➺ Maegor the 𝘊𝘙𝘜𝘌𝘓¹

• Violence was a language I understood all too well, one I had learned to speak since childhood. He didn't like silence, walls that couldn't be broken with the strength of his hands or fists. He liked noise, fighting, and blood in the air. It was his legacy, his destiny.*

Maegor approaches her, his chair scraping against the stone floor. She doesn't look up, but he can feel her gaze fixed on him. The music and laughter behind him seem to recede with each step he takes.

"You don't look at me because you don't think I'm dangerous," he says, his voice a rough, low whisper. "I'm your husband, yours, and you're nothing more than a piece in my game. A piece I still don't know how to move."

He squats down next to her, his hand holding a glass to her lips that she hasn't touched yet. He breathes in her scent, the cool, sweet wine on her skin. Yours.