The raven arrives just before dawn, a dark omen against the soft hues of morning light. The castle of Dragonstone, shrouded in mist and the scent of the sea, feels unusually still as the news spreads, like the tightening of a noose around its inhabitants' throats. Saerra, who has been pacing the halls of the keep, is one of the last to be told.

When she hears the news—Rhaenys and Meleys are dead—her world tilts violently, as if the floor has been ripped out from under her. The words hit her like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs, and she staggers, one hand clutching the stone wall for support. She opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Her vision blurs, and for a moment, she feels like she's drowning in an ocean of grief, an ocean that has no shore.

The messenger, a young squire, stands awkwardly, not knowing whether to comfort her or leave her in peace. His eyes are wide, his own face pale with the horror of the news he has carried. But Saerra barely registers his presence. Her mind is a storm of emotions—grief, anger, fear, and something darker, something she's ashamed to acknowledge.

Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, had been a pillar of strength, a woman Saerra had only recently come to admire and perhaps even love in her own way. There had been a time when Saerra had resented Rhaenys. But in the last few months, Saerra had begun to see beyond her own bitterness. She had started to understand Rhaenys, to see her as more than just a figurehead, but as a woman who had also suffered, who had also known loss.

And now, she was gone. Rhaenys, who had faced down death countless times, who had flown into battle with fire and fury, had been struck down. And Meleys, the Red Queen, with her brilliant scales and her fearsome roar, was no more. A piece of their world was shattered, never to be made whole again.

Saerra's breath comes in ragged gasps as she tries to hold herself together. She wants to scream, to cry out her pain, but she bites down on the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood, forcing herself to stay silent. Tears blur her vision, but she refuses to let them fall. She will not break, not now, not when so much is at stake.

But the grief is too much. It claws at her chest, twisting her insides until she feels like she's going to be sick. She presses a hand to her mouth, swallowing down the sobs that threaten to escape. She's suffocating, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears that she can barely hear anything else.

She stumbles down the corridor, desperate to be alone, to hide herself away from prying eyes. She can't bear the thought of anyone seeing her like this—weak, broken. She finds a small alcove near one of the windows and sinks to the floor, her back against the cold stone. She draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as if she can hold herself together through sheer willpower.

The silence of the early morning is oppressive, the weight of it pressing down on her as she struggles to keep her composure. But it's a losing battle. She takes deep, shuddering breaths, trying to steady herself, but each breath brings with it a fresh wave of pain. Her chest heaves, and before she can stop it, a sob breaks free.

It's a small, pitiful sound, and she bites down on her lip to stifle it. But it's too late. The dam has broken, and the tears start to fall, hot and fast, streaming down her cheeks. She buries her face in her hands, her body trembling with the force of her sobs. She's lost so much—too much. First Luke, her little sunshine, then Harwin, the love she never got to truly claim, and now Rhaenys, who had been a beacon of strength in this dark time.

But there's something else, something dark and ugly that festers in the deepest recesses of her heart. A part of her, a sick, twisted part, feels a bitter satisfaction in Rhaenys's death. Because now, Corlys would suffer. The Sea Snake, her father, who had never acknowledged her, who had never loved her, would now know the same pain she had felt all her life.

Saerra hates herself for it, for the satisfaction she feels at the thought of Corlys's heartbreak. It's wrong, she knows it's wrong, but she can't help it. She had always been the bastard daughter, the one he never wanted, never cared for. She had grown up on the edges of his world, always looking in, always yearning for the love and acceptance she would never receive. And now, he would suffer. Now, he would know the pain of losing someone he loved.

But the satisfaction is fleeting, quickly swallowed up by the overwhelming grief. Because Rhaenys didn't deserve this. Meleys didn't deserve this. And now, their loss has left a gaping wound in the fabric of their cause, one that might never heal.

Her thoughts turn to her daughters, Haelye and Maella, the only lights left in her life. She had sent them away to keep them safe, but now, in the midst of her grief, she longs for them with a desperation that borders on madness. She wants to hold them, to feel their small bodies pressed against hers, to know that they are safe, that they are alive.

But they're not here. They're far away, out of her reach, and the distance between them feels like a knife twisting in her gut. She wants them with her, now more than ever. She needs them, needs to know that there's still something good, something pure in this world of death and destruction.

The thought of them is the only thing that keeps her from falling completely apart. She clings to it, using it as a lifeline to pull herself back from the edge of despair. But the grief is still there, a heavy, suffocating weight that she can't shake.

She stays in the alcove for what feels like hours, letting the tears come until she has no more left to give. When she finally lifts her head, her face is pale, her eyes red and swollen. But there's a determination there too, a steely resolve that hardens her features.

She wipes her tears away with the back of her hand, forcing herself to stand. There's no time for this, no time to wallow in her grief. Rhaenys is gone, and they must carry on. They must find a way to keep fighting, to keep pushing forward, no matter how much it hurts.

But as she walks away from the alcove, the pain in her heart remains, a constant reminder of all she has lost. And she knows, deep down, that it will never truly go away.

The training yard is eerily quiet, the morning air still heavy with the weight of the news that has swept through Dragonstone like a cold, bitter wind. Saerra stands alone in the center of the yard, her bow clutched tightly in her hand. The rough wood feels foreign against her palm, as if it belongs to another life, another woman. She stares at the target downrange, its worn surface marred by the countless arrows that have pierced it over the years. But this morning, it feels like an insurmountable challenge, a distant goal she's no longer sure she can reach.

She draws an arrow from the quiver at her side, her movements stiff and mechanical, as if her body is working against her. The fletching brushes against her fingers as she nocks it to the string, and for a moment, she closes her eyes, trying to summon the warrior she once was, the woman who could bring down a target with a single, deadly shot.

Saerra opens her eyes and exhales slowly, her breath visible in the cool morning air. She draws the bowstring back, feeling the tension in her shoulders, in her heart. Her arm trembles as she holds the string taut, her focus wavering as doubt creeps in. What if she misses? What if she can no longer hit the mark? What if she's lost her edge, lost herself?

The arrow is released with a soft twang, slicing through the air, but it veers off course, landing far from the center of the target. Saerra curses under her breath, her teeth grinding together in frustration. She draws another arrow, her grip tightening as she fights to push down the anger, the grief that threatens to consume her.

Again, she draws the bow, her breathing steadying as she lines up the shot. But no matter how hard she tries to focus, the turmoil within her bleeds into her aim, her thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. The arrow flies, but once more it misses the center, landing just shy of the mark.

Her chest tightens, the frustration building with each failed attempt. She's not the woman she used to be. She's spent too long away from the battlefield, too long playing the role of a wife and mother, roles that have softened her, dulled the sharp edges of the warrior she once was. Now, when she needs that strength the most, she feels it slipping through her fingers like sand.

The memories of Daemon come unbidden, his voice echoing in her mind, the way he used to stand beside her in the training yard, his presence a steadying force. He would guide her, challenge her, push her to be better, stronger. He never doubted her, never allowed her to doubt herself. But now, with him miles away, she feels the weight of that doubt crushing her, seeping into her bones.

Saerra grits her teeth and draws another arrow, her breath hitching as she fights back the tears that threaten to blur her vision. She's stronger than this, she has to be. She's a Velaryon by blood, a Targaryen by marriage, and she's fought her way through fire and blood to stand where she is today. But the loss of Rhaenys, the weight of her responsibilities, the fear for her children, it all bears down on her like a mountain, and she feels herself crumbling under the pressure.

The arrow wobbles in her grasp, her hands unsteady as she tries to aim. But her heart isn't in it, her mind a whirlpool of grief and guilt.

The arrow flies wide, missing the target entirely. Saerra lets out a cry of frustration, the sound raw and anguished, echoing through the empty yard. She lowers the bow, her shoulders slumping, the weight of her grief too much to bear. She's lost her edge, lost her confidence, and without it, she's just a woman holding a bow she can no longer wield.

She tries to steady her breathing, but each breath feels like a knife in her chest, her emotions too wild, too chaotic to control. The world around her blurs, her thoughts spiraling as she struggles to find solid ground. She wants to scream, to let out all the pain and anger that's been festering inside her for so long, but the sound dies in her throat, choked by the overwhelming sense of failure.

She thinks of her daughters, the two little girls she sent away for their safety, and her heart aches with a longing so deep it's almost unbearable. She wants them here, needs them here, to remind her of what she's fighting for, to give her the strength to keep going. But they're far away, out of her reach, and the distance only makes her grief more acute.

She draws another arrow, her hands trembling as she nocks it to the string. She's determined to hit the mark, to prove to herself that she still has what it takes. But as she draws the bowstring back, her mind betrays her, filling with images of the people she's lost, the battles she's fought, the lives she's taken. The arrow flies, but once again, it misses the center, landing with a dull thud far from the target.

Saerra lowers the bow, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her vision swimming with unshed tears. She's failing, not just in the training yard, but in everything. She's failing as a wife, as a mother, as a warrior. The realization hits her like a punch to the gut, and she staggers, her knees threatening to give way beneath her.

For a moment, she considers giving up, letting the grief consume her, letting herself fall into the darkness that's been lurking at the edges of her mind. But then she thinks of Daemon, of the way he used to look at her, with a mixture of admiration and challenge, always pushing her to be better. He wouldn't let her give up. He wouldn't let her wallow in her grief.

The morning sun is still low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the training yard as Saerra continues her solitary practice. The crisp autumn air bites at her cheeks, and the rhythmic thrum of her bowstring is the only sound, each release of an arrow a small catharsis in the storm of her mind. Her breath forms misty puffs, dissipating into the chill as she focuses on the target, each miss bringing a fresh surge of frustration. She draws another arrow, feeling the smoothness of the fletching, the familiar tension in her arm as she pulls the string taut.

Then, she hears the soft crunch of boots on gravel behind her, and she knows without turning who it is. The atmosphere around her changes, the air thickens with unspoken tension. The Sea Snake has arrived, his presence stealing the morning's tranquility, and with it, Saerra's fragile sense of calm. She doesn't need to see him to feel the weight of his gaze on her back, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between them.

Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, strides into the training yard with a slow, deliberate pace. His steps are hesitant, as if each one is laden with the burden of a thousand regrets. The strong, commanding presence he once bore now seems diminished, his shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes shadowed with sorrow. But Saerra doesn't turn to face him. She draws her bowstring back, her breath steadying as she shuts out the world, her focus solely on the target ahead. She releases the arrow, watching it soar and miss the center by a hair's breadth.

He stops just behind her, far enough to give space, but close enough to be heard. When he speaks, his voice is low, softer than she remembers, with an edge of weariness that only age and grief can bring.

"Saerra," He begins, his tone gentle, almost tender, "my daughter..."

The words fall heavy in the cold air, but she does not acknowledge them. Her fingers tremble only slightly as she pulls another arrow from the quiver and nocks it to the string. She will not let him see the turmoil within her, the deep-rooted pain that his very presence ignites. Her eyes remain fixed on the target, on the act of shooting, the only thing that gives her solace now.

But Corlys continues, his voice carrying the weight of a confession long overdue, "I come not to ask forgiveness, but to speak what has long been unsaid."

He pauses, and Saerra can almost hear the ache in his chest, the struggle to find the right words, "I know I have been a poor father to you... absent when you needed me most, too blinded by pride and ambition to see the daughter I had before me."

Saerra's lips press into a thin line, her jaw clenched as she listens, her heart warring with itself. She does not want to hear his remorse, not now, not after all these years. Another arrow is drawn, her bowstring creaks with the tension of her grip, but still she does not speak. Her silence is a shield, protecting her from the hurt she refuses to acknowledge.

Corlys sighs deeply, the sound full of regret, "I have lost much in these past years," His voice catches, but he pushes on, his words becoming more urgent, more pained, "And now, the Driftwood Throne sits empty, no heir to bear the Velaryon name, no legacy to pass on. I thought... perhaps..."

He trails off, but Saerra knows where his thoughts lead, the implications clear in the pause. His gaze burns into her back, heavy with unspoken hopes, with the expectations she has long since cast aside. Her hands shake as she draws back the string, the arrow pointed straight at the target, her heart thundering in her chest. The nerve of him, to come here now, to speak of heirs and thrones, when he had never once acknowledged her as his trueborn daughter. Not when she needed it most.

"Perhaps you would return," He finally says, his voice breaking with emotion, "Return to Driftmark, to your rightful place, as my daughter, as the heir..."

Saerra's breath hitches, a flash of anger blinding her reason. She whirls around suddenly, the arrow still nocked, her bow now aimed directly at Corlys. The surprise in his eyes is evident, but he does not move, does not flinch. He stands there, rooted in place, his expression one of pained acceptance, as if he is ready to receive whatever judgment she might mete out.

The words that escape her lips are sharp, cutting through the air like the very arrow she holds.

"You have the audacity," She hisses, her voice low and dangerous, "to speak of thrones and heirs now? Now, when all is lost? When you have no one left to turn to, no other option but the daughter you ignored, cast aside as though I were nothing?"

Corlys remains silent, his eyes filled with sorrow, with a regret that seems to age him before her very eyes. But he does not look away from her, does not shy from the fury that radiates from her like a storm.

"You never wanted me," Saerra continues, her voice rising with each word, her emotions no longer contained, "Not truly. I was never enough for you. Never enough to be acknowledged as your blood, as your kin. Only now, when you stand on the brink of losing everything, do you dare to claim me as your own."

The bowstring quivers beneath her fingers, the arrow poised to fly, but something deep within her holds her back. Despite the anger that seethes within her, despite the deep well of hurt and betrayal that has festered for years, she cannot release it. She cannot strike him down, not like this, not when she sees the broken man standing before her.

"Saerra," Corlys says quietly, his voice strained, "I have made mistakes. More than I can count, more than I can ever atone for. But you are my blood, my daughter, and I was a fool to not see it sooner. A fool to let my pride and ambition blind me to the truth of who you are."

She feels her resolve waver, the fury in her chest battling with a deep, aching sadness. All her life, she had wanted this, had yearned for his recognition, his approval. But now, with the arrow drawn, her father before her, all she feels is emptiness. She has waited too long, endured too much, to be satisfied with these words now.

"Where were you?" She whispers, her voice trembling with the weight of her emotions, " Where were you when I needed you?"

Corlys bows his head, his shoulders slumping under the weight of her words.

"I failed you," He admits, his voice thick with grief, "I failed you as a father, as a lord, as a man. And for that, I am truly sorry."

Silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating. Saerra's arm shakes as she holds the bowstring taut, her gaze locked on the man who had given her life but had never truly been a father to her. The weight of her pain presses down on her, but somewhere deep within, something begins to crack. The rage that has fueled her for so long starts to give way to something else—something softer, more fragile.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she lowers the bow, the tension easing as she releases the string. She does not strike him down, does not release the arrow that could end this moment, this confrontation. Instead, she turns away, her back to him once more, and faces the target.

With a deep breath, she nocks the arrow once more, her hands steadier now, her focus sharp. She pulls the string back, the familiar tension in her arms grounding her, centering her. For a brief moment, the world falls away, the pain, the anger, the grief—all of it fades into the background. There is only her, the bow, and the target before her.

She releases the arrow, watching as it flies true, striking the center of the target with a satisfying thud. The sound echoes through the training yard, a small victory in the midst of her turmoil, a reminder of the warrior she still is, despite everything.

Corlys does not speak again. He stands there, watching her, his expression unreadable. Perhaps he knows that his words, his apologies, are not enough to mend the rift between them. Perhaps he knows that the damage is already done, that some wounds cannot be healed with words alone.

But for now, in this moment, Saerra finds a small measure of peace. She may not be able to forgive him, not yet, not fully, but she can reclaim the strength she thought she had lost. She can find her way back to herself, back to the warrior she once was.

And so, she draws another arrow, the bowstring singing as she releases it, her aim true. She will keep fighting, keep pushing forward, for herself, for her children, for the memory of those she has lost. She will not let the past hold her back any longer.

Corlys watches her in silence, his heart heavy with the weight of all that has been left unsaid, of all that has been lost. But he knows now, as he sees the determination in her eyes, that she is stronger than he ever gave her credit for. She is not just his daughter, she is her own woman, a force to be reckoned with.

And perhaps, in time, she will find it in her heart to forgive him. Perhaps, in time, they can begin to rebuild what has been broken.

But for now, all he can do is stand in the shadow of the training yard, and watch as his daughter, his warrior, finds her way back to herself.

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[ two more years till s3 yall 😭 ]