The night is a restless one for Saerra. Her mind is a tempest of worry and guilt, her heart heavy with the weight of her perceived failure. Rhaenyra is missing, and nobody knows where the Queen has gone. The castle is abuzz with whispers and hushed conversations, but none of it brings her any comfort. She paces the floor, her thoughts a chaotic swirl, unable to find peace.

When dawn breaks, Saerra decides she cannot simply wait and do nothing. She heads to the training yard, her bow in hand, seeking the solace of familiarity in the face of uncertainty. The cool morning air greets her, and she breathes it in deeply, trying to steady her nerves.

She sets up a target at the far end of the yard and begins to practice. Drawing an arrow from her quiver, she nocks it and takes aim. The bow feels familiar in her hands, yet her muscles are stiff, her movements not as fluid as they once were. She releases the arrow, and it flies wide, missing the target by a good margin.

Frustration gnaws at her, and she nocks another arrow. This time she takes more care, drawing the string back and holding her breath as she aims. But the doubts in her mind are a persistent distraction, and once again, the arrow flies off course.

She continues to practice, her frustration growing with each missed shot. Years away from the battlefield have made her rusty, and the realization only adds to her sense of failure. The memories of battles past, of the precision and skill she once possessed, haunt her every move.

As she draws the string back for another shot, a voice calls out to her.

"Saerra," says Jace, stepping into the training yard. His presence startles her, and she releases the arrow prematurely. It misses the target entirely, embedding itself in the ground several feet away.

Saerra lowers her bow, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She turns to face Jace, who stands there with a determined look on his face.

"I'm sorry," He says, though there's an edge of impatience in his voice, "I didn't mean to distract you."

"It's all right," Saerra replies, her voice tinged with weariness.

She can see the fire in Jace's eyes, the same fire that burns in Daemon's, and perhaps even Harwin's. It's a restless energy, a need to act, to be useful.

Jace steps closer, his expression earnest, "I can't just stand around and do nothing. I want to help, to fight. I can't bear being stuck here while there's a war out there."

Saerra sighs, understanding his frustration all too well.

"I know how you feel," She says, her voice softening, "But sometimes doing the right thing doesn't feel good. Sometimes it feels like you're betraying everything you hold dear."

Jace's brow furrows, and he shakes his head, "But I can't just sit here and do nothing. I need to do something."

Saerra looks at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and understanding.

"I sent my own children away," She says, her voice trembling slightly, "I did it to keep them safe, to do the right thing. But it doesn't feel good, Jace. It tears me apart inside."

Jace's expression softens, and he takes a step closer to her.

"You did what you had to do," He says, his voice gentle, "You protected them."

Saerra nods, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"And you want to do the same," She says, her voice barely above a whisper, "But rushing into battle won't always bring the results you hope for. Sometimes, patience and restraint are the hardest but most necessary choices."

Jace's impatience is evident, but there's a glimmer of understanding in his eyes, "But how do I wait when everything inside me is screaming to act?"

Saerra reaches out, cupping his face in her hands. Her touch is gentle, her eyes searching his.

"You remind me of him," She says, her voice thick with emotion, " The same fire, the same need to protect those you love."

Jace's eyes widen slightly, and he looks at her with a newfound respect.

"I just want to make a difference," He says softly.

"You will," Saerra says, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "In time, you will. But for now, we must be patient. We must be smart. We can't afford to lose more of those we love."

Jace nods, his resolve tempered by her words. He knows she's right, even if it's not what he wants to hear. Saerra steps back, her heart heavy but determined. She picks up her bow, her fingers steadying as she prepares to leave the training yard.

The morning sun climbs higher, casting long shadows over the yard. Saerra's footsteps are quiet, but her presence is a constant reassurance. She may be rusty, her aim not as true as it once was, but her heart is steadfast, and her love for her family unyielding.

As she returns to the castle, she carries with her the weight of her responsibilities, but also the strength of her convictions.

Baela stands with her  betrothed at the end of the painted table, speaking to a council that  has consumed more than their fair share of wine," Ser Criston Cole's  host has taken to exploiting the tree cover to conceal its movements. He  now only travels by night to confound our dragons."

" And what is Cole's heading?" Lord Bartimos asks.

" It is difficult to say, but there were signs of an army moving northwest, I believe."

" You should've burned them when you had the chance," Ser Alfred Broome utters.

" Perhaps you can, Ser Alfred, when you next sight them on your dragon."

Saerra attempts to hide her smile, yet gives Baela a nod of approval.

" The only reason we know any of this is because of Baela's efforts," Saerra says, bringing her voice to the council.

" What do we know, Your Highness," Lord Bartimos asks," If you ask me, it is little and less.

"  We know that Cole possesses a host that is growing in strength and that  it is a problem," Rhaenys says as she stands at the head of the table

"  Can Daemon hope to meet it with his own in time?" Lord Gorman asks,"  And if I know the Riverlands, he has more disentangling ahead of him  than the end of a Lyseni orgy."

" Have you heard word from your father?" Ser Bartimos asks.

Baela hesitates to answer, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable under the gaze of the judgmental men," No."

"  Ravens were sent to Harrenhal seeking news of Daemon's progress with  the Riverlords," The maester says," None have, as yet, returned."

"  Just so," Ser Alfred utters," An enemy host, growing in constitution,  marches somewhere in the vastness of the Crownlands. We could, perhaps,  act if only we had a host of our own. Or someone here to lead us."

" I am here," Saerra utters firmly as she stands," I am the wife to the Queen."

" Yet still a bastard."

" Mind your tongue, Ser Alfred," Jace utters as Saerra takes a breath to steady her nerves.

" Does it speak falsely, my prince? This council is rudderless," Ser Alfred says.

" I'm doing my best to steer it, Ser Alfred," Rhaenys speaks.

"  Why should your voice be any louder than ours, Princess? The queen did  not name you Hand. It is her voice, and that of the king consort, that  we need to raise alliances and command our vassals. But they are gone."

"  What has come of this council?" Corlys questions, his voice commanding  respect as he makes his entrance, though hardly any respect from his bastard," Our enemy is on the march. Is there  naught to be done in the absence of the queen, but to grouse and claw  for power?"

" We  do not know the queen's doings," Rhaenys continues," But we must trust  that she seeks the same as each of us at this table. An end to this  conflict."

Saerra moves to stand at the head of the table, standing to address the men of the council, of whom do not take her seriously. She ignores the presence of her father as she speaks," My mother is right," her words take all present for the council meeting by surprise," Rhaenys is the Hand in all but name. The absence of the pin should not sway your minds to think less of her. She has more battle experience than the rest of us put together. And it is with my authority as Princess-Consort to say that whilst the Queen is still away... we listen to Rhaenys."

The Prince, or rather,  King Consort currently occupying Harrenhal falls into another dream-like  state again, where his dreams and his waking hours mingle together till  he cannot figure out which one is which. He stalks through the castle  at night, chasing a figure that bears his resemblance but not his  clothes, and ends up finding the witch of Harrenhal.

Alys Rivers.

" So what are you then? Some kind of maester?" Daemon asks.

" In a manner of speaking," Alys shrugs," I inherited the duties after the last one fled in the night."

" Fled? Why?" The Targaryen questions.

" Just never settled in," The bastard chuckles," How are you settling in?"

" I've come to know the face of tortured rest well enough."

" Sleep can be... thin in this place."

" What would you know of my sleep?"

"  Harrenhal's been cursed since its first stone was laid. Black Harren  felled the grove of weirwood trees that grew on these lands. Heart  trees, imbued with the spirits of those who lived long before he came.  It's said their whispers can still be heard sometimes."

" A midwife's tale," Daemon brushes off.

" Mm, the very bed you sleep in was made from such a heart tree," Alys adds," Have you experienced anything... of note?"

" You are a strange kind of woman," The Targaryen utters.

"  I'm no woman at all," The bastard corrects," I'm a barn owl. Cursed to  live in human form. So, you've come here after quarreling with your  wives?"

" What?"

"  You arrive here alone to claim the castle and yet, send no ravens. Do  you now plan to make your own claim? Perhaps to prove yourself to them."

" Do not try me with your insolence, witch."

"  It's a hard thing, I imagine, to give obeisance to one who replaced you  as heir. And a woman too. A...  girl child you bounced on your knee. I  mean, does it please you that her legitimacy is contested? As you stand  here... with a castle and a dragon... attempting to draw an army of  men."

The one who  replaced him as heir finally returns to Dragonstone, entering the Great  Hall where the painted table lays, rejoining her council after days of  her absence.

"  Where have you been, these last days?" Jace asks, his temper rising as  he rests his hands on his sword," You vanished without so much as a  word."

" Well, I apologize for my absence and the secrecy, but such was necessary," Rhaenyra says," I went to King's Landing."

" To what possible end?"

" To meet Queen Alicent and sue for peace."

" You could've been taken or slain!"

"  I inherited 80 years of peace from my father. Before I was to end it, I  needed to know that there was no other path. And now I do. Only one  choice remains to me: either I win my claim or die."

"  Cole's victories have only emboldened him," Rhaenys says, being the  Hand in all but name," He marches on Rook's Rest. His host was just  hours away when Lord Staunton's ravens took wing.

" Why Rook's Rest? After Duskendale?" The Queen asks, failing to see the significance," It is but a small coastal keep."

"  Cause Lord Staunton is a member of this council," Ser Alfred suggests,  "And because his castle is small and vulnerable and there for the  taking. Cole knows we have no army on the mainland.

" He is brazen," Lord Bartimos says," He is daring us to act. We need to send a dragon."

A silence falls over the room and all eyes remain on the Queen, all ears listening and all minds waiting.

" There are those who have mistaken my caution for weakness," Rhaenyra utters as she stands tall," Let that be their undoing."

Naturally,  Jace is the first to bring up his name suggesting that is is him who  should go face first into war, but only one name is truly considered.

" You must send me, Your Grace," Rhaenys says," Meleys is your fastest dragon and no stranger to battle. I will meet Cole."

Without  so much of a word of protest, Rhaenyra gives Rhaenys a simple not, and  that's all it takes for The Queen Who Never Was to prepare for war.

Saerra approaches her wife, taking Rhaenya's hands in hers and touching their foreheads together, allowing them to have a moment to just breathe.

" That was stupid," Saerra whispers.

" I know," Rhaenyra whispers back, nodding against her forehead.

They pull back to look into each other's eyes, but something pulls at Saerra. Something in her heart compels her to say goodbye.

" Rhaenys," She calls out, marching into the dragon mont before the Targaryen can leave.

" Saerra," Rhaenys says, addressing her calmly and respectfully.

The two women have few words for one another. They don't even bother to force a conversation, but rather keep their gaze locked and allow their eyes to do the talking. All the years of pain, torture, and anguish seem to mingle together with their newfound peace and love for one another. As though all the years of resentment are washing away with the tides that crash against the shore of Dragonstone.

Alas,  the Battle of Rook's Rest is a chaotic nightmare that propels the realm  into dragon war far The battle is the first time any of the soldiers  see true dragon war with their own eyes, and it makes them feel small  and insignificant, the same way the rats in the Red Keep must feel.  Unfortunately, Ser Criston awakens, still wobbly and woozy from his  injuries. He looks across the burning and char-filled battlefield,  attempting to touch a bannerman, only to find nothing but ash inside of  the armor. The small coastal keep now belongs to the Greens, the fallen  body of the Red Queen having officially broken the barrier and allowing  the soldiers to flood inside.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was has died a dragon rider's death.

But  the king lies with his dragon, burned and hardly breathing, a sad  excuse for living as he merely exists with Sunfyre's tail wrapped around  him. And if it wasn't for Ser Criston's intervention, Prince Aemond  would have both burned his brother alive and ended his life that same  day.

Instead, the  king lives, barely and painfully, whilst Prince Aemond Targaryen walks  away from the battlefield with both Blackfyre and the Valyrian steel  dagger that holds the prophecy King Viserys only shared with his one  true heir.

Rhaenyra.

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