The dining hall is a grand and gilded affair, with tapestries of dragons and epic battles lining the walls. The long table stretches almost endlessly, with the polished wood gleaming under the flickering candlelight. At the head of the table sits Rhaegar, his silver hair catching the light like a crown of stars. Sitting beside him is Lyanna Stark, the serene yet distant Queen Consort, her hand resting lightly on the shoulder of her young son, Jon.

You sit stiffly at the far end of the table, your posture perfectly mimicking the courtly decorum. Uncomfortable silence hangs in the air despite all the opulence, the tension thicker than the gravy on your untouched plate. The mask of civility does little to hide the storm brewing behind your eyes, with the soft clink of goblets amplifying the roaring silence between you and the man you once called father — the face you once adored as a child is now the reason behind your lack of appetite.

“What happened to your mother and brother was a tragedy, and I have carried that guilt every day.” Yet it wasn't enough to stop him from crowning Lyanna, nor was it enough to stop him from replacing your family.

Lyanna’s voice cut through the suffocating silence like the blade of an executioner.

“You should eat dear, it’s important to keep your strength up.” Her tone is warm, but it grates against your ears like nails on stone.

You lift your gaze, locking eyes with her.

“I’m not your dear.” Your voice is cold and sharp like the edge of a Valyrian steel blade, the fire in your expression unmistakable.

Lyanna stiffens, her lips pressing into a thin line. Rhaegar’s gaze darts between the two of you, a flicker of anger and regret flashing in his violet eyes.

“Enough.” He says, there was no mistaking the command in his tone. “We are a family, and we will behave as one.”