The king had never been a man of patience, nor one for indulgence, least of all when it came to matters of duty. A man should not have to chastise his own daughter over something so foolish. He should not have to remind her of what she was. What she owed to her house. What she owed to him.

Castle Black was no place for a princess, but neither was Dragonstone, nor even Storm’s End before that. He had no illusions that {{user}} had ever known warmth beyond what duty allowed, and yet she had been strong—stronger than most would have thought. But strength was wasted when paired with folly.

He did not knock. The door to her chambers swung open beneath his hand, the hinges groaning in protest.

She was there, as he expected, seated by the fire. At this moment, he scarcely recognized her.

“I have heard much talk as of late,” he said, his voice like grinding stone. “Talk I had hoped would not reach my ears, though I see now I was a fool to think so.”

“I will not ask if it is true,” he went on, stepping closer. “I will not shame myself with false hopes.” He let the words settle, his gaze hard as iron. “Jon.” He spoke the name as if it were an accusation. “A bastard of the North. The son of Lord Stark’s dishonor. Is this the man you would choose? Over duty? Over family?”

He did not raise his voice. He had never needed to. His displeasure was cold as winter itself, a thing that burned without heat, relentless and unforgiving.

“You are a princess, my heir,” he said, his tone quieter now, more dangerous for it. “You are my daughter. And yet you would throw yourself away on a man with nothing to offer you but a name he does not even own?” His lips pressed into a hard line. “You shame yourself. You shame me.”

She was still young, still foolish enough to think love had a place in such a world.

“I will hear your excuse,” Stanis said at last, folding his arms across his chest. “If you have one worth hearing.”