Author's Notes: Written for the valar_morekinks prompt: "Any Targaryen(s) - Lyssophobia. The fear of going mad."

Trigger warnings: Emotional and physical abuse, violence, mental health issues, depression, self harm, imprisonment, underage sex, referenced rape, character death... I hope I got everything? Just, be aware generally.

i. The Conqueror

"Rhaegar, sweetling?"

He turns his head and sees his grandmother at his door, looking very tired. "Grandmother?" he asks, wondering what she's doing here – Father doesn't like his parents coming to see his son without him being there. "What's wrong?"

She gives him a sad smile. "Your grandfather wants to see you."

Rhaegar frowns again as he hops off his bed, wincing at a pain in his ankle when he lands. "He's okay, right?" Grandfather's been sick a week or so now, but all the maesters say it's fine, he'll get better.

Shaera says nothing, just takes his hand and leads him to the king's chambers.

Once he gets there he has to wrinkle his nose. "Urgh," he says at the foul smell, and then is embarrassed as Grandfather, still in bed, laughs softly at him.

"My apologies, boy," and Rhaegar feels bad, like he's been rude, to the king no less, but he knows grandfather won't take it personally.

"My love," Grandmother says, rushing to his side and grandfather starts to cough, grabbing his hand. "Are you – do you need me to–"

Grandfather hesitates a moment, but shakes his head. "I'm alright, Shae," he says. "I'll be alright." And Rhaegar frowns. Grandfather doesn't look alright, sheets stained with sweat and blood and – Rhaegar doesn't know what it all is, but it stinks – and drool falls from the corners of his mouth. He looks old. Mama says Grandfather is still quite young, he'll live awhile yet, but Rhaegar is only three and everyone seems old to him. "I just need to talk to the boy for a moment."

"If you're sure," says grandmother and, seemingly oblivious to the smell, she leans down and kisses his brow before she goes, and just before she reaches the door, she reaches across and ruffles Rhaegar's hair.

Once she's gone, he's not really sure what to do. He doesn't know why he's here. Grandfather smiles at him. "Dear boy," he coos, "don't be afraid. Come here."

Rhaegar does so, but the bed is too tall, he can barely peer over the edge of it. Grandfather sighs and, arms shaking with weakness, pushes himself up so he can scoop under Rhaegar's arms and lift him onto the foot of the bed. The second that's done he collapses back into the sheets, exhausted.

"...You're sick," Rhaegar declares, and then he feels stupid. Yes, grandfather's sick. Everyone knows that. But it's nothing serious, right?

"I am," Grandfather smiles at him. "Such a clever boy, aren't you? Already reading the histories at your age. We're very proud of you."

Rhaegar blushes and looks away. "Father doesn't like it," he mutters. Father's always sneering at him and his books, saying it's not right for a boy to be so interested in learning, that it's not a man's interest, that he'll grow up like uncle Daeron if he's not careful. Rhaegar doesn't know what he means.

"Aerys doesn't like anyone doing anything he can't," grandfather sighs. "And it took him until he was twice your age until he learnt his letters." Rhaegar doesn't really know what to say to that, and so he waits while grandfather coughs some more. "But don't worry about him. Come here, son."

Hesitant, Rhaegar does so, and grandfather, still too exhausted to get up, tucks a lock of silver hair behind his ear. "You're such a handsome little lad," he says, and Rhaegar blushes again. "Handsome, clever, brave."

"I'm not brave," Rhaegar insists.

"You are, you just don't know it yet." Grandfather sighs deeply. "You remind me of my father. Although I'm not sure he'd be flattered by that."

Rhaegar never met his great-grandfather; the man died the day he was born, in a great fire. He wishes he had though. Everyone always says wonderful things about him.

"Grandfather," he says, "are you–?"

He's interrupted as Grandfather breaks into coughs once more, and once he's done the man can only croak out words, and Rhaegar's getting worried. He wonders if he should run, so he doesn't get sick too. "Don't fret about me, love," he says, and that doesn't make Rhaegar feel any better. "This isn't about me. It never was." His breath is shaky now, and Rhaegar doesn't understand. "You're the perfect prince, aren't you?"

"Um. If you say so?" Rhaegar doesn't know what the perfect prince is meant to be.

Grandfather smiles sadly again. "You were worth it," he whispers. "Everything. My father, my daughter, my son... you were worth it."

Rhaegar still doesn't understand, and he's about to ask Grandfather what he's talking about when the man starts coughing again. He doesn't stop coughing this time though, and when he turns his head into the pillow Rhaegar can see that he's spitting up blood. "Shaerie," he gasps, "get – get, your grandmother, I want to see–"

He's cut off by his own wheezing, like he can't force the air into his lungs, and Rhaegar, three years and terrified, cries out: "Grandmother! Maester! Mother! Father! Help, he's–"

Rhaegar sees it coming long before anyone else does. Before Father starts burning men with wildfire, Rhaegar sees the burn begin within him.

He's quiet over dinner, helping himself to a roast quail as Father fixes Mother with an icy glare, and she stubbornly refuses to look ashamed. It's the first time they've all dined together since the last babe. Father has not forgiven Mother for it, even though Maester Pycelle said it could not possibly be her fault. Rhaegar thinks that this is how it is meant to be; the gods do not mean for him to have a brother or sister (or wife), and in many ways, that is a relief. If only Father could accept it, if only he would stop trying, and putting them all through this torture.

"Rhaegar, sweetling," Mother says quietly, "could you pass me the wine?"

It's a heavy bottle, but Rhaegar manages, and carefully avoids Father's gaze as he does so.

"You drink too much," comes a snide voice.

"No more than usual, dear," says Mother as she pours, and Rhaegar digs his nails into his thigh beneath the table as he listens to what lays beneath those words: I drink less than you do.

"You drink too much," Father insists, and Mother pauses, before defiantly raising her glass to her lips. "It's not good for you. It's not good for us. I won't have my wife turning into a lush, not while I still need her."

"Do you need me, my love?" asks Mother. You have your heir, what else do you want from me? Rhaegar feels a little sick. "Thank you. You're not typically one to show affection so unabashedly."

"Damn you, woman!" Rhaegar jumps half-out of his seat as Father smashes his mug upon the table, wine spilling everywhere, ruining the sizzling pig by his elbow. "I swear, if you weren't my sister I'd have your head for killing my children, I'd have you fed to the fucking dogs, I'd fine myself a new wife who's not so fucking useless she can't even give me a son; if it weren't for our father–"

"Father!" Rhaegar finds himself crying out. "That is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms you speak to, and my mother; I will not sit here and listen to you threaten and slander her."

It is a prince's words, a knight's words that spill from his mouth, and for a moment Rhaegar is almost proud of himself. I am the dragon. But then father's furious eye turns from his wife to his son, and Rhaegar shudders and cravenly tries to sinks into his chair, a terrified child again. He will kill me. He will wring my neck right here over dinner.

"Such a perfect fucking prince, aren't you?" Father sneers, pouring himself more wine. "Always ready to defend a lady's honour. Look at you! Fourteen years and they're already writing songs!" From anyone else, such words might be a compliment. "Everyone says you've got what it takes to be a real king. Maybe you should try fucking her in my place, huh? You'd probably have more luck."

Rhaegar feels sick at the thought. Is fucking a mother so different to fucking a sister? he wonders.

Mother stays quiet a moment, swirling her wine in her glass. "You'd have killed me if not for Father," she murmurs, and then sighs. "Well then. Thank the gods for Father."

Rhaegar reaches for the wine himself. He tries not to drink over these dinners, he doesn't want to need it to get through them, but he cannot help himself right now. Father wouldn't really hurt us, he thinks, his heart still racing. He might not be a good man, but he's not a kinslayer.

This is before the wildfire, before the massacres, before his mother screams in the night while her husband takes her by force. This is before Aerys, Second of His Name, is known to be as cruel as Maegor. This is while he is just a regular sort of cruel, the sort that's not so important.

Rhaegar drinks.

"How fares my brother?"

Rhaegar hesitates. The battle was a great victory, increasingly rare on their side, and he wishes he could share the happiness with his – wife? Is she his wife? The laws of gods and men seem quite confused on the matter. Still, he can hardly blame her for not being thrilled. "Alive," he reassures her. "I'd have heard if Ned Stark had–"

"I want to see him," says Lyanna, belly so curved he can hardly see her face. That's probably for the best. He hates the fury there is in her now. She was so happy when I took her away, so carefree, so innocent. I have ruined this poor girl.

"He's in the Riverlands, Ly," he says, sounding like a maester dealing with a recalcitrant pupil.

"I could go to the Riverlands," she insists, and he sighs.

"It's not safe." This whole war's been started over you, you think the great houses of Westeros wouldn't take you hostage the second you turned to them for shelter? You think a pregnant woman alone wouldn't be a prime target for the bandits who crawl out of the earth like worms? You think Robert Baratheon would welcome you back with open arms if you told him you'd left him for another man and brought his bastard in your belly? "I have to protect you."

"At least let me write to him," Lyanna pleads. Rhaegar shakes his head.

"I can't have them knowing where we are," he says, his pulse racing. "Robert would kill us all."

She scoffs. "Robert wouldn't hurt me–"

"Damn you, woman!" Rhaegar shouts at her. She jumps. "You don't know a thing about that man; you don't know a thing about men. If he knew what we'd done, you'd be a whore to him, nothing more, he'd slaughter you and your babe without a second thought! Do you want our child smashed to death with his warhammer?"

"...I want to go home," she says, and she sounds so young then that Rhaegar hates her for it.

"Really now?" he sneers, and then he hates himself. "I wouldn't have thought it. When I fucked you in that precious godswood of yours, you seemed quite eager to leave. Such a grand adventure, like a maid in the songs, running away with the handsome prince, except you're no maid, are you? There are whores who wouldn't spread their legs so quickly."

"You didn't complain at the time," she says.

"Well I wouldn't, would I?" he says. He hates the words that are coming out of his mouth, so cruel, so untrue, but he feels powerless to stop them. "I didn't make you come with me, no matter what Robert says." No matter what I let him say, so if he does find you he'll take pity on you. "You wanted this. You wanted me." She says nothing to him, and he feels so angry he could breathe flame. "You were just a little slut who gave it up to the first handsome man who gave you the time of day! Did you honestly think I wanted you for anything other than your cunt and womb? I only chose you at that tourney because you were the only girl stupid enough to fall for it."

Ly, I do not mean it, his mind pleads. You know I don't mean it. I can't possibly mean it, that's not who I am. I love you, you know that I love you; in the eyes of the Old Gods, you are my wife. I should not say such things to you. Be angry at me. Gods, please, be angry at me, put me in my place, tell me what to do. I didn't mean all that, I'm just frightened. I'm always frightened. Say something.

He hears a sob.

She is hiding her face, trying to hide it, but there's nowhere to hide in this hot stuffy tower he's trapped her in. No, she can't be crying, he thinks. That's not who she is. Lyanna is brave and reckless and strong, and far too proud to ever cry. That's what he loves about her. That's why he chose her.

That's who she was, Rhaegar thinks. But he has broken her, as much as he has ruined her.

"Ly – please don't – I didn't mean–"

"Get out," she says.

He hesitates, and then tries to reach across the bed. "I swear, I don't really think–"

"Get out!" He jumps a mile as she throws a flagon of water at him, glass smashing on the floor. She'll kill me. She'll do her betrothed proud and wring my neck right here in our bedchambers. "Get out, you sick bastard, get out! I hate you! I never want to see you again! I hope Robert kills you!"

He goes. It's the only thing he can do for her.

The sun is strong and his skin is burning, but Rhaegar doesn't feel it, too high on the thrill of the fight. He is the dragon, and the heat only gives him strength, rising up through the Dornish sands and into his body. His sword is nothing special, just ordinary steel, and get it blocks and deflects Dawn's strokes effortlessly. I have not forged Lightbringer yet, he thinks. Perhaps this is it.

Arthur, strong as he is, seems to be tiring. "Yield!" Rhaegar cries, triumphant far too quickly, since Arthur doesn't even hear him through the clashing and clanging of swords. But he will win. He must. I am the dragon. I am the prince who was promised. I will win, I must. I must, I must, I must–

Arthur's heel sinks into the loose sand and he loses his footing; Rhaegar's sword is at his throat in a second. "Yield!" he cries, for real this time. Perhaps it is not the most honourable victory, but it is a victory. "Yield, you have to yield, if you don't yield I could kill you–"

"I yield, I yield," Arthur says, chuckling, and then Rhaegar laughs wildly, not sure what else to do. Only then does he take the blade from his friend's neck. "Gods. You have some energy today, don't you?"

"It's the sun," Rhaegar explains. "The heat. It makes me stronger." Arthur gives him a strange look then, but Rhaegar opts to ignore it, because he hates that look (Arthur looks at him like he's mad). "Do you want to go again?"

Arthur scoffs. "Can I have five minutes to have a drink first?" he asks, pulling a canteen from his hip.

"In a battle, you can't ask for a break," Rhaegar says.

"Yes, but are we in a battle?" Arthur asks before pulling himself up and gulping greedily. "Here."

He offers his water to Rhaegar, who only then realises how parched he is. There is fire in my throat. Nonetheless he drinks, and slowly as his senses return to normal, he realises how much pain he's in. His skin has half-burned off in the sun. He ignores it. I am the dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon.

"I want to be good," Rhaegar explains, unnecessarily, and Arthur gives him another look.

"You are good," he points out. "Almost better than me, even."

"'Almost'? I just beat you!"

"By chance!" Arthur insists, and Rhaegar punches his arm, harder than he meant to. "Ow! What was that for?"

Rhaegar isn't sure. "I could be better than you," he says, grinning. "I could be better than anyone." Because I must be; I am the prince who was promised, and if I am not better–

"If you say so," Arthur scoffs, and for a moment Rhaegar is furious with him for not believing it. But he forces the feeling away. Arthur is his friend, it's not like Rhaegar could possibly expect him to understand. "I suppose in a real battle, a lot of it does come down to luck."

Don't tell me that. "I'll prove it," says Rhaegar. "Bare your steel and fight me like a man."

Arthur sighs as he reaches for his scabbard, like a long-suffering inkeep's wife. "You know, you don't have to take it so seriously," he says. "We're just sparring."

There is no such thing. Rhaegar says nothing and raises his blade.

Rhaegar always thought travellers who spoke of how cold the north is must be exaggerating somewhat, but now he feels like they were downplaying it. He shudders and shivers like a drowned rat, snow falling down his neck making him feel as wet as one, and he knows he does not look at all like a crown prince of the realm.

And yet, Lyanna still grins when she sees him.

He embraces her eagerly, feeling the firmness of her body, the muscle hidden beneath riding clothes, strong for a woman. "I missed you," he says, like they have met in person more than once before.

"You came," she whispers against his neck, "I wasn't sure you would."

He wants to say something about how he had to keep a promise to his lady, but the words die in his mouth. Sweet Elia, how can I do this to you? But he must, for her sakes as much as anyone's, no matter how much she'll hate him for it. "I had to," he says, truthful enough for now. "We should go, Ly, we can't be seen."

It is only a few knights who wait for them outside; only men he trusts absolutely. They all think he's gone mad, and more than a few are affronted for poor Elia's honour, but they will still do as Rhaegar says. He is the prince, the heir to the throne.

"We should," she says, solemn, but she can't keep that up for long. She breaks into giggles and then leans forward to kiss him. Rhaegar cannot help himself; it is so cold and she is so warm, and he pours himself into her, his arms tight around her waist, teeth almost drawing blood from her lips. He won't, though. He's not going to hurt her.

Somehow they stumble and lose their balance, find themselves falling onto the fresh snow beneath the great Heart Tree. Rhaegar immediately pushes himself up on his wrist, afraid of crushing her. "My apologies, my lady," he says.

Lyanna smirks at him. "What makes you think you have something to apologise for, my prince?" Her hand starts trailing along his chest. "What makes you think I didn't do that on purpose?"

He doesn't understand for a moment, until her other hand snakes around his neck and pulls him back down for another kiss, longer and surer this time. His body gives way on top of hers, but she bears the weight of him easily. She's strong. Before long she is unlacing him with giggles, and he knows she is a maid, and yet there is not a trace of shyness in her.

The Northmen used to have a custom where if a man and a woman lay together beneath the weirwoods, they were thought to have married in the eyes of the Old Gods, or so Rhaegar's read. He wonders if Lyanna knows that. He wonders if Lyanna knows if he knows it. He wonders if it's true at all, as southern words on northern men can be less than reliable.

Elia, he thinks as Lyanna takes him into her hand, shucks her riding breeches down around her ankles for him. His dear wife has always been so good, so kind to him, and this is how he repays that kidness, by dishonouring her with bigamy? Yes, if it is between that and killing her. But this is more than just finding some woman to bear him a bastard, it means something, he just doesn't know what–

He gasps as Lyanna guides him between her legs. She flinches a little, seemingly in pain, and Rhaegar wants to pull away for a moment. But she catches his eye and he knows she won't let him. "Go on," she whispers.

She is a nervous maid after all. She needs me to take control now. Gently, he winds his fingers through her dark hair (though not as dark as Elia's), whispering sweet words as he slowly pushes his length further into her. She buries a cry in the crook of his neck, and it does not sound like one of pleasure.

It's too much. I'm hurting her. But he couldn't pull out if he wanted to; her legs keep him firmly locked in place. And she is so warm, it is like she is burning on the inside, and Rhaegar, he is the dragon, he has always taken strength from the heat. He needs her. But he doesn't want to hurt her. He waits a moment, hoping she might adjust, and then reaches across her belly to stroke and rub her into pleasure.

A little higher, right, there you go, right there... Gently now, gentle, now faster, harder, go on... Elia's patient, guiding words come back to him as Lyanna gasps in his ear, bucks up toward him, and he can feel her start to shudder with pleasure like she did back at Harrenhal. It was bad enough what I did there. Slowly, Rhaegar dares to actually move, and the groan Lyanna lets out does not sound like one of pain.

As he fucks her, he makes eye with the Heart Tree above them. He shivers. Do not look at me like that, he thinks. She is my wife now. Your bloody customs say so. But Elia, sweet Elia, what of her? Will she ever forgive him? Will he ever even see her again? He could not blame her if she left him just as he has left her, and took the children back to Dorne with her. But Nyssie, my little Nyssie, if I never see her again – and Aegon, the prince who was promised–

Lyanna digs her nails into his shoulders and moans. "Faster," she whispers. Rhegar obeys. See, she enjoys it, he gloats, although he does not know who he is speaking to. She wants it, she wants me. I have not forced her, I am not Maegor the Cruel, I am not Aegon the Unworthy, I am not my father. I am the dragon. Aegon the Conqueror had two wives, didn't he? One for the Old Gods, and one for the new. And neither of mine is my sister.

He finishes faster than he wishes – it has been awhile since he's lain with a woman like this. Lyanna sounds almost disappointed when he pulls himself out. He wants to use his mouth on her, to service his new wife like she deserves, but when he sees her maidenblood spilling onto the snow he feels slightly sick. I didn't want to hurt you. He highly doubts she would appreciate it if he vomited onto her cunt, so instead he settles for finishing her off with his hand, thumb rubbing her nub of pleasure and two fingers pushing his seed in deeper.

When she comes, she cries out loud enough to wake the gods, and despite how important it is they not get caught Rhaegar can't bring himself to hush her. Let her wake the gods. I am the dragon, what can the gods do to me? Durran Godsgrief seduced a god's daughter and stole her, went to war with the heavens, and he got Storm's End out of the bargain. He wonders what Robert Baratheon would make of that.

Once they're finished he is cold again. But it doesn't matter; soon they'll be out of the North, and onto the hot sands of Dorne (it almost feels cruel, taking his new wife to his old one's homeland, but there is no-one he trusts to keep her safe more than Arthur). He stands and offers a hand to help her up, and she takes it, before they both redress themselves awkwardly.

"So. And now we go?" she asks.

"And now we go."

He's groggy when he's woken in the early morning, but when the serving boy apologetically explains why, he only wonders why he wasn't woken sooner.

It must be a funny sight, the Prince of Dragonstone hopping along in one shoe, desperate to get to his wife's chambers in time, but it doesn't matter, he needs to be there. He needs to be there now.

Once he reaches her, however, no-one seems as excited as him. "Your Grace," says the Maester, wiping his brow with exhaustion, and Rhaegar knows he's learnt the name but he cannot remember it right now, "forgive us, we would have woken you earlier, but it's been – we've been very busy–"

"That's quite alright," Rhaegar dismisses the man, looking over his shoulder to where Elia lies surrounded by handmaidens, oddly quiet for a woman giving birth. "How is she?"

The Maester sighs heavily. "Not well, I'm afraid," he says. "The birth so far has been... difficult." A chill runs down his spine, and just then Elia lets out a wail of pain – but not high and shrill like you'd think a woman in the birthing bed would, not like Mother did when she brought Viserys to the world, but like Mother did when Father... "I'm afraid you might have to prepare yourself for the worst, Your Grace."

Rhaegar is frozen for a second. "No," he spits out. "I will not." I won't have her die bearing my babe, I can't. "Listen to me, I will not have her die. If she does, I will – I will–"

I will have you flung from the castle walls and onto the rocks below. I will have you hunted with dogs like a wild boar. I will have you burned alive with wildfire. But no, Rhaegar wouldn't do any of those things – the man is just a humble Maester, he is doing his best, and Rhaegar wouldn't punish him for being unable to break the gods' will. That's what Father would do.

"...Just do all you can for her," he says, sighing in defeat, and some of the fear clears from the man's eyes – but not enough.

"Of course, Your Grace."

The birth takes two days, and Rhaegar barely leaves the chambers, sleeping on the floor when he can no longer repress the need. He thinks Elia's slipped away at least twice. After awhile, it is hard to tell what happens in front of his eyes and in his nightmares apart, it is all so similar. He does not think to eat while he waits, though after the fifteenth hour one of the serving maids comes and shoves bread beneath his nose, for it is in no-one's interest to have the heir to the throne starve himself. Rhaegar eats it, although he can barely keep it down.

After the fiftieth hour, at the break of dawn, the babe finally comes. Rhaegar holds his breath, and for a moment is so sure they will pass him a corpse, something tiny grey and dead. That's what happened whenever Mother had a birth last this long.

He hears a cry.

The room bursts into delighted noises, laughs and sighs of relief, and Rhaegar jumps to his feet. "She's alright, Your Grace," says the Maester, sounding on the edge of tears. "A girl. A healthy little baby girl."

"Let me see." Rhaegar pushes through the crowd and sees his babe in a handmaid's arms, the cord still not cut. The sight takes his breath away. The girl is tiny, red and screaming, blood covering Elia's dark Dornish skin. And she's perfect.

"Can I – can I hold her?"

He asked that when Viserys was first brought to court. Father slapped him. "Of course, Your Grace," says the maester, and as soon as the cord is cut and she is wrapped in her swaddling clothes, Rhaegar's daughter is passed to him. She's still crying. Rhaegar clutches her tight to his chest, but that does stop her.

"She wants her mother," he realises, and looks across the bed to Elia, laying asleep in a pool of blood. He hopes she's just asleep. "Elia!" he cries out, and she stirs slightly. "Elia, wake up! Elia, look at our girl! Wake up!"

He pushes the babe in front of her, and she just barely musters the strength to open her eyes. "A girl," she whispers, the Rhoynish note in her voice seeming stronger for how softly she speaks. "My apologies, Your Grace. I did not give you the heir you were hoping for."

"Damn you woman, do you think I give a fuck about that?!" Rhaegar asks. "Just look at her. Look at her. She's perfect."

He should care. He remembers what happened last time a king chose his daughter to sit the Iron Throne. But it does not matter, not now. They can have a son later, can't they?

Elia's eyes are drifting closed again. "Elia!"

"Your Grace, your wife is very tired," says the Maester. "We ought to let her rest."

Rhaegar turns to glare at him. "Let her die, you mean," he says, and the man flinches. Rhaegar feels guilty. He didn't mean that. Elia groans again. "Elia, listen to me," he turns back to her. "You cannot die. As your prince and future king, I forbid it."

She cracks open an eye again, and chuckles weakly. "I shall do my best, sweetling."

"Come now, don't speak like that," he pleads. "We still need to name her. What did you want to call her?"

He thought Elia might want to give their child some Dornish name. "I had hoped to give you a son with your name," she sighed. "Now, I am not sure."

"...Rhaenys, then," Rhaegar says. Visenya goes first, he thinks idly, but it does not matter. "Our little Nyssie. Come on, Elia, you have to live if she has a name."

He realises how stupid that is, and then there is a hand gently guiding him away. "Come now, Your Grace, let her rest. There is nothing you can do for her now." The man is right, there is nothing Rhaegar can do now. But he will not let her die bearing his babe. He can't.

Rhaegar leaves the room with his daughter still in his arms, torn between joy and grief, not sure if he'll ever see his wife again. He should not care at the moment, but somehow when he looks into his daughter's eyes there is a thought at the back of his mind: one down.