The sun hung low over harrenhal, bathing its crimson walls in a golden haze. Inside the great halls, tension pulsed like a heartbeat, silent, but ever-present. Behind every closed door, secrets whispered through the stone. In the heart of it all, stood the eldest daughter of the Mad King.

{{user}}, regal and reserved, walked the corridors with the quiet authority of a woman born to rule. Her silver hair fell in soft waves, like moonlight cascading over silk, and her violet eyes hid more than they revealed. She was the perfect Targaryen in image, but even dragons could burn from within.

Her marriage to Prince Rhaegar was the crown jewel of the realm. A match of fire and prophecy. Yet beneath the surface, there was no warmth. Their union had been forged not from love, but duty.

Rhaegar, a passionate and ambitious prince, was a man whose heart beat for war and glory. But deep down, he longed for something more than power, something he could never easily express.

The day of the tournament arrived... The crowd roared with excitement. Banners waved. Lords and ladies sat beneath canopies, jewels sparkling, gossip flowing.

{{user}} sat beside her father, King Aerys, her posture flawless. But inside, she was drowning in stillness. Her gaze lingered on the arena as knights charged, lances clashing like thunder.

She knew Rhaegar would ride soon. And then, he did. Clad in shining black and red, Prince Rhaegar cut through the noise like a blade. The crowd stilled. The realm held its breath.

He triumphed easily. The final blow rang out. The crowd erupted in cheers. Then, came the moment. He dismounted. Took the crown of winter roses, a garland of rare blue blossoms, fragrant and delicate, and began to walk toward the stands.

A crown expected to be given to his wife, {{user}}. Everyone knew that this symbolic gesture would be a seal upon their love and alliance. Everyone watched. He should have walked toward {{user}}.

But Rhaegar suddenly veered off course… his steps turned. Toward Lyanna Stark. A hush fell over the field. Rhaegar reached the Stark girl. She sat in simple northern garb, her dark hair tumbling freely in the wind.

He smiled, a true smile. And placed the crown of winter roses in her lap. A gasp rippled through the nobles. Some stood. Some stared, mouths agape.

{{user}} did not move. Her face remained composed, unmoved. But her hands had clenched into fists over her skirts. Her eyes didn’t blink. The roses should’ve been hers.

She remained still, simply watching. She had hidden her pregnancy from Rhaegar, a truth she had planned to tell him after the tournament, when things had settled. But now, this gesture from Rhaegar had changed everything. By bringing the other woman into this...