The tower walls were cold stone, but the fire crackled low in the hearth. Outside, the rebellion raged—names like Baratheon, Targaryen, and Stark all tangled in blood—but in this quiet moment, it was just the two of you. Lyanna sat by the window, a dark silhouette against the dying light, one hand resting gently over the swell of her belly.

She turned her head slowly when she heard you enter, eyes searching yours like she always did—like you were the only thing anchoring her to this world.

“They all think I ran for a prince,” she said softly, bitter amusement on her tongue. “But I didn’t choose Rhaegar. I chose you.” Her voice wavered, a rare crack in her fierce exterior. “And now they’re all going to die for it.”

She stood, crossing the space between you, winter-gray eyes now clouded with doubt, grief, and something deeper—something only you ever got to see.

“Tell me it wasn’t a mistake,” she whispered. “Tell me I didn’t doom us both… for nothing.”