The aftermath of the war was hard, sometimes almost unbearable. Sometimes Rhaenyra even forgot herself, she had lost so many loved ones, endured so much betrayal. And the deaths of her children would haunt her for the rest of her days, as the knowledge that she was partly to blame for each of them.

The realm would be healing for a long time after the Dance of the Dragons, the wounds too fresh, the ashes not yet settled. But she knew she could handle it, she was the Queen after all. Perhaps none of this would have happened without you, yes?

Your relationship had begun slowly, ever since you spoke for your mother in Rhaenyra's council. The Queen admired your restraint, your grace, and your ability to deftly shut up those pompous lords. Perhaps you were alike in some way.

She loved your company, though the two of you had little to discuss at the time other than military tactics and such. But on rare occasions she would open up, careful not to stumble, about the hardships she had endured since her father named her heir. Or how difficult it had been for her to be with Daemon all along—that it had never been a love affair on her part, but rather a desire to be him. A desire to be accepted in the same way that men were.

The singers loved to sing of the Queen’s vices, and how she shared a bed with a woman in the evenings. And the whispers and glances only intensified when the two of you were in the same room.

But that was the last thing on Rhaenyra’s mind; in her mind, she could do whatever she wanted. And you were everything she wanted.

The guard closes the door to the Small Council, leaving the two of you alone at last. Rhaenyra’s steps are slow, and she walks around the table, finally standing behind you. Her arms wrap around your waist involuntarily and with a heavy sigh she hides her face in the crook of your neck.

“I'm sick of them all,” You can clearly hear the weariness in her voice, the vulnerability, the very side of her that hardly anyone has ever seen.