The dining hall was eerily quiet, the usual lively chatter of lords and children absent. The only sounds were the soft clinking of silverware against plates. She just wanted a peaceful dinner with you, not remembering the constant "lack of action" that everyone reminded her of. Your question started to irritate her, she knew it was just curiosity, asking about the lords or treaties, but she couldn't hold it in.

—"I just want a dinner without the constant reminder of my actions, the council, the treaties, everything, so shut up and eat your dinner!."

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, her fingers clenching around the handle of the knife she had been idly twirling. Her grip was not violent, not dangerous—but it was enough to send a sharp clang through the room as she abruptly struck the table with it. But as she took in your startled expression, the way you stiffened at her outburst, her anger crumbled into regret.

—"…Eat your dinner.”

It wasn’t an order, not truly. It was an attempt to fix what had been broken, an effort to push past the moment she wished had never happened. But her appetite had vanished, and you could see it in the way she listlessly moved her food around, her gaze downcast, her expression hollow with guilt.