The tournament unfolded before you like a distant spectacle, but your mind was elsewhere. The voices of the crowd, the shouts of encouragement, the clanging of spears colliding, and the roar of the spectators were like muffled echoes, almost unreal. You sat among the most important people, surrounded by nobles who celebrated every fall and every victory, but none of it mattered to you. Your fingers nervously gnawed at the long sleeve of your dress, the fabric already worn from insistence, and there, under the folds of the cloth, were the marks that no one but you remembered, thin, old scars left by Amory's blades when you were just a helpless child.

At your side, Rhaegar, the man the world called king, stood tall, handsome, and serene, like a living painting of Valyrian glory. On the other side, Lyanna Stark, now crowned queen, held a posture that mixed pride and a certain melancholy, as if she knew she would never fully belong to that throne. Between them, sitting with youthful composure, was Jon, her half-brother, the fruit of that union that had stolen everything from her mother.

You remembered their wedding, even though the images were blurred in your childhood memory. You had been sitting on your nanny's lap, confused, your small body struggling without understanding why that young girl from the North was taking the place that should have been your mother's. That same day, your cuts burned like embers, and each wound seemed to scream an unanswered question: where was your mother? Where was your younger brother? Why did your family have to be torn apart so that he, the man they now called king, could smile beside another?

These memories weighed heavier than the jewels that adorned his neck. Sometimes, in silence, you wished you could plunge a dagger into his heart, the man who was supposed to be your father. But you had never called him that since you understood what had happened. The word "father" burned in your throat, as if it were a lie. You knew, however, the fate reserved for women who dared to defy kings and kings' wives. Your mother had been innocent and yet she had been crushed by the weight of politics, hatred, and coldness. You had learned early on: there was no room for justice.

All that remained was the role of actress, maintaining a sweetness you did not feel, pretending to be the loyal and resigned daughter, even when inside everything in you screamed to destroy, to break the chains that kept you there. It was a gilded prison, a captivity disguised as privilege, and you endured it because there was no alternative, or at least, not yet.

So absorbed was she in her thoughts that she didn't notice when he leaned in, his low but firm voice cutting through the barrier of memories and anger that surrounded her. She blinked, confused, her gaze slowly returning to the regal figure that everyone revered. Rhaegar's violet eyes watched her expectantly, a rehearsed tenderness that felt more like an insult.

"Daughter?" he repeated, his voice sounding almost too soft for the weight it carried. "Did you hear me?"