.β
βYou represent our family.β
βI represent myself.β
βYou represent both.β
βNo,β Baelor replied evenly, without hesitation or softness. βBut here we are.β
That earned him another irritated breath from Maekar, sharper this time, like he was trying to exhale the conversation out of existence. βFor fuckβs sake, Baelor. Then you fucking marry her.β
Baelor didnβt react to the language, only shifted slightly as if adjusting his footing in preparation for a siege that had already begun, his composure held in place not by ease but by practice, by years of standing between sharper tempers than his own and refusing to let them cut too deep.
βI would,β he said at last, and the honesty that slipped from him was quieter than Maekar expected, almost reluctant, as though even truth required caution in a place like this.
Maekar blinked, the shift in tone catching him more than the words themselves.
βI would have done what was expected of me,β Baelor continued, gaze steady but distant now, as if he were not speaking to Maekar alone but to every expectation laid across his shoulders since birth, βbut I am not the one Father chose to marry her.β
The words settled heavily between them, not dramatic, not sharpened, simply true in a way that left no room to argue with. For a moment, the corridor felt smaller, the air tighter, as though even the stone walls had leaned in to listen.
Baelor exhaled slowly through his nose, the faintest tension tightening at the corner of his jaw before he forced it back into place.
βYou are,β he added more quietly, βand whether you like it or not, that makes your refusal louder than mine ever could have been.β
Maekarβs mouth opened as if to reply, something sharp already forming, but for once it didnβt come immediately. His eyes flicked away, down the length of the corridor where banners hung still and lifeless, as though refusing to meet Baelorβs gaze might make the conversation less real.
Baelor watched him for a moment longer, then softened, not in defeat, but in understanding that did not ask permission.
βI am not asking you to want it,β he said, voice lowering again, gentler now. βOnly to stop acting as though your contempt is the only thing standing between you and it.β
Baelor's gaze roamed over his brother, βIβd settle for a fresh cloak.β
Each refusal came quicker than the last, until Baelor finally closed his eyes for the briefest moment, as though appealing silently to whatever gods tolerated Targaryen heirs on a daily basis.
βI am trying very hard to make you appear less hostile.β
βSo why pretend otherwise?β
Baelor opened his eyes again, gaze steady, unshaken. βBecause common courtesy is not pretending you are above duty, Maekar. It is restraint and you currently lack that in abundance.β
Maekar barked a humourless laugh, sharp and short, and looked away down the corridor as if the approaching Starks themselves might be preferable to this conversation.
βThatβs a pretty speech.β
βIt is also true,β Baelor said at last, as though conceding even that much had cost him something he would rather have kept, mismatched eyes squinted with an intensity that made Maekar groan.
The younger prince grabbed his gloves from the table with a sharp, decisive motion and shoved them onto his hands without bothering to smooth the leather properly, fingers tugging too quickly at the straps as if the act of preparation itself irritated him.
βIf the Starks came expecting smiles and songs,β he continued, already moving, already half done with the conversation before it had properly ended, βsomeone lied to them.β
βThey came expecting princes,β Baelor replied, watching him with that same steady patience, as though Maekarβs movement was simply another form of argument.
βTheyβre getting one.β
Baelorβs gaze followed him as he crossed the room, the scrape of boots against stone marking each step with barely contained rage.
βI fucking hate this.β
Maekar walked like a man determined to outpace expectation itself, like if he moved quickly enough he could arrive at a version of himself that no one had the authority to correct, to command, to treat him as though he was nothing but a pawn in a game of chess.
βIn spite of your best efforts,β Baelor added mildly.
Maekar stopped at the door, one hand already on the iron latch, pausing only long enough to glance back over his shoulder. The look he gave Baelor was brief, edged, but not entirely without amusement buried somewhere beneath the irritation.
βIf they donβt like me,β he said, voice flat, βthey can complain to Father.β
Baelor smiled faintly at that, not because it was wise, but because it was so predictably Maekar that there was no point pretending otherwise.
βThey probably will.β
The word landed cleanly, final in the way Maekar preferred his decisions to be, even when everything around him insisted nothing in this life was ever truly final. He pushed the door open with a little more force than necessary and stepped into the corridor beyond, cloak shifting behind him like a restless shadow.
Baelor remained where he was for a moment, listening to the fading sound of his brotherβs footsteps, before exhaling softly through his nose, half resignation, half reluctant fondness and turning back to the work that would, inevitably, involve smoothing over whatever Maekar had just set in motion.
βLetβs get this over with,β Maekar called over his shoulder as he strode into the corridor exactly as he was, hair untamed, clothes plain, expression carved from granite, and making absolutely no effort to disguise that the arrival of honored guests had thoroughly ruined what had otherwise promised to be a perfectly acceptable morning.
The Red Keep rose ahead like something carved to endure every war that had ever passed through it. Red stone caught the late light and threw it back in colder tones, as though even the sun had to think twice before resting on its walls. From the road, it looked less like a castle and more like something that had been waiting a very long time to be remembered, and remember it you did.
The smallfolk along the approach had already started to notice you.
Whispers ran quicker than the wind between them, some stepped back without meaning to, others lingered too long and then corrected themselves as Fenrir came into view at your side.
The white direwolf moved with an unbothered calm, each step deliberate, his fur too pale against the dust of the road. He did not look at them with interest or malice. That seemed to unsettle them more than anything else.
A child cried out when Fenrirβs head turned slightly, pale eyes catching the movement of life along the roadside. The sound broke sharply and then faded into uneasy silence as someone muttered a prayer under their breath.
Behind you, Rodrikβs frustration had not softened with distance. βIf we had taken the southern route, we would already be inside the city walls,β he said, voice tight with exhaustion and irritation that had grown steadily worse the closer you got. βThis path has added days for no reason I can see.β
He shifted in his saddle, clearly trying to find comfort that did not exist anymore. βIt is the capital,β he went on. βEvery mile of it is wasted time if you ask me.β
You did not answer him. Not because you had nothing to say, but because the Keep was beginning to take up everything in front of you.
The gates were larger now, the road narrowing as though it had decided there was no more room for hesitation.
The noise of Kingβs Landing reached you in pieces, hammering from within the city, the stench, the horrid smell of salt and sea and something you had no intention of making, voices and movement that never seemed to settle into rest.
It was alive in a way Winterfell never pretended to be, and it pressed against your thoughts as you drew closer.
Fenrir stayed close, shoulder nearly brushing your leg, his presence steadying the space around you without asking for it to be acknowledged.
Then the gates opened and the change was immediate, the weight of it all spilling forward as though the city had been holding its breath just for your arrival.
You did not slow, but you were acutely aware of your brother murmuring that Alyssane would most likely fit into this disorder better than you.
You guided your horse forward until the line of riders reached the threshold, then brought it to a controlled stop. The moment felt too large to rush, too sharp to hesitate in.
Rodrikβs voice fell quieter behind you, though still edged with disbelief. βThat is him,β he said under his breath.
You already knew, not because you have seen him in the flesh, but rather that you have heard enough from your brother in the last month and a half to know that the man standing a few paces away from you was the man the realm demanded you marry.
Prince Maekar Targaryen stood within the receiving line. He did not move as you approached. He did not offer the easy kind of welcome that could soften a moment like this.
His posture was composed, almost still in a way that suggested he had decided what to give and what to withhold long before you arrived.
Silver hair fell slightly out of place, as though he had stopped caring how courtly he was meant to appear.
His gaze, however, was precise, gaze of hardened violet clashing against your own, because if he for one moment thought that you would cower, then you'd show him the reason why the North remembered.
A wolf did not bend, it did not flee and you'd be more than delighted to show him your teeth.
Fenrirβs low rumble rose faintly beside you, not aggressive, just aware, a presence acknowledging the storm growing deep within.
You swung down from your horse without hesitation, boots meeting stone with an ease that came from practice rather than effort.
There was no falter in the movement, no pause to adjust or recover your balance. The world did not shift you. You stepped into it as if it already belonged beneath you.
The weight of attention changed as you straightened.
Rodrik remained mounted for a moment longer, as though reluctant to leave you exposed in a place like this. Then he dismounted as well, slower, still watching the line ahead as if expecting it to change shape.
Your attention did not leave Maekar.
The distance between you and him was not large, but it felt measured in something less physical than stone and air. The court around him seemed to exist at the edges of your awareness, voices and banners and movement reduced to background noise that no longer knew how to reach you.
Fenrir stood just behind your shoulder now, white fur catching the light, still and watchful in a way that made men remember they were mortal.
Maekarβs gaze met yours, then dipped almost imperceptibly to the wolf and for the briefest moment, disbelief broke through his composure, not fear exactly, but something closer to the realization that the world did not always present itself in the shape it was expected to, and Fenrir more often than not had made even feared knights falter.
A murmur passed somewhere behind him. Someone laughed too softly, unsure if they were allowed to.
You tilted your head, slow and deliberate, as though considering him from a different angle might make him more interesting. The faintest smirk touched your mouth, sharp at the edges rather than warm.
βFenrir doesnβt bite,β you called out, voice carrying cleanly through the hush that had begun to form around the exchange. Your eyes stayed on Maekar as the words landed, as if the wolf had been nothing more than an afterthought to amuse the court.
Then you added, lighter, almost careless. βItβs my teeth you should be wary of.β
The silence that followed was immediate, not heavy, but attentive in the way a blade is attentive before it falls.
Fenrir shifted one step forward, not aggressive, just present, and the movement was enough to remind everyone watching that he was not decoration.
He was yours, and that distinction mattered.
Maekarβs expression tightened slightly, the restraint in him adjusting like armour under pressure. His gaze held yours a moment longer than propriety allowed, as if weighing whether you were jesting or declaring war in a language the court had forgotten how to speak.
Behind him, the banners stirred faintly in a draft no one else seemed to feel.
βThat wasn't wise,β Rodrik muttered, but your gaze remained on the stoic expression as Maekar inclined his head ever so briefly, there was no greeting in it, no softened display of delight, not that you expected it, but it was a steady look that did not shift away when it might have been easier to do so.
You did not utter a word, not when the silence stretched, nor when the weight of expectation pressed in from all sides and most certainly not when you could feel Rodrikβs unease behind you, or the way the guards along the walls watched for reaction more than arrival.
You held his gaze as it was.
The world between you did not close. It simply remained there, suspended in the space where neither of you chose to move first.
βI expected him to be taller,β you had muttered as you turned slightly toward Rodrik, voice low enough that it didnβt carry beyond him, though your eyes never truly left the man waiting ahead. βThe man looks like he was carved from stone.β
Rodrik gave a faint, tired huff beside you, but whatever reply he might have offered never quite formed.
Maekar Targaryen stood where the gates had delivered you to him, still as if movement itself was a decision he had already refused to make for anyone else. There was something in the way he held himself that suggested control practiced for years, the kind that didnβt soften just because people expected it to.
βAnd I thought dragons would at least know how to look at a wolf without pretending it is beneath them, Your Grace. I am aware that you are not pleased with this arrangement and neither am I, but common courtesy would at least demand you remember I am not some frightened girl brought here to be measured in silence.β
The words held steady as they left you, each one shaped with care but not softened, carried on a voice that did not ask for space in the room so much as claim it.
You did not raise your tone. You did not need to.
The courtyard seemed to lean in regardless, as though even the stone understood something had shifted.
Fenrir stood at your side like an extension of that same stillness, white fur bright against the iron and red of the Keep, eyes fixed forward without threat or retreat.
Rodrik shifted behind you but said nothing, as if even he understood that interruption would only fracture something already balanced on a knifeβs edge.
Your gaze did not leave Maekar.
βAnd if you intend to dislike me,β you continued, voice lowering just slightly, enough to feel closer rather than softer, βthen do it honestly. Do it as a man who looks his equal in the eye and calls it what it is, not as a prince who hides behind silence and expects it to pass for restraint.β
A pause followed, brief but heavy and then you finished it, the final thread drawn tight between you both. βI did not cross half the realm to be spoken over as though I am already dismissed. If I am to stand beside you in name, then at the very least, stand before me as yourself.β
The last word settled like iron dropped into still water, not a challenge thrown carelessly, but as an invitation that refused to bow while it was spoken.
And for the first time since the gates opened, the air between you and Prince Maekar Targaryen stopped feeling like distance and started feeling like something inevitable waiting to happen.
Around you, the courtyard seemed to quiet in a way that had nothing to do with discipline.
Rodrikβs head turned sharply toward you, as if he had not expected you to step that far forward in a single breath. Fenrir did not move, but the stillness in him deepened, attentive now, as though he understood the shift in what had just been said.
You took a small step forward, and then another until you found yourself standing directly before him. βYou look like a man who has spent his whole life being told what he is,β you added, quieter now, almost conversational, though nothing about it was gentle.
βI wonder what happens when someone stops telling you and simply decides to see it for themselves,β you said, and then the tension in your face shifted, something unexpected breaking through the edge of your own restraint.
You smiled, but not in a cruel manner, but rather in spite of everything, a genuine curve of your mouth that made the words before it feel even sharper by contrast, as if you had just stepped back from the edge of your own blade and realised you were still holding it.
Because here you were, digging your own grave in the Red Keepβs courtyard, speaking to a man who had not once given you warmth, not once offered softness, and still had taken every insult, every challenge, every deliberate press against his composure without blinking. He had not turned away, nor had he dismissed you, but instead stood there and allowed you to exist fully in front of him, even when it would have been easier not to.
βI understand, Your Grace,β you added, and this time your voice changed. It softened in a way that did not erase your strength but set it down for a breath, like placing a weapon on a table without surrendering it.
βMore than you think I do.β
Your eyes did not leave his, but the hostility that had edged your words moments before had thinned, replaced by something quieter, something that did not belong to either court or expectation.
There was kindness in it, unexpected even to you, because you could see that the man standing before you was not a symbol or a title alone, but a man who had been given no easier a path to this moment than you had.
And then you smiled again, smaller this time, almost reluctant, as though you were aware of how little sense it made to soften here at all and yet unable to stop it from happening.
Because despite your resentment for the arrangement that had brought you across half the realm, despite the weight of every expectation pressing in from every direction, he was still here.
And for the first time since you arrived, something in Maekarβs composure shifted, just enough to show it had been touched at all.
.β¦ έΛ β sintaera, 2026.
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