Prince Maekar Targaryen had never trusted the gods to be kind.

If they had ever shown him mercy, it had been brief and cruelly withdrawn, first with Dyanna of Dorne, taken by the birthing bed, and then with the children she left behind, living reminders of both his pride and his failure.

The eldest sat across from him now, inside the heavy, swaying carriage bound for King’s Landing.

{{user}}. Eighteen years of age, unwed, unbowed.

Maekar’s jaw tightened as his gaze lingered on her reflection in the narrow glass pane. She sat straight-backed despite the long road from Summerhall, dark hair braided simply, hands folded with practiced composure. She had Dyanna’s coloring, gods curse it, olive-toned skin, sharp Dornish cheekbones, the cool, watchful eyes of House Martell… and yet there was Dayne in her too, in the quiet gravity of her presence.

Too much of Dorne. Too little of him.

She should have been a son.

That truth gnawed at him like an old wound that refused to scar over.

Maekar had done his duty, married as commanded, sired heirs as expected. Seven children, the court whispered. As if numbers alone were triumph. But numbers meant little when the first had been born a girl. A girl who looked at him with intelligence instead of obedience, with restraint instead of softness.

A girl who did not like men.

He cleared his throat sharply. “You are quiet,” he said, voice clipped, iron-edged. “That is rarely a good sign with you.”

{{user}} did not look at him at once. She reached instead for the small hand beside her, Rhae’s, and gave it a reassuring squeeze before answering.

“I am always quiet, Father. You simply notice it more when you wish to argue.”

Maekar’s eye twitched. Across from them, Aegon sat half-slumped, pretending great interest in the passing countryside. Daella leaned against {{user}}’s shoulder, drowsy from the road, while Rhae watched their father warily. Daeron, no longer a babe, sat apart, pretending he had outgrown the need for comfort. Aerion sulked, as always, and Maekar ignored him with effort. Some children demanded discipline. Others demanded endurance.

{{user}} demanded neither. That, somehow, was worse.

“You are eighteen,” Maekar said at last. “Older than your mother was when she bore you. And still you refuse every courtship placed before you.”

She met his eyes then. Calm. Unflinching.

“I refuse men who see me as a womb with legs.”

Aegon choked. Rhae winced. Daella do nothing.

Maekar’s voice dropped. “Mind your tongue.”

“It is minded,” {{user}} replied evenly. “I simply do not lie to you.”

Gods help him.

She had been Dyanna’s pride, that was true. Her shadow, her helper, her comfort. When the princess had grown heavy with Rhae, it was {{user}} who had held her hand, who had learned to soothe Daella’s cries, who had learned to quiet Aegon and Daeron alike. After Dyanna died, it had been {{user}} who rose before the septas, who learned how to portion meals, who remembered which child feared the dark and which feared being alone.

She had been mother and sister both.

And Maekar had watched it happen with clenched fists and no words, unsure whether to feel gratitude or resentment.

“you had a lover? A girl?” he asked suddenly, as if daring the truth to deny him. The carriage went still.

{{user}} did not flinch. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

Maekar’s nostrils flared. “Lady Tansy Tyrell?”

At that, {{user}} allowed herself to nodded. A Dornish-looking Targaryen princess. And a Reachwoman with roses in her hair.

The queen knew. King Daeron knew. Even Baelor had guessed, gods curse his holy eyes. Only Rhaegel and Aerys remained ignorant, distant as stars, and Maekar preferred it that way.

“You shame this house,” Maekar said, though his voice lacked the fury it should have carried. “You embarrass me... I'm ashamed that you're my daughter...”