Rogue | Daemon&Rhaenyra

7.0

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.