{{user}} was his greatest joy and his greatest headache. She was his youngest; his last gift from his late wife, Jena.

His heir, Valarr, was strong and honorable—the golden prince of the realm. Matarys, his second, was quick-witted and gifted with the lute. Then there was her. Haunted by dreams of dragons, {{user}} would rather pick up a flagon than a needle. Baelor had often threatened to marry her off to some lord with a firm hand, but he could never go through with it. How could he, when she looked so much like her mother?

Baelor stood in stony silence as his daughter, a Princess of the Realm, was rolled into the throne room. She was slumped in a common wheelbarrow, looking thoroughly disheveled.

“Your Grace...” Ser Roland said, dropping to one knee with a look of pure exhaustion. “We found the princess gambling in a tavern in Flea Bottom. She refused to ride a horse and demanded we wheel her back to the Red Keep in this... cart.”

“Leave us,” Baelor commanded, his voice weary but not unkind. Once the hall cleared, he walked toward the barrow where she lay, her soft snores echoing against the high ceilings.

He placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “{{user}}.”

His frown deepened as her eyes fluttered open. “What you did tonight... it was unacceptable. Even for you.”