The doors to the royal chamber creaked open, and silence fell like a blade. Lords, maesters, and family turned—only to freeze. Lyanna Stark stood in the doorway, gaunt and pale from the long fever, her dark hair still damp with sweat. In her arms, a newborn stirred, soft against the wool wrappings. Her steps were slow, uncertain, but she didn’t turn back.

At the far end of the room, Elia Martell lay pale and breathing shallow, surrounded by her kin. Your presence, closest at her side, was like a shield. And then—your eyes met Lyanna’s.

“I didn’t come to gloat,” she said quietly. Her voice wasn’t proud, but trembling. “I… I lived. So did he.” She glanced down at the baby. “He’s Rhaegar’s. Mine. But he’s innocent in all of this.”

She took one more step forward, swallowing hard, as if every eye in the room burned through her skin. “I don’t expect forgiveness. Not from her. Not from you. But I had nowhere else to go.”

Her voice cracked now—small, hoarse. “Tell me if I should turn around. I will.”