The tailwind brought them over the bay and the Gullet with ease, the gargantuan body of Vhagar looming over Driftmark as they passed over the island.

Aemond looked at the churning seas below them, the mood of the tides changing like a coin flip. A few Velaryon ships were going to port in Dragonstone as they approached the ancient isle, no doubt rife with supplies and workers of importance to the pretender's cause.

"Dracarys, Vhagar," he hummed low, his form prone to the saddle as his dragon unleashed molten fire from her maw, bathing the Velaryon ships in her cleansing flame.

Sunfyre trilled from the clouds above, settling upon the craggy cliffs of the mainland that overlooked Dragonstone. Vhagar, once dispatching the remainder of the ships, followed. The older dragon settled in the soft grasses, smoke trailing from her nostrils.

Aemond descended from his perch on her back, looking to his brother, who was staring over the water to the island.

"Your predictions of the weather patterns were right," Aegon said, gesturing to the unobstructed view of Dragonstone from their vantage point. There wasn't a low hanging cloud, nor fog. The hulking bulwark of a keep was as visible to the two brothers as they were to it— moreso, visible to the denizens inside. "They should be able to see us loud and clear, I'd wager. I suppose all of your effort in being the scholarly worm paid off."

"They'll have to look from two sides, however," Aemond responded as he watched over the skyline as a fleet of ships came into view. "The signal of smoke from the Velaryon fleet burning is as good of an indication as any."

The ships flew the flag of the Triarchy, three sigils to represent the Three Daughters— the cities of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. They crossed the narrow sea with a vengeance, wishing to give the Sea Snake a message in salt, sea, and blood.

The alliance between the infamous Triarchy and the King didn't come without a price— the Stepstones would be awarded to them after the war was finished, as well as a sizable amount of coin.

The Stepstones were an easy give, as the blasted shore of rocks and stone were nothing more than a watery graveyard, fought over for too long. Its debated governance, or lack thereof, had haunted the council room before Aegon was even born. It seemed an easy enough decision to give the islands to someone who actually had the means and knowhow to manage it— in Aegon's mind, at least. Aemond knew it would be an issue to deal with in the future.

The two brothers watched as the foreign fleet encircled the passage of water between Dragonstone and Driftmark, skirmishing close with some of the smaller Velaryon vessels. The proximity of the two opposing forces would make it difficult for any of Rhaenyra's dragonriders to dispatch the Triarchy— not without severe losses to the supply and size of the Sea Snake's brigade.

It was a delicate balance now, the Triarchy cutting off supplies and passage to Dragonstone, while keeping Driftmark at heel. The former was effectively sealed off, dragon flight being the only way off of the island.

This is where Aemond's careful planning of the weather and their positioning across the cliffs came into play— it was a clear message, a threat. The giant mossy colored dragon, coupled with the distinctive golden dragon, were a side unmissed on the crags.

The missive was unmistakable in its intention; 'We are watching.'

"Although," Aegon looked to the ancient stronghold, built upon a volcano that housed and borne fire-bellied beasts. "It would be easier if we just..." he slammed his hand into his other fist, making a crude explosion sound.

"You're the one who stopped me from going down that route," Aemond's tone was flat, unamused by his brother's antics. "We made our choice— we play the long game now."

"Suddenly showing restraint now, Aemond? How unlike you," his brother sneered. "You'd burn the entire continent if someone gave you passage to do so."

Aemond shoots Aegon a look, violet eye sharp like a dagger. His jaw clenched, followed by an acute sting of pain in his eye socket, the nerves within lighting like a mass of torches. A storm swirls inside of his head, words flowing from his mouth on their own. "It's difficult..." he swallows, looking almost sheepish as he speaks, a look that doesn't quite suit him. "It is difficult to show restraint. To quell myself." It isn't exactly what he wished to say— the vulnerability was too much.

He screamed to himself, the searing agony of his socket drilling it into him. She is a few moments away upon Vhagar and I cannot get her. I have the largest dragon in the world and I'm still powerless when it matters. Powerless, powerless. It was moments like these where he felt like a child with no dragon again, two-eyed and physically whole but grasping at any semblance of his heritage, of his bloodline. He was bereft of it except for name and likeness alone.

"We'll get her back, brother. I promise you that– as your King. And... as your brother too, I suppose." Aegon didn't look at his younger sibling, he didn't need to, he could feel the torment swirling within him. It was familiar to all of them.

—

"Undefended! You left the city undefended whilst you two traipsed to Dragonstone to... taunt Rhaenyra? Primp yourselves like benign peacocks?" Otto was as furious as his two grandsons had ever seen him, apples of his cheeks red with anger. "I expected this foolishness from you, Aegon, but not you Aemond. You've been taught better than this!"

Aemond let his grandsire rant and rave, only cutting in when the older man stopped to regain his breath. "To clarify, the city wasn't undefended. The queen was watching over upon Dreamfyre. I'm sure the smallfolk were pleased to see their queen among them, defending them so stalwartly."

"The smallfolk? What would they do if Rhaenyra and Daemon came upon their two dragons and took the city after slaughtering your sister? How do the smallfolk amount to dragons with lords atop them, Aemond?"

Aemond closed his mouth, looking over at his skulking brother. Even though he wore the crown and held the power of the Kingdoms in his hands, he was still so easily torn down by a tongue lashing from his grandsire. Aegon was turned away, collapsed into himself as he bit at his already stubby nails.

"Thank you for your insight, lord hand. I will see you at first light for the council meeting. I suspect we'll have much to discuss in terms of next moves now that Dragonstone has been cut off." the prince, in so many words, dismissed his grandsire.

Otto narrowed his gaze but said nothing, leaving the two brothers alone.

Silence stretched between them until Aegon looked to his brother. "Do you think I'm foolish?"

"Depends on the situation."

"You see I am trying, don't you? I am the fucking King and yet I am still treated like less than a lecher by him, by them."

Aemond began to loosen his riding gloves, finger by finger. "The plan was well executed, Aegon. I think you may find that there are many people grateful for their King's valiance," he said, glancing towards the open balcony that overlooked the sprawling city.

Aegon considered him for a moment, locking eyes with his brother before his expression softened. "War isn't only fought by lords. I've spent enough time in those streets to know. Once, when I was coming back from the Silk, I saw a mass of people tear a raper limb from limb. 'Twas deep in Flea Bottom, no lords or guards or laws there, only the code and anger of those who live there," he paused, "A dragon can kill thousands— but thousands can kill a dragon, too. Their unrest shouldn't be underestimated."

The prince looked at Aegon, blinking slowly. The king did have a unique perspective on the smallfolk, and mayhaps he cared more for them than the monarchs that came before him. It may prove to be useful in the future, if Aegon was ever given the breadth to make his own choices. Aemond thought his brother sloven and foolhardy at best— inept, brainless and sinful at worst— but the few days of his reign had changed his view ever so slightly. He was still lazy like a fat tom cat, and yet, a fat tom cat may still catch as many mice as any other cat. He just may have a different way of doing it.

—

The lucidity was too much. It was too bright, she wanted to go back to sleep.

Bright, too bright. Shera sobbed silently, tears falling across her cheeks without any toil. Stars and figments of candle flame danced before her eyes, igniting a phantom pain in her eye that she thought gone. Her suffering that stemmed from Driftmark didn't manifest in nerve pain in her eye like Aemond's, but rather pain in her throat and her seizing episodes. She just wished for darkness and Aemond.

"P-pl... please let me go back... to the weirwood," she mumbled. "He was waiting... for me..."

Her hand was in Jacaerys', held together by a sash that bound them as husband and wife. It was colored with red and gray thread, the color of their two houses.

Shera felt... exposed. Exposed and cold, like a terrible draft was whistling through her, using her bones like windchimes.

The room was barren, save for Rhaenyra and the two newlyweds. It was dark, too, the only light dancing from candles and dragon heralded sconces. The brightness that tortured Shera was her nerves on fire, a deep throbbing pain coming from her scar. The man who had officiated had left, the only semblance of his presence being the words that continued to echo in Shera's mind.

The union of Jacaerys Velaryon and Shera Stark is now absolute, in every respect. They are wed in the eyes of the Old Gods and the new.

It felt like a curse— a curse she knew was coming, a curse she had been waiting for. Something she thought thwarted by giving into her heart's throes with Aemond.

How silly of an idea to avoid fate.

Her stomach was in knots, or mayhaps not there at all. "Jacaerys," Shera whispered, a familiar feeling of weightlessness catching up to her. "I'm going to fall," she squeaked, "Please don't let me fall." her plea wasn't out of want for comfort, but rather necessity.

The prince untied the sash and supported Shera with a hand on the small of her back. "Like this?"

"My... my hip," she continued. "It is where... where Moongeist holds himself." she lamented to be touched any further, her skin on fire and writhing with each misplaced caress. But she would hate to fall, legs crumbling beneath her like a newborn fawn. She felt like a tortured child, her feelings all too large for such a small body to handle. Her mind went back to the basest of needs— she wanted Aemond, she wanted Helaena, she wanted Moongeist.

Jacaerys adjusted his hold with a confused and slightly anguished look. "Mother," he addressed Rhaenyra, who looked on in stoic concern. "She needs... she needs a cane, or... or something."

Rhaenyra's face didn't crease in traditional consternation, her features unmoved. There was only a twitch of her brow and the dilation of her pupils that gave away the inner turmoil. "Go fetch the maester. He will have something made up for her, surely. I will escort her to your chambers."

Your chambers. Your chambers. No, not hers. Jacaerys' chambers. The realization and panic washed over her as unforgivingly as a riptide. Was she expected to consummate the marriage?

"N-no, please," Shera blubbered as Jace helped her into the arms of his mother. "I want to go home, I want to go home."

There was a solemn hollowness in Rhaenyra's voice as she helped Shera walk down the corridors. "You are home now, dearest," her voice was fauxly soothing, "I know it is difficult. I wouldn't have wanted this for you— not... not like this," there was something inherently warm about her touch that broke through any outward reservation, her hand caressed Shera in a way that could only be described as maternal. "I will do everything in my power to see to your comfort. You're safe now, Shera."

Her body and mind were at odds with one another. Her brain told her that this wasn't right, it wasn't— it was all a facade, it had to be. Her body, however, leaned into Rhaenyra's hold, her gentleness stirring something long dormant inside of Shera.

She never really had a mother, in truth. Her life was riddled with surrogate mothers like Alicent and whomever her father had assigned to take care of her when she was a babe. Alicent did her best, of course, but there was always a fine line separating Shera from her own borne children. The nursemaids and stewardesses alike at Winterfell never had a gentle touch or affectionate words— not like a real mother would. Out of Shera's myriad of issues, the mother-shaped hole in her heart was the least of her worries, easily pushed and locked away like a bad memory.

But times like these— times where Shera's constitution of mind and body were being tested, broken past her already fragile limits, the hole turned into a chasm, swallowing up the earth beneath her feet and making any further pain unbearable.

As Rhaenyra sat Shera down on the feather-filled bed, she pushed a stray auburn lock from her face.

Shera grasped at her hand, holding it with both of hers. "P-please, don't go," she whispered, her voice broken and far-away. She hardly recognized it as her own, thinking it more alike to that of a young child. "P...please, I do not... I don't wish to be alone... n-not yet."

"Jacaerys will return quickly, dearest, you won't be alone for long," Rhaenyra replied, letting the frightened woman hold her hand, head cocked in slight confusion.

"N-no, no," she cried, squeezing tighter upon the queen's hand— a plea, a cry of a child long gone, forgotten. "Please."

Rhaenyra was quiet for long enough that Shera thought she might've left, even if she was still holding her hand. A soft breath left her nose as she shifted, sitting down next to her now good-daughter and wrapping both arms around her, taking her into an all-enveloping embrace.

No more words were exchanged, only the sound of Shera's wheezing breaths, shaking body wracked with sobs filled the room.

Jacaerys did return to his chambers, with the cane in hand, but upon seeing his weeping wife and mother, he bowed his head out and didn't return that night.

Rhaenyra stayed with the poor girl all eve and into the early hours of the morning, shifting Shera into a lying position on the bed and covering her with a blanket. It gave her some despair to see her cry herself into exhaustion and eventual sleep.

As the queen left the room, her mind was flooded with thoughts, swirling like tumultuous waves.

Have I done the right thing? Am I righteous in my choice?

She passed her son in the halls, Jacaerys bowing his head to her. "Is she... alright?" he asked, eyes dark as he already knew the answer.

"You know her better than I," Rhaenyra looked back to the closed chamber doors. "Is that... her normal air?"

"No, it isn't her usual demeanor. She is very... morose, of course, but this– what exactly are you letting Daemon give her to render her so?" his tone took a turn, almost accusatory in its nature.

The queen was taken aback by the snap in his words– it was unlike him, always the dutiful and polite son. Courtiers walked by them in the hall, their gazes averted, but she knew they were staring, listening. She pulled Jacaerys into an alcove. "Daemon has been dealt with for making such rash decisions without my consent," she hissed, "You must trust in me, Jacaerys— as your mother and your queen. This is just one of the many pieces moving on the board, moving towards my ascension, to my throne."

"Shera is just a pawn, then? A means to an end? And by marrying her to me, am I not the same?" Jace folded his arms over his chest, moving back from his mother. "Am I merely fodder for your fight against the usurpers? Usurpers, amongst whom is your dearest childhood friend? You and Daemon talk so openly of war, but you had cast the first stone with Shera's... abduction!"

"What would you have me do? Ask kindly for my birthright back? Chalk it up to a misunderstanding and give them pats upon their backs and a place at my court?" Rhaenyra scoffed. A thorn lodged in her heart at Jace's implication of Alicent, a ghost who had haunted the queen's very thoughts since she heard news of Aegon's crowning. "My father was a great King in many ways, his reign one of peace— but he was blind with inaction. I will not stay my hand when the time comes to strike. I will have my throne, in fire and blood if I must."

Indignation flashed in Jacaerys' deep brown eyes— but like a storm, it dissipated into calm waters and clear skies. "You're right, mother," he murmured, bowing his head. "Your grace."

—

Shera finally felt well enough to walk by herself. Although, her legs felt cold and wobbly without Moongeist. It was midday, the skies clear around the island. The sun was even shining, warming her skin just a touch.

The maester upon Dragonstone had prepared a walking cane for her— an instrument hewn from dark gnarled cherrywood. The exterior was a deep brown, whilst the inside was a deep, bloody red. She had worn small grooves on the top of the handle with her nails, exposing the inner layer of cherry, the color staining her fingertips sanguine.

Rhaenyra had instructed Shera's handmaidens to dress her in a more Valyrian-style wardrobe to 'help her adjust'. She felt like an impostor wearing the garments, usually tailored in red, black and gold, coupled with intricately braided hairstyles, fashioned to her head with a dragon pin. A small veil was afforded to her after much pleading, one that only concealed her eyes and left her nose and mouth barren. Her choker was replaced by looping golden chains, imbued with rubies.

Shera's nails laid in the indents of her cane as she arrived into the dining hall. The Queen apparently likened to having her family lunch with her at least once a week— a tradition that became more sparse when the war began.

She slunk into the hall as quietly as possible, the scattered sounds of Viserys and Aegon playing, as well as Lucerys and Joffrey conversing animatedly about swords and dragons, muffled the noise of her cane hitting the stone floor. She settled into her seat next to Jace, who looked irritated, a mood that befell him more often than not as of late, as he tried to serve in his mother's war council, but was met with blockage after blockage from the other courtiers— something that Shera didn't hear the end of for at least a fortnight.

Despite the newly wed couple's proximity to one another, Shera sleeping next to Jacaerys each night, they weren't intimate in any way. They had come to an understanding, knowing their souls were each entwined with another's. They didn't need to muddy the waters any further with meaningless sex.

That being said, they did confide in one another to some extent. Or rather, Jacaerys would vent his frustrations of the day, of the bickering of the council, of Daemon's recklessness, of his own mother's discounting of his skill— and Shera would listen intently.

"Wife," Jace murmured, clasping a hand over Shera's as she took her seat. His jaw was clenched, bone grinding against bone. "Thank the Gods you've come."

"Has something... happened?" she whispered, glancing around the table. The children were unphased— but the older ones had an air of ice around them. Baela had both hands on the table, head angled downward as she bore holes through a wall. Rhaena was despondent, looking down at her hands.

Daemon, however, was lazed. He leaned back in his chair, inspecting a singular grape as if he had no care in the world. "Shera," he said, not meeting her gaze. Rather, he addressed her with such informality that it made her cringe. "A Valyrian vision you look to be. Mayhaps we should send her into the Dragonmont to bond with a dragon, since she now looks so much the part."

"A sheep changes wool rather easily," she began picking at some fruit on her plate, stabbing her fork into a juicy piece of cantaloupe.

"Ah, yes. Our wolf in sheep's clothing, is it? Or mayhaps, a wolf in dragon's clothing, better yet," he squeezed the grape until it burst between his fingers.

"Daemon," Rhaenyra cut in, hand up to stop him from saying anything further. "How are you doing this morn, Shera?"

"I'm... well," Shera kept her eyes down at her plate, wishing to shrink into nothingness.

"Enjoy the fruit while it lasts," Baela piped up. "They're blockading the island."

What? Blockading? Her mind raced with the possibilities, but she stayed quiet.

"I'm sure we can go without such frivolous things like fruit," Jace scoffed, pushing his plate away.

"Fruit, grain, most meat, silks," Daemon drawled. "I don't understand why we don't stop the situation."

"Do we wish to go toe-to-toe with Vhagar? Sunfyre can be easily dispatched by Syrax, but do you believe Caraxes can survive her?" Rhaenyra snapped, placing down her cutlery on the table.

"That hoary old bitch is cumbersome," he continued, dismissing any shred of Rhaenyra's concern as if it were nothing.

Vhagar. Sunfyre. Something bubbled in Shera's chest at the mention of the two dragons, who were undoubtedly with their riders. She continued to stare down at her hands, trying to contain a smile, biting her lip until it bled.

"Cumbersome she may be, but her jaws could snap any of our dragons with ease. Mayhaps Caraxes and Meleys may pose a threat to her but..." the queen's voice trailed off, her fingers drumming on the table.

"... there's been no news from grandmother, nor Driftmark, your grace," Baela sighed. "The ships appear to be... dispatching any ravens attempting to cross the Gullet."

"We will just have to wait, then. They cannot fare forever against Corlys' fleet. Jacaerys, any word from the Greyjoys?"

Jacaerys shook his head. "Our letters have gone unanswered."

"Lord Greyjoy is just a boy of sixteen, Rhaenyra, no older than Lucerys. Untested in the matter of war, unblooded. We must seize Harrenhal and raise a land army." Daemon stared at his wife, brow furrowed in agitation. "I will go with or without your leave. I have no need for passage."

There was a long stretch of silence, the chatter of the children stopped— it was as if the whole of the table held its breath.

"We will speak upon it later, Daemon." Rhaenyra finally said, the bags under her eyes more prominent than usual. She opened her mouth to speak once more, but was overcome with a strangled sigh. "Gods," she whispered, clutching her stomach. It was almost easy to forget that she was in her last days of pregnancy, belly round with child, all whilst the war was being waged just outside. She writhed slightly, face pinched.

"Mother?" Joffrey spoke, his voice small and scared.

The entirety of the table erupted as handmaidens, maesters and nursemaids alike were summoned, gathering around the queen as her labors began.

Shera stayed sitting, watching as Daemon glanced over the situation before leaving the room, no doubt off to skulk.

Soon enough, the room was empty. She blocked out the cacophony of agonized screams echoing from the corridors as she stood up to leave. A small pool of blood was beginning to dry in Rhaenyra's seat. A chill passed through Shera then as she turned to the window, leaning against the sill.

A green dragonfly rested upon the trellis of growing vines on the wall of the keep, the leaves withered and crusted in salt.

Hordes of boats were littered in the sea, arcing around the island like a noose. Glancing to the cliffs, she sees a glint of gold off in the distance, coupled with a hulking mountain that almost reminds her of...

No, it couldn't be.

It isn't.

She wouldn't let herself look again, she knew it would only end in disappointment.

As she went to walk away, something pulled her back. She clung to the window, peering out as if in hiding.

Her hopes were true as the golden vision of Sunfyre came into view, the sun shining off his pale yellow and pink scales. Next to the gorgeous beast laid a stirring mass— the Queen of all dragons. Vhagar.

Shera's heart raced, thumping against her ribcage like a caged bird. Aemond— Aemond and Aegon had come to save her, they had! She vowed to never let herself be separated from Aemond again, never to let them be apart. Surely Aegon would dissolve her marriage to Jacaerys and let them marry, wouldn't he? Oh, of course he would.

The giddiness she felt was elating, her swimming pain and sorrow temporarily abated. She watched as Sunfyre took to the skies, Vhagar behind in a slower pace. They're coming to get me now, they are!

The dragons climbed in altitude and drifted off from the bay— in the opposite direction of Dragonstone. They were flying away from Shera. She stood still for what felt like an eternity, not breathing. That can't be right.

Any semblance of happiness was crushed instantaneously, her feverish pulse stopping for a beat. They were leaving. They were leaving without her. They weren't coming to get her.