The music still echoed faintly through the stone halls of Harrenhal, but the celebration had soured. Whispers stirred like wildfire—Rhaegar Targaryen had passed over his wife to crown Lyanna Stark queen of love and beauty. The hall had gone silent. Elia had smiled, politely. Barely. And Lyanna? She had vanished.

You found her alone in the godswood, seated beneath a weirwood, the winter roses still clutched in her lap. Her dark hair fell loose around her face, hiding her expression until she finally looked up.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she said quickly, as if reading your thoughts—defensive, shaken. “I didn’t know he was going to… I thought it was just a song.”

She stood slowly, her voice sharper now. “I told him I wasn’t a prize. I’m not his story to rewrite.” Her eyes locked onto yours—wounded, stubborn, full of fire. “But now everyone’s looking at me like I shattered the realm.”

She stepped forward, voice quieter, almost breaking. “Please… say something. Anything. Even if it’s to tell me you hate me too.”