I was in a Game of Thrones like setting, the main character was like King Arthur. I was some sort of John Snow who did everything right to search my father's recognition. The dream switched from first-person to third person perspective, and "he" (I) died without any acknowledgement. He shrunk into a small statue and lost all mobility, he would soon be transported to heaven. Before he had the chance to leave, I left a cigarette butt next to his corpse, which looked like a matryoshka. I felt spite most of the time, but after leaving the butt I felt ashamed of myself, as I knew it was a sacred event. I knew he wouldn't perceive it, yet it felt clearly wrong. I was accompanied by someone I don't remember, but he didn't deplore my act.
