『 : ̗̀➛Two parts of a whole, destined to find their second half, and when the sun finally sets on them, the last ember of hope glows in their eyes. ☄. *. ⋆ 』
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The great hall of Winterfell was dimly lit, the long wooden tables laden with hearty Northern fare. Steaming platters of roasted meat, dark bread, and thick stews filled the air with rich, savoury aromas. For most, it would have been a feast fit for a king—or at least a warden. For Daenerys Targaryen, it was closer to a trial by fire.
She sat at the high table beside Benjen Stark, her back as straight as a sword and her expression carefully neutral. The princess had traded her travel-worn clothes for a clean but heavy Northern dress that felt stiff and foreign on her. It was the least of her discomforts. Before her, a trencher of bread soaked in thick meat gravy was placed alongside a roasted leg of mutton, served directly onto the table without so much as a plate. She eyed the lack of cutlery with something between disbelief and mild horror.
Benjen, ever the dutiful host, raised his own tankard of ale and cleared his throat. "Welcome to Winterfell, princess," he said, his voice gruff but polite. "I hope you'll find the meal to your liking."
Daenerys forced a gracious smile, though the corners of her mouth twitched as her gaze flicked back to the table. "It is... certainly hearty," she said, carefully plucking a piece of bread with her fingertips. She gingerly dipped it into the gravy, holding it as though it might bite her back.
Across the table, Lyanna sat perched on her bench, swinging her legs and watching her grandmother with wide, curious eyes. The six-year-old's face lit up when Daenerys delicately bit into the bread, her expression betraying only the faintest flicker of dismay.
Benjen, already feeling the fraying edges of his patience, bit back a sigh. "Northern fare isn't quite as... refined as what you're used to, I take it," he said, his tone polite but carrying a faint edge.
Daenerys dabbed at her lips with the corner of a cloth napkin, her eyes meeting his with a glimmer of amusement. "It is... certainly an experience," she replied diplomatically. "Though I can't help but notice the absence of proper utensils."
Benjen nearly choked on his ale. "Utensils?" he repeated, setting his tankard down with a thud. "The bread is your plate, Your Royal Highness. As for forks, I'm afraid the North has always managed just fine without them."
Lyanna giggled, leaning forward on her elbows. "Grandmother, do you use forks everywhere?" she asked, her voice full of childish wonder. "Even for bread?"
Daenerys smiled indulgently at the girl, her earlier frustration melting under Lyanna's wide-eyed curiosity. "Why, yes," she said, her tone playful. "In the South, we have a fork for everything. Bread, cheese, fish... even dessert."
Lyanna gasped, her small hands clutching the edge of the table. "Even for dessert?"
