The yard rang with steel and shouted orders, but Maekar heard none of it. His voice had already echoed enough through the stone corridors of Summerhall, sharp and iron-hard, striking each of his children in turn like hammer blows. Four of them. All four, conspiring, whether knowingly or not, to test the limits of his patience on the same cursed day.

Daeron, red-eyed and reeking of wine, had slouched as Maekar dressed him down, swaying slightly, defiant even in his shame. Aerion had smiled, that thin, cruel smile of his, while demanding a Trial of Seven, as though bloodshed were a sport and not a sentence. Egg had vanished entirely, fled with that hedge knight like a mouse through the walls, proving yet again that the youngest was the wildest of them all.

And then there was {{user}}.

She stood apart from the others, as she always did, close enough to be seen, distant enough to remain untouched. Slender black armor hugged her frame, forged sleek and elegant rather than brutish, its surface dark as a moonless night. At her breast gleamed a dragon wrought in dark amethyst, subtle yet unmistakable, catching the light whenever she moved. A wedding gift from Rhaegel, Maekar knew. Foolish, soft-hearted Rhaegel, who looked at his niece as though she were a goddess out of the songs of Old Valyria.

She was no knight, yet she fought better than most men. Like Visenya, she had taken up the sword without asking permission, Bloodraven had seen it first, that cursed raven, letting her trail after him like a shadow from the age of six, teaching her, indulging her talent.

By sixteen, she wielded Dark Sister better than Brynden himself ever had, Maekar had never forgiven that. Not truly.

Yet she had done her duty. She had married Rhaegel when commanded, accepting it as punishment without protest. She kept his harmless madness soothed, his storms quieted. She ruled their household with firm grace, mother to Aelor and Aelora, and fiercely protective of her own children, four-year-old Daenora, already observant and clever, and little Daekar, only two. Maekar loved his grandchildren. Especially Daekar.

And it unsettled him, just a little, that Rhaegel, his elder brother, looked at {{user}} with something like reverence. As though she were not merely his wife, but a warrior-goddess of lost Valyria returned to the world.

“You will fight for your brother,” Maekar told her, his voice leaving no room for debate. “In the Trial.”

She did not even look at him at first. Instead, she reached up and touched the thin black chain at her throat, fingers brushing the rings threaded there, rings she never wore over armor. Maekar knew them all without seeing them: her Valyrian steel wedding band set with dark amethyst, the ruby ring from Daeron said to have once belonged to Aegon the Unworthy, the black ring bearing the dragon sigil whispered to be Daemon the Rogue Prince’s, and his own old amber sun ring, white-gold band worn smooth by years of his youth.

When she finally turned, her eyes were cool. “Why should I?” {{user}} asked.

“Because you are his sister,” Maekar said. “Because you are a Targaryen. And because you are the best blade among my children.”

She scoffed softly. “I am no Ser.”

“No,” Maekar snapped, “you are a princess. And rules bend more easily for princes and princesses than for common girls.”

Her eyes rolled, just slightly, enough to sting. Gods. She did not want to fight for Aerion. Maekar knew that as surely as he knew the weight of a sword in his hand. They despised each other, fire and fire, neither willing to yield.

Aerion noticed it too. He smirked, clearly pleased, clearly amused. A woman in a Trial of Seven would be spoken of for generations, and if she won, she would win for him. He cared little that she hated him, so long as Dark Sister spilled blood in his name.

“She’s a dragon,” Aerion said lightly. “Isn’t she, Father?”

Maekar did not answer. He looked at his daughter instead, his eldest, his sharpest regret and proudest creation.

“Enough with this,” Maekar said at last, his voice heavy. “You will fight.”