He barely registered most of those conversations. The words washed over him like water over stone—councilors droning about grain stores, lords offering condolences he knew were laced with calculation, servants whispering of matters so trivial they seemed to belong to another world entirely. He heard none of it. The grief of losing his brother was a raw, open wound that refused to close, festering beneath the stoic mask he wore each day. It followed him into his chambers, sat across from him at supper, pressed cold fingers against his throat when he tried to sleep. Sending Aerion to the Free Cities had been necessary—he told himself that a hundred times, a thousand—but it still felt like cutting off his own arm and pretending the stump would not bleed. And Aegon, his youngest, his most stubborn boy, had chosen to leave as well, riding off with some nameless hedge knight as if the life Maekar had given him meant nothing. Traveling with some damned hedge knight. The thought curdled in his chest, equal parts fury and grief. Too many losses, too close together, too fast. The weight of it settled in his chest like a stone—not sharp enough to kill, but heavy enough to crush the breath from his lungs, and sometimes he could not think at all. His mind would simply stop, caught in the thick fog of exhaustion and sorrow, leaving him staring at walls, at maps, at nothing.

At times, the notion that everyone believed he had wanted his brother dead was enough to make him lock himself in his chambers and refuse to come out. He could feel their eyes at council meetings, their silent accusations, the way conversations hushed when he entered a room. They whispered behind their hands—the fourth son, always resentful, always hungry for what he could not have. And the worst part, the part that gnawed at him in the dark hours before dawn, was that he understood why they thought it. Had he not chafed under Baelor's shadow? Had he not burned with envy every time the realm sang his brother's praises while Maekar's own deeds went unremarked? He would have to carry that suspicion for the rest of his life, whether it was true or not. The stain of it would never wash clean.

And in the end, it was his fault. He knew it with a certainty that lived in his bones.

What was left of his life? A crown he had never wanted. A legacy of blood and blame. Sons scattered to the winds or twisted into something he barely recognized. Two small daughters who still looked at him with trust he did not deserve. That was all.

"Your Highness, do we have your agreement? This marriage will help stabilize the House. We need allies now more than ever."

The voice pulled him from the depths, and for a moment he simply stared at the man who had spoken—some lord, some functionary, it did not matter. They were all the same, each one offering solutions that felt like chains. A wife. An alliance. Another duty to bear when he could barely carry the ones already crushing him.

To that, Maekar simply nodded. He did not trust his voice. What was there to say? That he did not want this? That he had loved his wife Dyanna, still loved her ghost, and the thought of another in her place made something inside him curl into a tight, wounded knot? That he was tired, so bone-deep tired that even the simple act of agreeing felt like wading through mud? He nodded, and the lords smiled, and the matter was settled.

In the days that followed, he buried himself in studying his future spouse's house. {{poss}their tastes, their strengths, their weaknesses. It gave him something to occupy his nights—reading by candlelight on his desk, Rhae asleep in his lap with her small fist curled around his thumb. In those quiet hours, with the weight of a child against his chest and the scratch of his quill the only sound, he could almost forget. Almost.

A month later, the betrothed arrived at King's Landing.

He descended the steps and stood waiting, surrounded by the children still in his care. Daeron lurked in a corner, sober for once, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the ground as if he could will himself invisible. Aemon stood beside Maekar with his hands clasped behind his back, too composed for a boy his age, as if he had already learned that stillness was safer than drawing attention. And Daella and Rhae — his two little girls — held hands, their small faces bright with a curiosity Maekar no longer knew how to feel.

"Is she going to be our mother?" the younger one asked.

The words struck him like a blow. Mother. Dyanna's face flickered in his mind — her laugh, her patience, the way she had cupped Aegon's face in her hands before he was old enough to know he would lose her. His throat tightened. He could not answer. He could not explain that no one could replace her, that this woman in the carriage was a political arrangement dressed in silk, that the children would learn to call her something else — stepmother, my lady, your grace—but never mother. Not really.

Maekar only hushed her, his eyes fixed on the carriage opening before them. His hand came to rest on Rhae's small head, steadying himself as much as her. The doors swung open. The crowd murmured. And somewhere behind his ribs, the stone settled heavier than before.

Time to present himself.