She doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. Her shoulders tighten, noticeably; her arms are corded muscle. "No, Your Majesty, you're right; I can't tell you that my opinion on this isn't shaped by, as you so quaintly put it, what 'happened to me' when I was a kid. I listened to some power-hungry sons of bitches violate and murder my sisters and torture and kill my father; I saw my mother die and I ended my brother's life myself, and it was all because of my family's title, so yes, you might call it something of a formative experience."

Her jaw is as tight as it gets. She hates this; she hates talking about this, she hates bringing it into an argument. She hates him for going low enough to drag it up.

"But that's not what this is fucking about! This is about how fucking overwhelming it is to have an entire planet depend on you, knowing as a child that that responsibility is going to be yours and that's what you're expected to do with your life." She snaps upright; folds her arms, and they're almost mirror images of each other, two tall, powerful people with crossed arms and furious eyes, glaring at each other over a table.

"There's a difference the size of a Star Destroyer between 'the throne is yours if you want it' and 'you're the heir to the throne, Princess.' "