Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen only allows herself to truly grieve when the doors to her chambers are barred shut. She takes off her father's crown first with trembling fingers, her neck stiff and aching from the weight - both imaginary and real - that bears down upon her brow. Hardly two days have passed since her coronation, yet the ridges and smooth curves already feel so familiar, as familiar as the ache that has settled in her breast, within the confines of a heart that has been broken more than once.

Outside of her rooms, she is Queen, forbidden to show any sorrow lest it be taken as weakness. Forbidden to mull over her thoughts lest it be read as cowardice.

But inside, she is a mother. A mother who has lost her child. A daughter who has been deprived of her father.

A sister who has been usurped by her brother.

Her body still aches from her labours, though it seems almost like an eternity has passed since Rhaenys' warning. Blood leaks from her loins, milk from her breasts. Cramps eat at her insides constantly, supported by swollen limbs and bodily aches that urge her to rest. Maester Gerardys all but demanded it, but his words were ignored. A good man to worry, but ruling has never had the virtue of being patient, especially during times of usurpation.

Her children question, but they are far too young to understand. Only the twins - her stepdaughters - are old enough to have an inkling on what childbirth entails, but their minds go to their betrotheds gone many leagues away. No one else seeks to ask, least of all Daemon. All he thinks about - all he wants to think about - revolves around war and anger and revenge.

A part of Rhaenyra does not want to blame him. It admonishes her for forgetting about the grief that no doubt plagues him. It creeps into her mind when she is at her most vulnerable, griping and grousing about how she has her own part to play in this mess.

Another part cannot help but want to give into the anger she has borne for years. It is the part of her that gave her father no end of trouble - the arrogance of the youth who refused to kneel down to tradition. The girl who claimed Syrax when she was but a girl of seven, heedless of her mother's worries. The girl who braided her hair in the style of Queen Visenya, a woman everyone so loathed yet she could not help but admire.

That tenacity she hides struggles against the bonds of time, the greater good, and motherhood. It is an ugly thing, a creature wrought of selfishness. It screams of murder and betrayal, of war and right. It looks at the creased sheaf of vellum - what it thinks is more akin to mockery than overture - with vitriol. It screams of release.

Vengeance, it demands. Vengeance for my pain. Vengeance for my grief. Vengeance for my daughter!

Rhaenyra tempers it somehow, though her heart and her body rage against the decision, demanding blood for the daughter that never drew breath. Her poor Visenya… Her sweet girl…

Now, my boys as well. Will I lose them next?

Just this one death has crushed her. Will her sons be next? Her Jace? Her Luke? All these talks of making amends, yet all it has reaped the Queen is misery. Alicent self-righteously may speak of mercy, yet the scar that runs along her left arm says otherwise.

Will the Gods take from her as they did her mother? This singular loss has filled her with pain she has not felt since her mother and brother passed. Her father's death only aggravates it. Will she have to steel herself for more? She does not think she can bear it.

She wishes more than anything else that she had Aemma Arryn to be with her in the confines of this chamber with her comforting words and adoring smiles. Men spoke constantly of how weak the late Queen was, yet her daughter has never seen anyone - man or woman - built so strongly. Rhaenyra can hardly remember a year when her mother was not beaten down by the loss of another child. Somehow, she never stopped smiling despite the agony she must have felt constantly.

How am I to do the same?

Her father dead, her husband all but ignoring her, her throne usurped, her daughter… her poor, poor girl never having taken a single breath, more cursed than blessed by the blood of the dragon.

How is one to go through a struggle against such strong currents and not leave it drowned?

"Your Grace!" Ser Arryk's booming voice echoes outside with nonchalance she has come to associate with the Kingsguard. Rhaenyra stands despite her pain, feeling the bricks fall back in place to form the facade of the Queen.

"Yes?"

"The Lady Rhaena wishes to meet with you, my Queen," he answers behind a pair of ebon doors touched with gold, "Does she have your permission, your Grace?"

Temptation to agree surges within her at the prospect. Rhaenyra holds no ill will toward the girl; in fact, she cares for her stepdaughter deeply. But the thought alone of having to put on a brave face threatens to drain. Yet, she still acquiesces, as if even now the eyes of all the nobles of Westeros are upon her, waiting to pounce at the slightest sign of weakness.

Rhaena comes dressed in a gown of lavender silk touched by silver, her hair done up as per usual. She drops into a curtsy with practiced ease, then comes with a pitcher of wine and a golden cup even now - something that makes Rhaenyra smile despite herself.

"You need not burden yourself with that constantly, Rhaena," she says, watching the girl place it idly on a nearby table with nimble grace. "I know very well the pains of being someone's cupbearer."

Rhaena stands up at that, her skirts floundering as she turns to face her. For a second, Rhaenyra feels as if she is speaking to Laena Velaryon once more, walking hand in hand as the older woman guides them through the walls of High Tide.

"It is more a custom than a burden at this point, your Grace," Laena's daughter responds sheepishly, her cheeks burning red. "I came here because… Well, I had thought you might wish for some company, what with Jace and Luke gone."

Rhaenyra does not miss the pitch in her voice when the mention of Luke comes up, nor the deepening in shade of her flushed face. It manages to make her grin.

"Come, my dear," Rhaenyra tells her, gently grasping for the girl's hand into her own. "We are in private. There is no need for such formality. Besides, I would be a fool to reject such fine company, although I suspect there is more to it than what I hear…"

Rhaena only reddens more at the teasing accusation, letting her stepmother guide her to a host of plush velvet couches settled at the farside of the room, burdened by a small army of silk-clad goosedown pillows perfect for any swollen-bellied woman in need of some comfort. Rhaena takes her seat awkwardly beside Rhaenyra, her eyes averted in embarrassment, but Rhaenyra squeezes at her hand in comfort.

"There is nothing wrong in preferring Baela's company to mine," the Queen muses. "I am already halfway into my third decade after all. Has she gone riding on Moondancer again?"

The girl's cheeks do not dampen in colour, but she meets Rhaenyra's eyes with a greater sense of ease. It makes Rhaenyra settle into her seat more comfortably as well. She can still remember the discomfiture she felt around her own stepmother and how it never went away. She went to great lengths to see that Daemon's daughters never felt the same way she had.

"She prefers to call it training," Rhaena admits, smiling. "She still has not cooled down from her fight with father. She wishes she could have gone with Jace. I am half-surprised she did not fly off after him into the night. I would have loved to see the look on grandmother's face if that had happened."

Rhaenyra cannot help but feel a self-satisfied smirk lift from her lips. Her two eldest have always been so obvious in their infatuation, especially Jace. He and Baela are confident in their courting and in themselves, so unlike their younger siblings. Where Jace and Baela jest and tease easily, Rhaena and Luke flush and fumble with their words. It is hard not to find both endearing.

"I recall someone saying they wished to accompany Luke to Storm's End," Rhaenyra notes in bemusement, arching an eyebrow as she casts Rhaena a glance. "A very lovely girl actually. Tall and intelligent. A son of mine might say the personification of the Maiden hers-"

"Gods be good! Luke truly cannot keep a secret." Rhaena mumbles shyly, her cheeks flaring red again. Her hands cup at her face as she looks on bashfully, as scarlet as the velvet of Rhaenyra's gown. It is times like this that remind Rhaenyra she is still but a girl, tall and winsome but a child most.

Was I ever like that?

The days of her youth seem so far gone now. Memories of that young girl splayed onto the lap of her red-headed best friend flicker faintly, closer to an impression than real-life. Once more, the thought of the torn out page flickers into her mind. The thought saps away the brief joy she has managed to muster for Rhaena.

When she speaks again, her voice is more subdued. "Luke did not tell me. A mother simply knows."

Rhaena's face scrunches in concern. Rhaenyra does not need to peer into a mirror to know her mask of strength has cracked slightly. She feels it in her every word. Still, she fights it with a forced smile. Mayhaps one day, it will return to being genuine again.

"Do not fret too much about Luke, Rhaena," Rhaenyra manages, "He goes as a messenger, not as a warrior. Lord Borros may be a brute, but even he knows better than to break guest rite."

The girl's face creases at her assurance, her lips pursed. Two dark eyes, so dark you can almost miss the purple in them, peer into her own violet ones. "And what if… What if one of the Greens crossed paths with him on his way there?"

The question sends a chill down Rhaenyra's spine. It is one that has been haunting her since Jace first brought up the notion of delivering the missives themselves. The fear of losing another, one of her sweet boys.

The thought of one of her half-siblings heading to the Vale is a slim one. Chances are they have given up hope on stirring support amongst those bound to her blood. But Lord Borros… He is another thing altogether. Any trace of Lord Boremund Baratheon within him lies only in his blood. She can still remember him when she was a youth touring the kingdoms in search of a husband. A Baratheon in build, but a lout in temperament. He did not even know his letters when she had met him. She hardly thinks the years have wizened him, especially not when the opportunity to sell one of his daughters to them arises. Rhaenyra does not think even Luke being Laenor's might have changed a thing.

And she has sent her son to that.

A voice in her head still damns her for not sending Rhaenys to her cousin in his stead. Another softer one - one of reason - knows that defending the Gullet is far more likely to gain the attention of the Greens given its close proximity to the capital. Jace may have been able to handle Borros, but Luke is so different from his elder brother. Yet, where else could Rhaenyra have sent him that would not have trickled down precious hours they so dearly need? The Westerlands and the Reach have long chosen their side, and the Fourth Dornish War has still left its mark on Dorne. At best, they will take advantage of this strife to raid the Marches and continue to flaunt their independence. The Riverlands are sure to be split, and never have they been spared from any war, and the North will take time to even muster a full army. All that is left is the Stormlands, but a short distance away from the capital and theoretically close kin to her sons. Even more, it is such a short distance away from Dragonstone - hardly a day and a half's ride on dragonback when pressed.

Jacaerys she can trust to hold himself like a man despite his tender years. He has been groomed for kingship since he was born, and time has seen him excel at all he puts his mind on. But her poor Luke is still so doubtful of his talents, so unsure. To have him so far away for so long is one time too many, Rhaenyra thinks.

"Luke will return home safely," the Queen promises, letting more trepidation taint her tone than she would have liked. It makes Rhaena's frown deepen.

"You are worried," the girl points out.

"What mother would not?"

"It needn't have been like this. Had I possessed a dragon of mine own, Luke would not have had to go alone. And father…"

She trails off midway, her gaze forlorn. It is not the first time that she has seen that morose expression. From what she can recall, it has haunted Rhaena since Rhaenyra first met her and has dogged her relentlessly since then, more oft than not after the mention of a dragon. One dragon in particular can shift her mood from joyful to dour within a heartbeat. Can Rhaenyra even blame her however? Syrax has been hers since she was a girl of seven, but had her mother ridden one, she thinks that even she would not be immune to some entitlement to that mount. Selfish mayhaps, though Valyrian custom has always been to pass dragon from parent to child. Not ironclad law but something that tradition has dictated, though it is another Valyrian custom that has seen a sharp decline in recent years.

Daemon's struggle with bonding with his youngest girl has scarce helped Rhaena's fervent want for a dragon. That he loves her is undeniable, but he is far more alike to Rhaenyra's own father in some respects, fatherhood being one of them. In that, Rhaenyra feels a sense of kinship with a girl who she sometimes forgets is her cousin.

"You will have a dragon of your own soon enough. Syrax has just laid a new crutch of eggs, and I was told one of them has been given you. It will not be long before there comes another hatchling. And if even that wait proves to be unbearable, then there are always others to claim. Your own father claimed Caraxes when he was nearly a man-grown."

Rhaena grimaces. "He never was given an egg in the cradle," she notes morosely, slim fingers twisting around the end of one of her silver locs, anxious. "Mine never hatched. Not like Jace's, Luke's and Joff's did. Not like Baela's."

Rhaenyra's hand raises itself to the girl's face, a stern look gracing her fine features. It is not an angry one however. Rhaenyra Targaryen does not think she could ever be upset at a girl drifting about like flotsam in waters that seem to stretch into the endless horizon, without the careful guidance of a father to direct her somewhere. Instead, she takes Rhaena's hands, soft and delicate but still strong in other ways, and looks at her kindly.

"Do not say that, girl," Rhaenyra chides, "for mine own egg did not hatch yet I would never have willed it to if it meant never claiming my Syrax. You have the blood in you, sweetling. Laena Velaryon's blood, the finest dragonrider I have ever seen. The day will come, Rhaena, and it will be the most marvelous feeling you will feel yet. A dragon… It will be yours until you breathe your last."

"And," she continues, "On that day, your father will be just as proud of you as he was on the day you first drew breath."

Haunted eyes stare back at her, full of disbelief. Sad eyes.

"How can you know that to be true?" Rhaena challenges, her voice defiant. In it, Rhaenyra sees the strength of a Targaryen princess. She cannot help but think Luke is so unerring in his affection towards her. Rhaena Targaryen deserves naught but as fine a prince there is.

"Because," Rhaenyra replies, her voice as gentle as dove and as warm as the noonday sun, "my own father, the one everyone is wont to say loved me as much as any father ever could, struggled to understand me when I was your age. He thought I spent too much time acting willful. I thought him to be a hypocrite. Gods, he used to call me his political nightmare!" She laughs at the reminder, remembering it fondly now that the years have passed. What the Queen of Westeros would do to have that hale man back now. "And yet, he defended me. He raised me, a woman, to Princess of Dragonstone despite all the sons he had. When I… When I needed him the most, he battled his sickness and agony to act as my ever stalwart shield. I will not deny the anger I felt for how he treated me." Her voice burns with passion as she speaks, one that surprises her. It seems Rhaena is not the only one who underestimates herself, Rhaenyra thinks to herself sardonically. "I will not deny that your own is not justified thrice over. But trust me when I tell you this sincerely, Daemon Targaryen loves you as much as he loves all of his other children. If there is one thing that has always redeemed him, it is his love for his family."

Rhaena does not speak for some time after that. Instead, her eyes turn to look down in contemplation, pondering over her stepmother's words. Rhaenyra waits patiently, resting one hand on the girl's cheek. Then, Rhaena smiles. She smiles with a sweetness that can make even the richest honey taste bland, as bright as the moonglow bathing the darkness of the night with soft light.

"Thank you, Rhaenyra," Rhaena says. "I… I was not lying when I said I wanted to keep you company. There are times I feel I require your company - your counsel - even more than Baela's. You remind me of my mother."

Rhaenyra only presses her lips against the girl's forehead at that, her heart suddenly lightened from the burdens that weighed it down but some time ago.

"Your mother was a great woman. I am sure she would have been so proud to see the woman you have become. I may never be Laena Velaryon, but trust me when I say that you are a daughter to me by marriage and one day, by blood."

A soft silence fills the room after that. The two of them sit peacefully, relishing in the calm of that tranquility, so rarely sought after but as great as the grandest of celebrations. And for the first time that day, Rhaenyra can see why her mother could always push on.

Aemma Arryn had her, and that was enough. INo matter how many losses she might take by the end of this conflict, Rhaenyra knows there will be someone for her to live for. Someone for her to fight for.

And that alone will overcome any lingering worries she might have.

A sharp knock puts an end to the stillness of the room, the restless clank of metal on wood.

Ser Erryk.

Rhaenyra wants nothing more than to order him to put an end to the incessant noise, but his urgency and rushed words make her swallow down her agitation. She does not get the opportunity to give him the command however.

The door swings open, revealing her husband swinging inside in a flourish of black-and-gold silk with crimson stitching climbing up the edge of his sleeves. His hand seems strapped tight to Dark Sister, and his stride borders on a run. Some of the anger Rhaenyra still possesses towards him festers within her, but Daemon's worried gaze on her puts a pause to her words. There is no anger writ upon his visage. His lips are twitched downwards, stretched into a thin line. There is an open scroll clutched within his right hand, and his eyes fleet over Rhaena for a heartbeat, reluctant to speak. It is not the indignation of a neglectful father but the hesitance of a man fearing to speak of matters that should not be his daughter's to hear.

The realisation hits her like a rock, leaving her shaky at the knees. Her breath seems to leave her in an instant, and Rhaenyra swears she can hear her heartbeat pound in her ears, as if trying to block out the words.

My son, she thinks desperately as she sends Rhaena away with a sharp glance. My poor son.

She does not even read the damned letter. She trusts her uncle not to leave out anything. Besides, her hands suddenly feel so weak that she does not think she can even trust herself to hold it stably. Gerardys' worried eyes gaze at her as Daemon's whispered words rouse the sorrow and consternation she has spent so long fighting.

"He is still on Tarth, then?" she asks again, her voice surprisingly clear and strong despite the turmoil that boils inside of her. Gerardys nods his head in haste, the lines on his face more evident than ever.

"Indeed, your grace. Lord Cameron Tarth states that Prince Lucerys is in stable condition, but the attack on him by your half-brother has left him bedridden and feverish. Given the foe he had to face, that he has only lost an arm and not his life and that of his dragon's is nothing short of a miracle. Ignoring the blood loss alone, he would have been flying for hours before reaching Tarth." The Maester pauses, as if reluctant to speak on. Rhaenyra knows why.

A Queen must needs think of her realm as much as her son.

"Lord Borros Baratheon has still remained quiet on his allegiances however. For that, we have Lord Cameron's neutrality. I do not know why Storm's End has remained silent still, my Queen. I am all but sure that your half-brother won him over with a marriage proposal. It may be a small hope, but mayhaps our prince might have given the Greens a bigger blow than we could have thought."

"You think he killed Vhagar?" Disbelief is heavy on Daemon's tongue. Rhaenyra cannot blame him. She remembers the Queen she so admired's mount in the flesh, so large she could have made castles trembled.

Her eyes close, trying to imagine the terror her Luke must have faced. She sees Vhagar's giant shadow prowling, she sees Aemond's sneering face. She sees the fear on her son's face,

She sees her little boy wanting nothing more than to curl into her arms

"Mayhaps not kill Vhagar herself, my prince. But her rider…" Gerardys continues on, as if Rhaenyra is still listening. As if she can listen when her son is somewhere writhing in pain, in some unknown lord's unknown castle surrounded by swords that may yet cause him even more harm.

Once again, that selfish voice demands to be heard. It screams for retribution.

Aegon's dream, that meek part of her reminds. Our duty is to prepare the realm for the evil that stirs up north. Our solemn duty.

Aegon's dream, yet it has always been Visenya she has admired. The Conqueror may have dreamt, but it was his sister who made it a firm reality.

Where he gave up on Dorne out of weakness, she desired nothing more than to continue the war to avenge her sister. Where he spurned the son she gave, she remained ever dutiful to a man who raised his weakling boy to the throne. Even after, the dowager Queen was wasted by his heir and treated like some child in need of scolding.

Why has Rhaenyra been trying to be Aegon when she has been Visenya all along? They may call her another cruel usurper, but Rhaenyra cannot find it in her to care.

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms will see to it that the histories know the proper stories. She will not languor in her sorrow, waiting for fate to come to her. Nay, she has failed her son in her reluctance to strike at the Greens hard and true from the moment they voiced out their treason. She has failed them all in her unwillingness to go through with the ruthless Visenya Targaryen possessed when she threatened to reduce Oldtown to nothing but ashes.

Visenya's only mistake was to ever bow beneath the will of her younger brother. Rhaenyra will not do the same.

"Husband, you and Gerardys will go to Tarth with haste and ensure Luke's safe return." Rhaenyra is surprised by how commanding her voice sounds, almost as if all her strength has returned to her in an instant. She does not have any tears left to cry, not when her child's life is at stake. Now is the time for action, not frailty. "Harrenhal may wait another few days. Ensure Lord Cameron remembers his vows to me, and should he not, then ensure his heir does so. I am sure it is well within your capabilities, husband."

There is the slightest hint of a smirk on Daemon's lips as he nods. "As you command, my queen."

"Rhaena must bond with one of the dragons. Vermithor or Silverwing. They are the greatest after Vhagar, and the deadliest."

A flash of unwillingness flashes across her husband's face at the mention but Rhaenyra stares him down. She has no time left for insubordination.

"It is clear to me," she continues without pause, "that the Greens will stop at nothing to cause harm to me and mine. We can no longer trust in their good will for they have shown us the depths which they will sink to in their lust for the throne."

Daemon's lips part then close without further measure. He sets his jaw, but nods in agreement once more.

"As you command, my queen."

"And the Queen Alicent?" Gerardys asks, looking at her expectantly. "Will you have me communicate with King's Landing over the matter of the prince?"

There is no longer a twinge of regret that bleeds through when Rhaenyra hears the name of the woman she once considered to be a sister again. There is nothing other than stone cold apathy.

"Tell my half brother that I will have my throne, or I will have his head," Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen answers without hesitation, war burning in her eyes.

A/N: Rough work, but I promised myself that I would finish it by today. Note that I am using the purple eye colour canon in the books here, though this is still the showverse. Also tried to make some sense out of show Rhaenyra's unwillingness to fight and Daemon's ignoring of Rhaena. Basically pushing them to be closer to canon. I'll try to put one chapter out every week. Here's to hoping.