The rain falls gently, a soft patter against the stone walls of Dragonstone, the warm summer storm wrapping the night in a shroud of quiet intimacy. The air is heavy with the scent of wet earth and salt, the sea just beyond the castle walls stirring under the gentle caress of the rain. It is the kind of night that seems to hold secrets, where the world outside fades, leaving only the sanctuary within.

In their private chambers, a hearth fire flickers low, casting a warm, golden light that dances across the floor, the shadows long and languid. The bed is draped in rich fabrics, silks and velvets of deep reds and golds, but it is the two women lying together within its embrace that truly fill the room with warmth. Saerra lies on her back, the tension that often resides in her warrior's frame finally eased by the comfort of Rhaenyra's touch. Her hair, damp from the rain, spills across the pillows like ink on parchment, dark against the pale linen. Rhaenyra is nestled against her side, her head resting just below Saerra's chin, their fingers intertwined in a gentle, unbreakable bond.

The storm outside sings a lullaby, the rain's steady rhythm a soothing balm to their weary souls. Rhaenyra's breath is soft and even, her warmth pressed close against Saerra, grounding her in the present, in the simple, profound reality of this moment. They have faced so much, endured so many trials and betrayals, yet here, in the quiet of the night, all of that seems to melt away. It is just the two of them, wives, lovers, and something far deeper—soulmates, bound by more than mere vows or titles.

Rhaenyra lifts her head slightly, her silver-gold hair tumbling forward to brush against Saerra's cheek as she gazes at her with eyes full of love and a softness that she shows to no one else.

"You are so beautiful, my love," She whispers, her voice like a gentle breeze, barely louder than the rain outside.

She reaches up, tracing the line of Saerra's jaw with delicate fingers, memorizing the feel of her, as if she could ever forget.

Saerra's lips curl into a tender smile, a smile that she reserves only for Rhaenyra, for the woman who holds her heart.

"As are you, my queen," She replies, her voice low and reverent, the words spoken with the kind of adoration that one might offer to the gods.

She turns her head, pressing a kiss to Rhaenyra's palm, her eyes fluttering closed as she savors the sweetness of this simple act.

They lie there for a while, saying nothing, simply enjoying the comfort of each other's presence. The world outside is a chaotic storm, filled with battles and betrayals, with losses that cut deeper than any blade. But here, they are safe. Here, they are each other's sanctuary, a refuge from the storm that rages beyond their walls.

But even in this moment of bliss, Saerra's thoughts drift to her father, to the man who had stood before her in the training yard, offering her the one thing she had craved for so long—acknowledgment, legitimacy, a place in the world that had always been denied to her. Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, had finally offered her what she had once thought impossible. To be his heir, to claim Driftmark as her birthright, to no longer be a bastard.

The thought is tempting, oh so tempting. It is a dream she has held in the quiet corners of her heart, the dream of a little girl who wanted nothing more than to be loved, to belong. And yet, that dream had been tainted by years of neglect, by the harsh reality that she was never enough for him, that she had always been second, always an afterthought.

Saerra's brow furrows slightly as the conflicting emotions churn within her. She has built her life around her strength, her pride, the fierce independence that has carried her through every battle, every trial. To accept Corlys's offer would be to admit a vulnerability she has long buried, to acknowledge that a part of her still yearns for the father who never truly saw her.

But here, in the warmth of Rhaenyra's embrace, those thoughts seem to lose their edge. Rhaenyra, who loves her for who she is, who has never seen her as less than, who has made her feel more like a queen than any title or throne ever could. With Rhaenyra, she has found a love that is pure and true, a love that is both fierce and gentle, a love that is hers alone.

"Saerra," Rhaenyra's voice pulls her from her thoughts, her tone soft and filled with a knowing that only comes from years of deep connection, "What troubles you?"

Saerra opens her eyes, meeting Rhaenyra's gaze. There is no hiding from her, not here, not in this sacred space they have carved out for themselves. She sighs, a sound that carries the weight of all the unspoken fears and desires that have been circling in her mind.

"I was thinking of him," She admits, her voice tinged with a sadness that she rarely allows herself to feel.

"Of Corlys," Rhaenyra says softly, her thumb brushing gently across Saerra's cheek, as if to soothe the pain that lingers there.

She understands, of course she does. Rhaenyra knows the depths of Saerra's heart, the wounds that have shaped her, the dreams that have been deferred for so long.

"He offered me Driftmark," Saerra continues, her voice quiet, almost hesitant, "He offered to legitimize me, to make me his heir."

The words hang in the air, heavy with the implications they carry. It is a chance to be something more, to claim the birthright that was always denied to her, to be more than a warrior, more than a wife.

Rhaenyra is silent for a moment, her gaze steady, filled with love and understanding. When she speaks, her voice is gentle, but there is a strength behind it, a conviction that cuts through the uncertainty in Saerra's heart, "What is it that you want?"

Saerra's breath catches in her throat. What does she want? The answer is both simple and complex, tangled up in the web of her emotions, her history, her pride. But when she looks into Rhaenyra's eyes, when she feels the warmth of her touch, the answer becomes clearer, like a beacon in the storm.

"I want this," Saerra says, her voice firm, her heart steady, "I want you."

There is no hesitation in her words, no doubt. This is what she has fought for, what she has bled for, what she has always wanted, even when she didn't know it.

" Our largest dragon has been killed. Criston Cole marches about the Crownlands unchallenged. Duskendale and Rook's Rest are gone. We still have no ground army but the one we hope that Daemon will raise. He who has left us... after some marital spat."

" Do you take issue with me, Ser Alfred?" Rhaenyra asks promptly, standing at the head of the painted table, addressing her council with her wife at her side.

" My loyalty to you is proven, my queen."

" Your loyalty, perhaps, but your willingness to give me deference in a time of war," She adds.

" I could never doubt your capability, or your quickness of mind. It is merely that the gentler sex, heretofore, has not been much privy to the strategies of battle, or their execution.

" There has been peace in our lifetime. You've seen no more battles than I have," Rhaenyra sternly utters, her arms crossed," My own wife fought against the Triarchy, it is her who has the battle experience that we lack," Saerra remains quiet and tries to hide her smile," Send to Maidenpool and to Crackclaw Point. Let them man their garrisons and give them stores or weapons if they find them wanting. If Cole pursues his campaign, our allies must be ready."

" We must answer Rook's Rest, and Duskendale."

" They are lost already. But Vhagar is depleted after such a hard-fought battle."

" If Aegon is dead..."

" We will soon know it."

" Twould be a victory in name only. They will soon prop up another in his stead."

" The time is ripe. If we can strike King's Landing before their dragon is recovered..."

" Then I myself must do it," Rhaenyra utters, speaking up as all of the men around her speak as though she is not there.

" My queen, you are the crown. It is out of the question."

But the Queen cannot stand being treated like this, " What would you have me do?"

The Council of the Black Queen seem to only treat her as a figurehead. They support her claim but do not support her actions, her judgments, or anything else for that matter. They wish to simply prop her up whilst they make all the choices on her behalf.

The chamber is quiet, save for the soft scratching of quill against parchment and the occasional flicker and crackle from the hearth. The warm glow of candlelight bathes the room in a soft, golden hue, casting long shadows that dance silently across the stone walls. Saerra sits at a sturdy oak desk, her brow furrowed in concentration as she pens a letter to her daughters, her hand moving with a tender deliberation that speaks to the depth of her love for them.

"My dearest Haelye and Maella," She writes, her script elegant and flowing, "I find myself missing you more with each passing day. The castle is far too quiet without your laughter echoing through the halls, without your footsteps pattering like rain on the stone floors. I hope this letter finds you well and that you are both learning much and playing happily under the care of your caretakers."

She continues, filling the parchment with words of affection and updates about life at Dragonstone, about the blooming of the winter roses in the garden, about the new litter of puppies that has just been born in the kennels. Each word is imbued with the warmth of her heart, a testament to her enduring love and the ache of separation that lingers in her chest.

As she finishes the letter, she carefully folds the parchment and seals it with a drop of wax, pressing the sigil of their house into it—a dragon, wings outstretched, a symbol of strength and resilience. She ties the letter to the leg of a raven, stroking the bird's glossy feathers before sending it off into the sky. She watches as it takes flight, a small part of her heart soaring with it, across the seas to where her daughters play and grow.

But as the raven disappears into the distance, her smile fades, replaced by a thoughtful, more somber expression. She picks up the quill once more, drawing in a deep breath as she prepares to address another letter, this one to her husband, Daemon.

Her hand hovers over the parchment, the weight of her thoughts pressing heavily upon her. Finally, she begins to write, her words flowing slower this time, measured and laden with the gravity of her emotions.

"Dearest Daemon," She starts, her handwriting steady despite the turmoil that churns within her, "It has been too long since we have spoken as husband and wife, as partners and confidants. The distance between us grows each day, not just in miles but in the silence that has stretched into a chasm I fear we may never bridge."

She writes of her worries, of the growing tensions and the political machinations that threaten to tear their world apart. She writes of Rhaenyra, of the burden of leadership that weighs heavily on her shoulders, and of her own role in this dance of dragons that consumes their lives.

"But beyond all this, beyond the strife and the sorrow, I write to remind you of the love that still burns within my heart—a love not just for our Queen, but for you, my husband, my once and future heart. We have been through so much, faced so many battles, both within and without. Yet, I hold onto the memory of us, of the love that once brought us together."

Her words are a plea for unity, for a return to the time when they stood together, unbreakable in the face of adversity. She speaks of her hopes for the future, for a time when they can once again find peace and happiness in each other's company.

"I know that the road before us is fraught with danger and that the choices we make now will shape the future of our realm. But more than anything, I long for us to face these challenges together, as a family, united not just by political necessity but by the bonds of love and mutual respect that once defined us."

Saerra pauses, her heart heavy as she signs the letter.

"With all my love, now and always, Saerra."

She seals the letter with a trembling hand, the wax stamp a testament to her commitment and her plea for reconciliation. As she ties this second letter to another raven, her gaze lingers on the darkening sky, her heart a mix of hope and apprehension.

She does not watch this raven fly away. Instead, she turns back to her empty room, the silence a stark reminder of the distance that still lies between her and Daemon, between her and the life she yearns to reclaim. But within her, the flicker of hope remains, kindled by her words, by her unwavering love that refuses to be extinguished.

The sky over Dragonstone is a tapestry of twilight hues, blues deepening into purples, streaks of orange fading as the sun dips below the horizon. It's a sight of serene beauty, yet the air carries a chill that hints at the unrest brewing within the castle walls and beyond. Saerra stands on the balcony, her gaze fixed on the training yard below where a great beast lands with the grace of a leaf falling to the ground. It's Vermax, and astride him is her beloved Jace.

She watches as he dismounts, his movements sure and practiced. His dark hair, so like his father's, is tousled by the wind, a stark contrast to the paleness of the dragonscales. As Jace strides towards the castle, Saerra's heart swells with a mixture of pride and sorrow. Pride, for the man he has become—brave, strong, and wise beyond his years. Sorrow, for the burdens he carries, the weight of a kingdom on his young shoulders, a weight he was never meant to bear.

Jace is not just any prince; he is a symbol of the complexities of their lives, a living testament to love, secrecy, and the harsh realities of royal duty. Saerra knows the truth of his parentage, a secret that binds her soul in silent agony. Harwin Strong, the man she loved, the father of her first child. A secret that, if revealed, could shatter the fragile balance of power they've fought so hard to maintain.

She watches Jace disappear into the castle, his silhouette a ghostly echo in the dimming light. The sight stirs something within her—a feeling of inevitability, a call to address unfinished business that has lingered like a shadow in her heart. It's a pull she can no longer ignore, a whisper from the past that grows louder with each passing day.

Her thoughts drift to Corlys, her father, the man who had offered her a crown but not his love. The Lord of the Tides, who now sits alone in Driftmark, surrounded by the ghosts of his own choices. Saerra's feelings towards him have always been a tumultuous sea of bitterness and longing—a desire for acknowledgment, for a father's love that was withheld.

Perhaps it is weakness, or perhaps it is the strength that comes from understanding one's own heart, but something shifts within her. She needs to confront him, to face the man who gave her life but not a place in his world. She needs closure, to reconcile the fragments of her past, for her sake and for the future of her children.

With a deep breath, Saerra steps back from the balcony, her resolve hardening like stone. She descends the winding staircases of the castle, each step echoing the beat of her heart. The corridors are silent, the torches casting flickering shadows that dance like specters from a forgotten time.

She walks through the Great Hall, its vastness a reminder of the burdens of royalty, the sacrifices made in the name of power and duty. The echoes of past conversations linger in the air, whispers of war, of love, of betrayal. Each step takes her closer to her decision, a decision to step away from these stone walls, if only for a while, to seek answers only Driftmark can provide.

Saerra reaches the docks where a ship sways gently in the water, its sails furled, waiting for a voyage. The smell of salt and sea fills her senses, a bittersweet reminder of her childhood, of days spent on the shores of Driftmark feeling like an outsider looking in.

Without a backward glance, she steps onto the ship, her hand resting briefly on the wooden rail as she looks out over the water. The sea stretches before her, vast and unending, a mirror of her own heart—stormy, uncertain, yet beneath the surface, a current of hope runs deep.

The ship sets sail, cutting through the waves with determined grace. Saerra stands at the prow, her eyes fixed on the horizon, on Driftmark, on the confrontation that awaits. Her heart is a tumult of emotions—fear, anger, hope, and underneath it all, a daughter's longing for a father's understanding.

As the coastline of Dragonstone fades into the mist, Saerra feels the weight of her decision. It's a risk, a step into the unknown, but she knows it's necessary. For her peace, for her children, and for the legacy she will leave behind. This journey is hers alone to make, a chance to heal the wounds of the past and perhaps, find a way forward in the tangled web of her life.

The ship sails through the night, the waves of the Narrow Sea lapping softly against its hull. Saerra stands on the deck, her eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of Driftmark, a place that once represented everything she resented. As the familiar coastline grows clearer, her heart pounds with a mix of trepidation and resolve.

The ship docks quietly in the early morning light, the faint glow of dawn barely illuminating the rugged shore. Saerra steps off the ship, her feet finding the familiar stone path that leads to High Tide, the seat of House Velaryon. The air is thick with the scent of salt and seaweed, a fragrance she has always associated with her childhood—both a comfort and a reminder of her status as an outsider.

As she walks along the path, she notices a figure approaching. It's a man, slightly younger than her, with not a speck of hair atop his head and eyes as deep and reflective as the sea itself. He moves with a purpose, yet when he sees her, his pace slows, and he bows his head in a gesture of respect.

"Your Highness," He greets her, his voice calm and measured.

Saerra smiles gently, a little surprised by the formality.

"There's no need for that," She replies, her voice softer than usual, "I'm not here as wife to the queen. Just... Saerra."

The man straightens, his gaze meeting hers with an intensity that she can't quite place. There's something familiar about him, something that stirs a memory she can't fully grasp.

"I am Alynn of Hull," He introduces himself, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though there's a trace of something else—perhaps uncertainty, or maybe something he's holding back, "If you're looking for Lord Corlys, he's at the edge of the cliffs. He spends most of his time there now."

Saerra nods, absorbing the information.

"Thank you, Alynn," She says, her voice tinged with a gratitude she can't fully explain.

There's something about this man that feels... right. Almost as if she's known him her entire life, though she knows that's impossible.

Alynn gestures toward the path that leads to the cliffs, and Saerra begins to walk away. But she stops and turns back, looking at him with a searching gaze.

"Have we met before?" She asks, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Alynn hesitates, a shadow passing over his face, but he shakes his head.

"Not formally, no," He replies, "But I know of you. Everyone here does."

His words linger in her mind as she continues toward the cliffs, her thoughts swirling with the realization that her presence on Driftmark is more significant than she anticipated. She reaches the edge of the cliffs where the sea meets the sky, a place where the waves crash violently against the rocks below, sending plumes of saltwater into the air. Standing there, staring out at the vast ocean, is Corlys Velaryon.

He doesn't turn as she approaches, but she knows he's aware of her presence. The wind tugs at her hair and her cloak, the sound of the sea almost deafening, but she walks forward with purpose until she's standing beside him, both of them looking out at the endless horizon.

For a long moment, they say nothing. The only sound is the roar of the ocean, the wind whipping around them, and the cries of the gulls overhead. The tension between them is palpable, a lifetime of unspoken words and unresolved pain hanging in the air.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Corlys finally speaks, his voice gruff yet somehow softened by the years of wear and tear on his soul, "The sea... it never changes. Always there, always powerful. It doesn't care for titles or blood. It simply... is."

Saerra nods, her eyes fixed on the churning waves.

"It's the one constant in my life," She replies, her voice barely above a whisper, "The only thing that's ever felt like home."

There's another long pause, and then Corlys sighs deeply, as if the weight of the world is pressing down on him.

"You've always been of salt and sea," He admits, his words tinged with a regret that she's never heard from him before, "A true Velaryon in every way... except name."

The admission strikes Saerra like a physical blow, her breath catching in her throat. She turns to look at him, her eyes searching his face for some sign of the father she's always wanted, the man who could never quite acknowledge her as his own.

"Then why?" She asks, her voice trembling with the weight of years of hurt and confusion, "Why couldn't you see that? Why couldn't you see me?"

Corlys closes his eyes, his face etched with pain.

"Because I was a fool," He admits, his voice breaking.

The words hang between them, a fragile bridge spanning the chasm that has separated them for so long. Saerra feels the tears welling up in her eyes, but she blinks them back, unwilling to let them fall. Not yet.

"I don't need your apology," She says, her voice steadier than she feels, "I need to know... why now? Why offer me Driftmark now?"

Corlys turns to face her, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and something else—something like hope.

"Because I have no one left," He says simply, "Rhaenys is gone, Lucerys is gone, Laena is gone, and Laenor... Driftmark needs an heir. A true heir. And there's no one more deserving of that title than you."

The words should fill her with satisfaction, but instead, they leave her feeling hollow. She looks back out at the sea, the place that has always been her refuge, her escape.

"I don't want your title," She says, her voice barely audible over the wind, "I don't need your legacy."

"But you are my legacy," Corlys insists, his voice trembling with the urgency of a man who knows he's running out of time, "You are the best of me, Saerra. You are my blood, my strength. You are a Velaryon in every way that matters."

Something inside Saerra snaps. She whirls around to face him, her eyes blazing with the fire that has been smoldering inside her for years.

"You don't get to say that now," She hisses, her voice shaking with the force of her emotions, "You don't get to pretend that you care, that you ever cared. You ignored me, you cast me aside, and now... now you want to claim me as your heir?"

Corlys flinches at her words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any blade.

"You're right," He admits, his voice barely above a whisper, "I don't deserve your forgiveness. I don't deserve anything from you. But I'm asking... I'm begging you to take what should have been yours from the beginning. Not for me, but for you. For your children. For the future of our house."

Saerra's chest tightens, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She wants to scream, to rage at him for everything he's taken from her, for the love he withheld. But when she looks into his eyes, she sees a broken man, a father who has lost everything and is grasping at the last thread of hope.

And in that moment, something shifts inside her. The anger, the hurt, the bitterness—it all melts away, leaving only a profound sense of sadness. She doesn't forgive him, not completely, but she understands him. She sees the man behind the title, the father behind the mistakes.

She turns back to the sea, her heart heavy with the weight of her decision.

"I am a Velaryon," She says softly, the words carrying a finality that leaves no room for doubt, "I have always been a Velaryon."

Corlys steps closer, his hand trembling as he reaches out to place it on her shoulder.

"And you always will be," He says, his voice filled with a quiet reverence, "My heir, my daughter... Saerra Velaryon."

The title feels strange, foreign, but also right. For the first time in her life, she feels like she belongs, like she's found her place in the world. And as she stares out at the sea, the place that has always been her sanctuary, she knows that she's made the right choice.

They stand there in silence, father and daughter, united at last by the blood that runs through their veins, by the legacy that they will build together. The wind whips around them, the waves crashing against the cliffs below, but for the first time in a long time, Saerra feels at peace.

She is of salt and sea, a true Velaryon in every way that matters.

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