Stannis Baratheon was a dutiful man, that could not be denied.
He had never wished to hold Dragonstone, but when Robert had given him the ancient seats of the Targaryens he had accepted. It was his duty of a younger brother to the eldest, though in truth it was more of a pittance than a prize for his efforts in the war.
He had never wished to get married, either, but when his lords bannermen had urged him to take a bride he had accepted to wed Axell Florent's niece. He didn't love Selyse, but he did his duty in the marriage bed and consoled himself with the thought of the sons he would have.
Now he was looking out of a thin tower window, his arms crossed, staring at the grey salt sea that surrounded the island. He had never loved Robert, but he was his older brother and his death had been a hard blow.
From the garden he heard a clangor of bells and the fool Patchface's voice raised in song. He couldn't see her from there, but surely his daughter was in the garden below.
He tried to imagine her playing in the garden below, but the thought made him grimace rather than smile. He knew only too well that the girl was feeble and prone to illness. She could not see her, only the sons that he never had. He always saw them when he looked at Shireen's face: his lady wife's stern face, the red woman that made him feel even colder despite her flames, and above all Robert, who was everything he would never be.
His jaw clenched at the thought of Shireen. She was his only daughter, his only heir. He should win the throne for her sake too, so that her children might one day sit in the throne that belonged to the Baratheons by right of conquest. That he would do, because it was his duty as a lord and as a father. But he could not bring himself to love his daughter.