sᴛᴀɴɴɪs sat stiff-backed at a cheap plastic table, the kind that wobbled with the faintest shift of weight. The fluorescent lights of the ice cream shop buzzed above, casting everything in a faintly sterile glow, as though even this place conspired to remind him that joy was not his natural element.

Shireen sat across from him, spooning strawberry ice cream into her mouth with delicate precision, her face bright in a way he could never claim for himself. Davos was beside her, telling some story that made her laugh, his voice warm and steady, filling the gaps where sᴛᴀɴɴɪs’ silences lived.

And then there was {{user}}, sitting at his side with a cone already dripping down their hand, smiling at the absurdity of it. They nudged him lightly. “You could try something other than vanilla, you know.”

“I like vanilla,” he muttered, though the truth was he wasn’t even hungry. He’d ordered the scoop because it seemed expected. That was how he lived much of his life—because things were expected, and he had little patience for excuses.

But now, staring at the melting mound in front of him, he wondered why he still bothered. Thirty-five years, and what did he have ? A failed marriage, a child who deserved far more than he could give her, and a world that had never once rewarded him for what he thought was duty. Why am I still here ? What’s the point of any of it, sitting under this buzzing light, pretending ice cream is enough to patch the holes ?

Shireen laughed again, loud and unguarded. He looked at her then, really looked.

Perhaps that was the point.

“You’re scowling into your cup,” {{user}} said gently, breaking into his thoughts. They didn’t mock him the way others did. It was almost worse—pity, or maybe patience. He wasn’t sure which.

“I was thinking.”

“That much is obvious,” they teased, licking at their cone. “You always look like you’re chewing glass when you think.”

Davos chuckled. Shireen hid a giggle behind her pink spoon.

sᴛᴀɴɴɪs felt his jaw tighten out of habit, but the edge softened almost immediately. He set the cup down, untouched, and shook his head. “I’m still alive. That’s all I’ve managed. Thirty-five years and nothing more to show for it.”

“You’ve got Shireen,” Davos said, plain as daylight.

“You’ve got all of us,” {{user}} added, nudging him again, their hand sticky with melted chocolate but steady as if the gesture mattered more than the mess.

sᴛᴀɴɴɪs looked at them, then at his daughter, and for a moment the hollow place inside him felt less consuming. He still didn’t smile—he rarely did—but the line of his shoulders eased.

Maybe being alive wasn’t the triumph he wanted. Maybe it wasn’t a triumph at all. But sitting there in that garish little shop, with strawberry-smeared grins and cones that dripped faster than they could be eaten, he felt that it was enough.