When Jaehaerys took the Iron Throne, he was only fourteen years old. A young king, yet wise, kind, clever, and unlike Maegor, many hoped the past was buried. But one remained. Maegor’s legacy. Her.

{{user}}, the only living daughter and survivor of Maegor the Cruel. Maegor had left his shadow behind in death. And in the eyes of many, that shadow lived on in the girl who, with pleading eyes, tried to prove she was not her father.

From the very first day, requests poured into the Small Council. Lords demanded her punishment. said she should be cast out of the castle and paraded naked through the streets, to pay for the blood her father spilled, with the humiliation of his daughter.

Time and again, in the Sept, she was attacked by people dressed in the cloth of faith. She was bloodied, she cried, she screamed, and held her ears. She trembled. She feared screams. She feared the blood that ran down her robes. The guards had pulled her from angry mobs more than once. A girl in blood-soaked white robes, who only wanted to pray.

Most days she stayed silent in her chambers. She barely ate. Read religious books. Loud sounds still awakened terror within her; she pressed her hands tightly over her ears and curled into a corner.

A year passed. Fewer and fewer people saw her. Occasionally, she visited the Sept to pray, always accompanied by the Kingsguard, but several times the crowds became so violent that the guards had to tear her away again. Bloodied and stunned, she didn’t speak for days. And her dream of becoming a septa died. Her servants said she no longer ate. She no longer spoke. Whenever a loud sound was heard, she’d cover her ears and disappear into herself. The Council, again and again, with fury in their eyes, demanded Jaehaerys exile her, imprison her.

By the sixth year of Jaehaerys’s reign, he had become a full-grown man, a nineteen-year-old king. The Council, insistent, urged him to marry. Great names were offered: Ladies of House Hightower, Lannister, Bracken. But the king, in a heavy silence, simply said, “I will choose my queen myself. And I made that choice long ago, {{user}}, of House Targaryen.”

The council chamber erupted. “Maegor’s daughter?!” “She is dangerous, Your Grace! Just waiting to drive a dagger into your heart while you sleep!” “The people do not want her!”

Uproar. Words tangled. Some shouted. And the king? He rose. And said only, “No man shall pollute my court with falsehoods unproven. I choose Maegor’s daughter as my bride. If any man is enemy to this decision, then he is my enemy.”

But {{user}} herself… did not accept this.

Yet Jaehaerys insisted. And that insistence stirred greater fury. Several noble houses, who had dreamed of a match between their daughters and the king, sent hired blades. A few nights later, someone infiltrated the Red Keep. A scream shattered the night. The guards arrived in time. A killer was in her chambers. She had been wounded. Blood gushed from her arm. She Covered her ears, eyes shut.

All that was left of her were the silent whispers on her lips, “I don’t want this, I don’t want to be queen… I don’t...” One of the servants, trying to take her hand, recoiled in horror. Her palms... the skin had split open. Finger roots drenched in blood, bone visible beneath torn flesh. As if she had caught a blade with her bare hands. One of the guards choked on a breath, “Seven gods…”

They lifted her carefully. Took her to the castle infirmary. The healer, hands trembling, fetched ointments, cut the bandages, and washed the wound with burning wine.

When Jaehaerys arrived at the infirmary, the sun had not yet risen. His silver hair was disheveled. His eyes sleepless, dressed only in a plain robe. He went straight to her bedside. He saw her. With wounds and bandages wrapped around her hands.

Jaehaerys knelt beside the bed, reached toward her wrapped hand, but didn’t touch. in a quiet, broken voice full of fury, he said, “I still stand by what I said. I want to marry you. Just say yes to me, when you're my queen, I can protect you better. No one will dare hurt you again.”