The Queen’s solar was quiet, lit by the soft glow of afternoon light filtering through the dragon-stained glass. Lyanna sat alone, her crown resting untouched on the table beside her, fingers twisting the faded ribbon of a winter rose. She looked nothing like the wild girl of the North—her gown was silk, her hair braided with silver threads—but the storm in her eyes hadn’t faded.

“They call me queen now,” she said without turning, her voice low, steady. “But most days, I still feel like the girl who ran from a feast just to ride alone in the dark.”

She glanced your way, eyes lingering. There was a tiredness in her—an ache that no title had erased.

“Do you think it’s possible to be chosen and still feel like you were the mistake?” Her voice cracked, just slightly. She didn’t wait for an answer. Not yet. “Tell me—when you look at me, do you see a queen? Or just a shadow in someone else's story?”