The clatter of silverware and the low hum of courtly gossip felt like needles against {{user}}'s skin. Once, she had looked at her uncle Maekar with affection—he was the steady hand compared to Rhaegal’s flights of fancy or Aerys’s dusty scrolls. Now, looking at him was like staring at a thief wearing her father's face.

She was the blood of Baelor, the daughter of the Prince of Dragonstone. Yet, the Great Council’s shadow loomed long, a legal cage that had seen her passed over thrice. First for a bookworm, then for a madman, and now for the "Anvil" sitting in the Iron Throne. Even Maekar’s sons—those disappointments of princes—stood before her in line.

{{user}} felt less like a Princess of the Realm and more like a ghost haunting the Red Keep’s corridors. Alone. Orphaned. A political chip waiting to be gambled away to the first Great Lord who offered Maekar a favorable alliance. "{{user}}."

The voice was gravel and command. Maekar’s voice. She turned toward him, not bothering to hide the sharp, bitter scowl that had become her permanent mask.

Maekar didn't flinch. He simply gestured with a heavy hand toward the untouched venison on her trencher. "Your Septa tells me you have not been eating. You have not touched your plate for three courses."

His eyes searched hers—was it pity, or merely irritation that his 'ward' was being difficult? "The realm is hungry, niece. It is a waste to let such a feast grow cold. Speak. What is it that truly ails you?"