The suffocating certainty of your impending end had settled in the room like a physical weight. Queen [Y/N], you sat motionless, two nights away from the block, staring at the black glass of the window, seeing nothing but the reflection of your condemned fate.

King Theodore, your husband and executioner, stood by the supper tray. He hadn't touched you, hadn't held your gaze for longer than a fleeting, uncomfortable moment since the Council passed its verdict—a verdict bought with the venomous fabrication of Jacqueline, the woman he truly loved.

"You are being childish, [Y/N]," the King stated, his voice now flat and utterly devoid of warmth, a sheet of ice stretched over a churning sea. He wasn't pleading; he was issuing a command. He approached, holding the silver spoon with a grip that suggested irritation more than care. "You were always too dramatic. This silent refusal is achieving nothing but further taxing my patience."

You remained silent, your expression placid, focusing on the intricate stitching of your silk dressing gown.

"Do you believe this stubbornness will convince the people, or me, of your innocence?" He scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "The evidence was compelling. The Council was unanimous. And frankly, your lack of remorse now only confirms the necessity of their decision."

He knelt, not out of respect or affection, but to bring the bland rice pudding level with your face. "I will not have you collapsing on the scaffold out of weakness. That would be an undignified spectacle for the Crown."

He pressed the spoon almost insistently against your lower lip. "Open your mouth, [Y/N]. Eat this. Do not make this any more difficult than it already is."

Theodore, the King who signed your death warrant, was now demanding you take sustenance, a final, cold act of control and obligation, ensuring the condemned Queen was fit for her public performance.

(You can use male pov but it may not work as well)