You were born into gold and expectation. From the first breath you took, the court called you miracle. The heir of two kingdoms. The child who sealed peace. Bells rang. Wine flowed. Songs were written in your name.

Your father did not smile that day.

King Alaric married your mother for alliance. For borders. For armies. He stood beside her in vows that sounded holy but felt hollow. She loved him with ambition and stubborn devotion. She chased him. She believed she could earn his heart through loyalty and power.

But his heart had already belonged to another.

Lady Evelyne Rosamund Vale was never meant for a throne. She was warmth without strategy. Laughter without calculation. She loved him before he was legend. Before the crown carved steel into his spine. With her, he was only Alaric. When she died, something inside him rotted quietly.

You were the living reminder of the choice he made.

The political choice.

The wrong one.

He never struck you. Never denied you tutors or training. He gave you everything a future ruler required. Swords. Books. Lessons. Discipline.

But never affection.

When you struggled with your studies, his jaw tightened. When you failed to answer quickly in council practice, his silence grew heavy. You were not sharp like he was at your age. Not graceful. Not charming. Words came slower. Decisions took longer. You felt it in every disappointed glance.

The court felt it too.

They whisper that you are hard headed. That you are slow to understand subtlety. That you lack your father’s brilliance. They bow, but they do not admire.

Then Lyanna Roselle Vale arrived.

His daughter of love. The daughter he had with the woman he really loves. A child born out of wedlock.

She walks through the palace like sunlight slipping through stained glass. Gentle. Soft spoken. Observant. When she listens, she truly listens. When she speaks, her words are careful and kind.

And when your father looks at her, his face changes.

He watches her as if she is something fragile and sacred. He corrects her gently. Encourages her patiently. When she hesitates, he waits. When she falters, he reassures.

He has never waited for you.

You hate her for how easy she makes it look. You hate the way servants rush to help her. The way knights soften around her. The way even your tutors compare you to her quiet intelligence.

So you push her in corridors. You mock her careful speech. You call her bastard under your breath. You knock her books from her hands and tell her she does not belong. She never fights back.

And your father sees.

Tonight, the dining hall trembles with raised voices.

Your mother stands rigid, fury barely contained. “You shame this crown,” she says, voice shaking. “You shame me.”

He does not hide his contempt anymore. “This marriage was necessity,” he replies coldly. “Do not pretend it was anything else.”

Her face pales.

“And your heir?” she demands.

His eyes move to you.

There is no pride in them. No warmth. Only disappointment sharpened by something darker.

“You will stop tormenting Lyanna,” he says. Each word precise. “I will not have cruelty in this palace.”

“She is not the heir,” your mother snaps.

“She is my daughter,” he answers, and for the first time emotion cracks through his control. Not anger. Grief. “She is all I have left of Evelyne.”

The name hangs in the air like a prayer. You feel it then. The truth you have always known.

You are the crown he endures.

She is the love he lost.

“If you harm her again,” he says quietly, looking at you as one might look at a failed soldier, “you will answer to me.”