" Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

It is Daemon whom first steps forward, his forehead touching Rhaenyra's as they both still mourn the loss of Lucerys. The Queen looks as though she didn't sleep the entire time she was gone. Her hair is deshelved and her eyes are red and swollen.

" Your council stands at the ready, Your Grace. I will fly to Harrenhal at your command and set our toehold in the Riverlands."

" Your Grace, my lord husband's blockade of the Gullet moves into place. All seaborne travel and trade to King's Landing will soon be cut off."

But Rhaenyra pays them no mind. She simply walks to the head of the painted table, her hands clutching onto a cloak that she won't dare to let go of. She speaks nothing other than four simple words for the first time in weeks.

" I want Aemond Targaryen."

It's all that Daemon needs to hear in order for him to set his plan in motion. Saerra holds her daughter's hands, her eyes searching for Rhaenyra's, but they never meet. Rhaenyra is too quick to depart, as is Daemon.

Saerra follows her darling wife into her chambers, leaving the daughters with a nanny as a wife goes to console her own wife.

" Rhaenyra," Saerra whispers, her voice soft and gentle as she watches the woman on the verge of yet another breakdown," Rhaenyra please."

" There is nothing to say," Rhaenyra utters, her voice cracking under the weight of her grief as she finally turns around," He's dead."

" I know," Saerra nods as the salty tears return to her eyes," The sun will never shine again."

" He was just a boy," Rhaenyra cries," And they killed him."

" Aemond killed him," Saerra corrects as she steps forward, trying to be strong no matter how much her body calls on her to break," There will be justice."

Rhaenyra's shoulders shake with the force of her sobs, and she clutches the cloak even tighter, as though it is the last piece of Lucerys she can hold on to. Saerra steps forward, her heart breaking anew with each of Rhaenyra's cries. She places a hand on Rhaenyra's shoulder, feeling the tension and grief coursing through her wife's body.

"Rhaenyra," Saerra whispers again, her voice a soft plea for connection.

Rhaenyra turns to face her, her eyes swollen and red, her face streaked with tears. Saerra reaches up, gently wiping the tears away with her thumbs. For a moment, they simply stand there, their foreheads touching, sharing their sorrow in a moment of intimate silence.

Saerra then takes Rhaenyra's hand and leads her to the large bathtub in their chambers, already filled with warm, steaming water. She helps Rhaenyra undress, her movements tender and reverent. Rhaenyra allows herself to be cared for, her grief making her pliant and vulnerable.

As they step into the water, Saerra gently guides Rhaenyra to sit, the warmth of the bath soothing their tired, aching bodies. Saerra sits behind her, slowly pouring water over Rhaenyra's hair, the action almost meditative. She carefully lathers soap into Rhaenyra's silver locks, her fingers working through the tangles with a gentleness born of deep love.

Rhaenyra closes her eyes, leaning back against Saerra, finding comfort in her wife's steady presence. The feel of Saerra's hands in her hair is calming, each stroke a reminder that she is not alone in her grief. Silent tears continue to slip down her cheeks, but they are now tears of release, a shared sorrow.

When Saerra finishes washing Rhaenyra's hair, she carefully rinses it clean, her movements slow and deliberate. She then turns Rhaenyra around so they are facing each other, their knees touching beneath the water. With a soft smile, Saerra takes a cloth and gently washes Rhaenyra's face, neck, and shoulders, her touch tender and loving.

Rhaenyra's eyes open, and she looks at Saerra with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. She reaches out, taking the cloth from Saerra and returning the gesture, washing her wife's face with the same care and affection. The act of caring for each other becomes a balm for their wounded hearts, a way to express their love and support in the midst of their shared grief.

After their bath, Saerra wraps Rhaenyra in a large, soft towel, drying her with the utmost care. She leads her to the bed, where they sit side by side, the weight of their loss still heavy but made lighter by their closeness. Saerra takes a comb and begins to work through Rhaenyra's hair, her fingers deft and sure as she braids it in the style of Visenya Targaryen, a warrior queen who fought with both strength and grace.

As she braids, Saerra's mind drifts to memories of Lucerys—his laughter, his bright eyes, the way he would cling to her for comfort. The tears come again, but this time, they are mingled with the faintest smile.

Rhaenyra reaches for Saerra's hair, her hands trembling slightly. She begins to braid it in a similar style, her fingers working through the dark strands with a tenderness that speaks of their deep bond. They sit in silence, the only sounds the soft rustle of hair and the occasional sniffle.

When Rhaenyra finishes, she pulls Saerra into her arms, holding her tightly. They cling to each other, drawing strength from their shared love and the memories of their son. In this embrace, they find a moment of peace, a sanctuary from the storm of grief that surrounds them.

As the night deepens, they lie down together, their bodies entwined. Saerra places gentle kisses on Rhaenyra's forehead, cheeks, and lips, each kiss a promise of her unwavering support and love. Rhaenyra responds in kind, her kisses soft and filled with gratitude.

They fall asleep in each other's arms, their breaths synchronized, their hearts beating as one. The grief is still there, a constant presence, but it is tempered by the love they share.

As the first light of dawn creeps into the room, Saerra wakes with Rhaenyra still nestled against her. She watches her wife sleep, her heart swelling with love and determination. They may be broken, but they are not defeated.

For now, they have this moment, this fragile peace.

Vermax is soon sighted, and Prince Jacaerys returns to Dragonstone, first to see his betrothed to compose himself before he meets with the Queen. Both of their heads bow, before Baela leaves the son to speak with his mother.

" Your Grace," Jace says as he steps forward, his voice trembling and eyes watering as he does his best to remain dutiful," Lady Jeyne Arryn has pledged her support in exchange for a dragon to guard the Vale. And Lord Cregan Stark... has promised 2,000 men..."

But the boy falls short and cannot maintain his composure. He soon collapses into his mother's embrace, where they both spill tears for the Pearl of Driftmark.

The funeral pyre is lit on the isle, and not a single dry eye watches the flames burn. The family stands together minus one to honor the dead.

A son.

A brother.

A cousin.

A betrothed.

A friend.

Prince Lucerys Velaryon.

The Pearl of Driftmark.

Heir to the Driftwood Throne.

Little Luke.

Jace throws a blanket into the flame, then Saerra picks up Joffrey into her arms so he may throw a little wooden toy into the flame, followed by Rhaenyra who tosses the only bit of her son that she could find-- his cloak.

All the items burn on the fire as the family finally says goodbye.

Maella and the little one are still quite young to understand what's going on, but Haeyle and Joffrey are old enough to understand that Luke is never coming back.

Rhaenyra holds hands with her eldest son in this time of need, while Saerra holds her daughter's and Joffrey close to her body, and Rhaenys and Corlys stand behind Baela and Rhaena.

Saerra has to pretend as though Corlys is not there. She has to look anywhere but in his direction.

Her heart is already broken enough.

After the funeral, Saerra walks with the children back into the castle. Haeyle and Joffrey walk side by side, and Maella is held tight in her mother's arms. She feels a presence that looms behind and hears the sound of heavy steps accompanied by a wooden cane tapping the stone steps.

" Haeyle," Saerra utters as she sets her youngest child down on the ground," Take your siblings back to the nursery."

The child nods and then begins to run up the steps of the castle, allowing a moment of silence to pass over the father and daughter.

" What do you want?" Saerra asks, not daring to turn around to face Corlys.

Corlys' presence is a weight on Saerra's back, a reminder of every hurtful word, every dismissive glance, every moment of neglect that shaped her early years. She keeps her back to him, eyes fixed on the distant sea, the crashing waves a soothing contrast to the turmoil inside her.

"Saerra," Corlys begins, his voice rough with age and perhaps regret, but she doesn't let herself soften.

"What do you want?" She repeats, her tone colder, sharper.

She does not need his condolences or his attempt at reconciliation. Not here, not now.

"I wanted to... talk," He says, the words halting as if he's unused to admitting weakness.

Saerra clenches her fists, nails biting into her palms, " There's nothing more to talk about."

"But there is," He insists, stepping closer. She can almost feel the warmth of his presence, but it offers no comfort, "I failed you. I know that."

She spins around, eyes blazing with a mix of grief and anger, "Failed me? You made me feel like I was nothing, like my existence was a mistake! You tore me down every chance you got. And now, now you think you can just come here and... and what? Make amends?"

"I am sorry," Corlys says, his voice softer now, but she hears the tremor in it, "I am so, so sorry."

She scoffs, the word bitter on her tongue, "Sorry doesn't change anything. Sorry doesn't erase years of pain. Sorry doesn't bring Luke back."

His face falls, the weight of her words striking him deeply. For a moment, he looks like an old man, worn and broken by the passage of time and the weight of his regrets.

"You're right," He admits, lowering his head, "But I'm here, trying. I want to try."

Saerra shakes her head, a mirthless laugh escaping her, " Now you want to try? After everything?"

He takes another step closer, his cane tapping against the stone, "Yes, now. Because I see what I've lost. I see what I did to you, and I want to make it right."

She looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time in years. There's pain in his eyes, pain and a plea for forgiveness that she isn't ready to give.

Without another word, she turns and walks away, the distance between them a chasm that years of neglect and pain have carved. She feels his gaze on her back, but she doesn't look back. She can't.

In the castle, the children are waiting, their innocent faces a balm to her wounded soul. She gathers them close, drawing strength from their presence. They are her future, her reason to keep going, even when the past threatens to drown her.

She leads them to the nursery, settling them with gentle words and soft touches. Haeyle looks at her with wide, questioning eyes, but Saerra only smiles, a sad, tired smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Everything will be alright," She whispers, even though she isn't sure of it herself.

When the children are finally asleep, Saerra retreats to her chambers, the weight of the day pressing down on her. She sinks into a chair by the window, staring out at the darkening sky. Her thoughts drift back to Lucerys, to his bright smile and infectious laughter. The ache in her chest is a constant reminder of his absence, a wound that refuses to heal.

As the night deepens, a soft knock sounds at the door. Saerra doesn't move, doesn't respond. She isn't ready for more condolences, more empty words.

The door opens slowly, and Rhaenyra steps in, her face a mirror of Saerra's grief. She closes the door behind her and walks over to Saerra, kneeling by her side. Without a word, she takes Saerra's hand, holding it tightly.

For a long time, they sit in silence, the weight of their shared sorrow hanging heavy in the air. Rhaenyra's presence is a comfort, a reminder that Saerra isn't alone in her pain.

Eventually, Rhaenyra stands, pulling Saerra up with her. She leads her to the bed, where they lie down together, holding each other close. The tears come again, quiet and steady, but this time they are shared, their grief a bridge that connects them.

Rhaenyra's fingers trace soothing patterns on Saerra's back, her touch a balm to the raw edges of Saerra's heart. Saerra buries her face in Rhaenyra's neck, her tears soaking into her wife's skin. They cling to each other, finding solace in their closeness.

When the tears finally subside, Rhaenyra tilts Saerra's face up, her eyes soft and filled with love. She leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to Saerra's lips. The kiss is tender, a promise of support and understanding.

Saerra responds, her kisses soft and full of gratitude. They kiss slowly, taking their time, each kiss a reminder that they are still here, still together.

But their bed feels quite empty without their shared husband.

The emptiness sends a chill through the air on this dark night. The night in which Daemon Targaryen is not on Dragonstone, but in King's Landing.

He relied on the help of Mysaria after all.

And in King's Landing, Daemon finds a member of the City Watch whom detests the Hightowers.

Blood.

And a rat catcher whom will do anything to clear his gambling debt.

Cheese.

It is they who sneak into the castle whilst all eyes are closed, on a mission to pay back the blood that was spilt. It was the Black Queen's words that inspired Daemon to put a price on Aemond's life... yet it was his discretion that led to the death of the boy.

Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen.

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