The early hours of the morning are rather peaceful, until the news finally reaches Dragonstone. The death of Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen. The beheading of a child, supposedly at the hand of the Black Queen.

Rhaenyra the Cruel.

Certainly, the rumors are just that, rumors. Though unfortunately the Greens seem rather content on blaming Rhaenyra for the death of the child.

The day could've been so perfect.

Saerra and Rhaenyra had woken up in each other's arms, yet this horrible news brings them into a state of shock and despair, in which the Black Queen is being blamed.

" And they are accusing me of having a hand in this?"

" It appears so," The maester says," There have been messages sent to that effect throughout the realm."

" We must send our own messages, denying this vile allegation," Saerra says as she and her wife hold hands.

" I will do so at once, but I'm not sure they will be received in good faith."

" And we must double our guard, here and in Driftmark," Rhaenyra adds," There will be swift retribution in one form or another–"

" I have seen to it, Your Grace," Lord Celitgar interjects.

Rhaenyra's eldest son and heir enters the Great Hall, hands resting on his sword as he approaches the painted table," Let me fly out on Vermax. Rhaenys is needed in the Gullet and I can watch for movements from King's Landing."

" No," Rhaenyra swiftly denies.

" It must be said that the damage to our position is immeasurable, at a time when we most need loyalty to our cause," Lord Celtigar interjects one more.

" But it's a lie," Rhaenyra stutters out of pure disbelief," Having lost my own son, that I would inflict such a thing on Helaena, of all people... an innocent.

" The death of Prince Lucerys was a shock and an insult," Alfred Broome starts," A mother so aggrieved might, naturally, seek relief in retribution."

" Are you suggesting, Ser Alfred, that my grief drove me to order the decapitation of a child?" Rhaenyra angrily questions.

" I merely thought, perhaps, an action taken in haste."

" Mind yourself," Rhaenys says softly yet sternly, her gaze focused on Daemon.

Only now does Saerra follow her father's wife's gaze to see that at the end of them is her own husband. Rhaenyra seems to figure it out quite quickly, and soon dismisses the council. The Queen grabs Saerra's hands as they walk together to the Queen's chambers with Daemon trailing behind them.

"Did you send assassins to murder children in their beds?" Rhaenyra demands as they enter the room.

"I sent the queen's vengeance for her son," Daemon says, sitting down with a bowl of porridge in front of him.

"What did you tell this vengeance?" Rhaenyra asks, her voice rising, "What did you say to him, Daemon, that a boy lies dead and I am accused of killing it?"

"Mysaria provided me with names and a subterfuge," Daemon responds, his tone defensive, "I was clear in my instructions: Aemond, the brother of Aegon the Usurper. I cannot be responsible for a mistake."

"Cannot be responsible?" Saerra asks in disbelief, "If Aemond was not to be found, what were your instructions then?"

Daemon sighs, his frustration evident, "They did not concern, in any way, that of a little child."

"You said that it was your aim to spill Hightower blood, and if not Aemond, then anyone would do," Rhaenyra says, her voice shaking with anger.

"No," Daemon says, his denial firm.

"You have wounded me," Rhaenyra says, her voice breaking, "Weakened my claim to the throne, my ability to raise an army, my standing among my own council."

"I said no."

"I don't believe you," Rhaenyra responds, her eyes filled with disappointment.

Rhaenyra sighs as she walks to stare out the window, "And so we come to it, at long last. I cannot trust you, Daemon. I've never trusted you, wholly... much though I wished to, willed myself to. But now I have seen that your heart belongs only to you. And when I was a child, I took this as a challenge. But I am older now. I have challenges enough."

"I have served you faithfully," Daemon says, their eyes locking.

"Have you? Or have you used me as a tool with which to grasp at your stolen inheritance?"

Daemon's anger flares, and he slams the bowls and cups on the table to the ground. He marches toward Rhaenyra, but Saerra steps between them, her presence a protective shield.

"When Ser Erryk brought you the crown... did I myself not place it upon your brow?" Daemon asks, staring at Rhaenyra past Saerra.

"Yes," Rhaenyra nods, "but before that, you sought to lead a council of war while I labored in my bedchamber. And afterward, when I thought it meet to consider the terms our foes put before us—"

"A folly! A folly!" Daemon exclaims, sauntering to the other side of the room, "To give up my brother's throne to the traitorous lies of Otto Hightower!"

"My throne, Daemon, mine! I think you used my words as an excuse to take your own revenge... to indulge the darkness you keep sheathed within you like a blade."

"You think me some kind of monster—"

"Oh, I don't know what to think of you. I don't know what you are, or who it is you serve."

"Am I not on my way, even now, to Harrenhal to raise an army in your name, Rhaenyra?! Yours!" Daemon exclaims.

"Do you accept me as your queen and ruler?" Rhaenyra asks, standing before him, her hand instinctively reaching out to grab Saerra as the woman with black hair stands behind her, "Or do you cling, even now, to what you think you lost?"

"What I think I lost?" Daemon echoes her words.

"You did not lose it," Rhaenyra insists, "You gave it away... because you thought ever and only of your own glory, and not of my father in his grief who needed you."

"Your father was a coward who knew I was the stronger son, that I was the leader of men, and he was afraid to be seen in my shadow," Daemon utters.

"Is that what you understand of your own brother?"

"Oh, you know him better than I do, who was raised at his side? Do you believe he made you heir because of your great wisdom? Because of your virtue?"

"How dare you—" Rhaenyra starts.

"Or did he merely use you as a tool to put me in my place because he was afraid of me?" Daemon asks, turning away, "Because he knew your legacy, unlike mine, would never outshine his own."

"He was not afraid of you, Daemon!" Rhaenyra cries out, her anger and passion boiling over as she marches toward him, "He could not trust you... any more than I can trust you."

"He was a fool... who sought greatness but shrank from spilling blood to achieve it. And I see you will suffer the same fate."

"You struck down a child," Rhaenyra whispers, finding her calm during the storm.

"It was a mistake," Daemon admits, his voice softening.

"You're pathetic," Rhaenyra says under her breath.

Daemon's eyes find Saerra, seeking any remaining hope. But to his little surprise, Saerra walks toward Rhaenyra and interlaces their hands together.

With one final scoff, Daemon marches out of their chambers and slams the door shut, the sound making his wives jump.

The waves crash gently against the rugged shoreline of Dragonstone, the salty air bristling with a crisp, cool breeze. The sun is climbing higher into the sky, casting long, warm shadows on the black sands. Saerra stands at the edge of the beach, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the sky meets the sea. Her heart is heavy with the pain of the morning's argument, but she forces herself to stay strong for her daughters.

Haeyle and Maella are playing a short distance away, their laughter mingling with the sound of the waves. Haeyle, with her bright silver hair flying in the wind, chases her younger sister along the shoreline, both of them barefoot and carefree. Maella's giggles echo across the beach, a sound so pure and innocent that it momentarily lifts the weight on Saerra's shoulders.

"Look, Mother, I found a shell!" Maella calls out, holding up a small, iridescent shell for her mother to see.

Saerra forces a smile and walks over to her daughters, her feet sinking slightly into the damp sand with each step.

"It's beautiful," Saerra says, crouching down to examine it.

Haeyle joins them, her eyes reflecting the same concern that Saerra feels.

"Are you alright, Mother?" She asks softly, her voice barely audible over the sound of the waves.

Saerra brushes a strand of hair from Haeyle's face and nods, though the gesture feels like a lie, "I'm alright, my sweet angel. Just... thinking."

"About Father?" Hayle probes gently, her young face lined with worry.

Saerra's heart clenches at the mention of Daemon, but she remains composed.

"Yes," She admits.

Maella, sensing the somber tone, slips her small hand into Saerra's.

"Can we play in the water?" She asks, her eyes wide with innocent hope.

Saerra smiles genuinely this time, the simple request a welcome distraction from her troubled thoughts, "Of course, my gem. Let's all go into the water."

The three of them walk towards the sea, the cool water lapping at their feet. Maella squeals with delight as the waves tickle her toes, and Haeyle laughs, splashing her sister playfully. Saerra watches them, her heart swelling with a fierce, protective love.

As they venture deeper into the water, Saerra's thoughts begin to drift. The sea has always been her refuge, a place where she can let her mind go blank and find peace. The water rises to her knees, then her waist, and soon she is up to her chest, the cool embrace of the ocean a soothing balm to her troubled soul.

"Stay close to the shore, my loves," She calls to her daughters, who are still splashing near the edge.

They nod, caught up in their games, and Saerra continues to wade deeper, feeling the sand slipping away beneath her feet.

She reaches a point where she can no longer touch the bottom, and she lets herself float, her body buoyant in the saltwater. She closes her eyes, allowing the gentle rise and fall of the waves to lull her into a state of calm. For a moment, the weight of her responsibilities, the pain of her argument with Daemon, and the fear for her family's future all fade away. She is simply Saerra, a woman adrift in the vast expanse of the sea.

Time seems to stand still as she floats, her mind blissfully empty. The sun warms her face, and the rhythm of the waves becomes a soothing melody. She is vaguely aware of her daughters' laughter, a comforting reminder of why she must remain strong. But for now, she allows herself this brief respite, this moment of peace.

Eventually, she feels a small hand tugging at her arm, and she opens her eyes to see Hayle floating beside her, her young face filled with concern.

"Mother, are you alright?" Haeyle asks, her voice trembling slightly.

Saerra blinks, the spell of the sea broken. She nods, reaching out to pull Hayle close, " Just needed a moment to clear my head."

"Don't float away too far," Haeyle says, her voice stern in a way that makes Saerra smile, "We need you here."

"I promise I won't," Saerra assures her, giving her a gentle squeeze.

They begin to swim back towards the shore, where Maella waits with a collection of shells she has gathered.

Back on the beach, they sit together, Saerra in the middle with her arms around her daughters. The sun is now high in the sky, and the world feels a little less heavy. They talk about everything and nothing, their conversation filled with laughter and light-hearted stories. Saerra listens to her daughters, their voices a soothing balm to her weary soul.

As the sky turns a deep, fiery orange, they make their way back to Dragonstone, the castle standing tall and resolute against the darkening sky. Saerra holds her daughters' hands tightly, feeling the warmth and love that they bring into her life. She knows that together, they can face anything.

The night descends upon Dragonstone, casting a shroud of darkness over the island. The castle's torches flicker in the cool evening breeze, casting long, wavering shadows. Saerra stands in the dimly lit hallway outside her daughters' chambers, listening to their soft, even breaths as they sleep. She leans in to kiss each of them on the forehead, her heart swelling with love and a fierce need to protect them.

"Goodnight, my sweet girls," She whispers, her voice barely audible.

She steps back and closes the door gently, ensuring it doesn't creak. She lingers for a moment, her hand resting on the wooden door, before turning to make her way through the silent castle.

The stone walls feel colder tonight, the silence heavier. Saerra wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she descends the staircase leading to the courtyard. The moon is high, its silver light illuminating the pathways and casting a serene glow over the landscape. Saerra walks with a purpose, her steps firm and steady, but her mind adrift.

She finds herself drawn to the beach once more, the rhythmic crashing of the waves calling to her. But tonight, she bypasses the familiar stretch of sand and heads towards the rocky outcrops that dot the island's perimeter. She hasn't explored this part of Dragonstone much since her arrival, and something compels her to venture further.

The path is rough and uneven, but Saerra navigates it with ease, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. She feels a strange pull, an instinct deep within her guiding her steps. As she rounds a bend, she spots a narrow trail leading up the cliffside, almost hidden among the jagged rocks. Without hesitation, she follows it, her breath coming in measured, steady puffs.

The climb is steep, and the path winds precariously close to the edge. Saerra's heart pounds with the exertion, but she presses on, the pull growing stronger with each step. As she reaches the top, she finds herself on a small, flat plateau overlooking the sea. The view is breathtaking, the moonlight casting a silvery sheen over the endless expanse of water.

But it is not the view that captures her attention. In the center of the plateau, nestled among the rocks, is a dragon. The creature is old and weathered, its dark blue scales glistening faintly in the moonlight. It lies curled in on itself, its breathing slow and steady, as if in a deep slumber.

Saerra's breath catches in her throat. She recognizes the dragon from the old stories, the one they call "The Mother." Muña, the ancient dragon who has sired many of the dragons that fly over Westeros, but who herself remains small for her age, just a tad larger than Syrax.

Saerra takes a cautious step forward, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and awe. The dragon stirs, lifting its massive head to gaze at her with eyes that seem to hold centuries of wisdom. Saerra feels a strange connection, a bond that she cannot explain but knows to be true.

She is a Velaryon bastard, after all.

"Muña," She whispers, her voice trembling.

The dragon's eyes narrow slightly, as if trying to understand the strange woman standing before her. Saerra takes another step forward, her hand outstretched. The dragon does not move, but its gaze remains fixed on her.

Saerra's heart swells with a myriad of emotions. Here is a dragon, a creature of legend and power, offering her a bond that few in this world could ever hope to experience. But she also knows the reality of their situation. The dragons are instruments of war, tools to be wielded in the bloody conflicts that plague the realm. Saerra cannot justify bringing another dragon into the chaos, not when she longs for peace.

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself.

"I cannot bind you to the horrors of war," She says softly.

The dragon tilts its head, a low rumble emanating from its chest. Saerra steps closer, her hand now resting on the dragon's snout. She feels the rough texture of the scales, the warmth of the dragon's breath. The bond between them is undeniable, but so is Saerra's resolve.

"You must go," She says, her voice firm.

The dragon seems to hesitate, its eyes filled with confusion. Saerra feels a pang of sorrow, but she knows she must do this. She steps back, making a sweeping gesture with her arms, "Fly, Muña. Be free."

The dragon remains still, its massive wings tucked close to its body. Saerra's heart aches with the effort to remain strong. She steps back again, her voice rising, "Go!"

Still, the dragon does not move. Saerra feels a surge of frustration and desperation. She turns and picks up a small stone, throwing it towards the dragon.

"Go!" She shouts, her voice echoing across the plateau, " Nyke udrāzma ao! (I command you!)"

Muña lets out a low, mournful growl, but slowly, she begins to unfold her wings. The sight is both majestic and heartbreaking. Saerra watches as the dragon stretches its wings, their dark blue expanse catching the moonlight. With a powerful thrust, Muña lifts off the ground, her wings beating against the air.

Saerra steps back, shielding her eyes from the gust of wind. She watches as the dragon rises higher and higher, her heart clenching with a mixture of pride and sorrow.

The dragon circles the plateau once, a final, lingering look at the woman who set her free. Then, with a powerful sweep of her wings, Muña flies away, disappearing into the night sky.

Saerra stands there, her heart heavy but her spirit resolute. She knows she has done the right thing, even if it breaks her heart. The island is silent once more, the only sound the gentle lapping of the waves far below. She takes a deep breath, feeling a sense of peace settle over her.

She turns and begins the descent back to the castle, her steps lighter, her resolve stronger. She knows the path ahead will be fraught with challenges, but she also knows she has the strength to face them. For her daughters, for herself, and for the peace she so desperately seeks.

As she reaches the castle, she takes one last look at the sky, hoping that Muña finds the peace she has given up. Saerra steps inside the castle at the very moment the twins fight to the death and nobody knows which one is which. The very moment the first life is taken, Saerra begins to walk up the steps, her ears then picking up on words spoken by the life yet to be taken.

" Forgive me."

✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦