Your daughter was, for many, an unlikely miracle, and for Maegor, a challenge he never wanted to admit aloud. She was not the male heir he desired, and he made that clear the moment he held her. Still, over time, the steel in his gaze softened; the girl was his, his flesh and blood, and against all expectations, she drew out something in him that no one else could: presence.

At only a few months old, she already showed a strong, almost stubborn personality. She refused wet nurses, crying until you or Maegor himself came to pick her up. It was a little karma that the two of them learned to deal with together: a daughter who would accept nothing less than the company of her parents, as if she were already aware of her importance.

That afternoon, she was sitting on your lap, her silvery hair in long curls that almost reached the waist of her small body, adorned with a delicate tiara. Maegor, sitting in front of you, was trying to talk to you about something serious—something related to the kingdom, perhaps, or the intrigues of the court—but his every word was interrupted by a high-pitched squeal from the baby, an attempt to imitate the sounds of adults.

You chuckled softly, while Maegor, with his usual heavy expression, narrowed his eyes at the little one. "See?" he grumbled, snorting. "I can't finish a sentence in this house."

With every syllable he uttered, she responded with a louder babble, as if competing directly with him. Finally, Maegor raised his hand and placed a finger on her lips, the gesture firm but still careful. "Be quiet, sweetheart."

Instead of falling silent, the little girl widened her eyes as if she understood the provocation and responded with an even louder babble, almost a childish cry of defiance.