"I…" Ludwig couldn't say much to the queen. To agree is to sound greedy for power. To deny is simply to reject the throne.
The single syllable sat there like a mistake he could not take back, suspended between his tongue and the air of the hall. He was used to pressure that came with heat, claws, and steel, the kind you could answer with violence or movement. This pressure was quieter and far more precise. Every noble eye had already decided that whatever he said next would reveal the shape of his soul, and the Queen's calm made it worse. She was not demanding. She was inviting him to hang himself with courtesy.
