Rogue | Daemon&Rhaenyra

6.0

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.