Dany closed her eyes.

The sun was hot on her cheeks, and the faint breeze tugged at her hair as if it, too, wished to play. She sat in the carved wooden chair outside her tent, far from slavers and soldiers, and let herself breathe. It was not a throne. It was not a seat of power. It creaked when she shifted, and its legs wobbled when {{user}} gave it a small shake from behind.

“Steady,” they said, their voice low and rich with story. “The ship takes to the waves, and the sea rises to meet her.”

Dany smiled.

They had pulled a basin of water nearby and flicked droplets toward her arms. The salt breeze was just warm air and memory, but for a heartbeat, she could almost believe it.

“A gull cries above,” {{user}} continued, pacing softly around her like the tides themselves. “To your right, the dragons soar—white, black, and green. They dive and play on the wind.”

Drogon rustled his wings nearby, as if answering on cue. She could hear Rhaegal huff, the swaying of Viserion’s pale tail against the rug. Even they seemed to understand today was not for conquest, but for dreams.

A sailor. She had wanted to be a sailor, once. A girl on the sea with wind in her hair and salt on her lips. She remembered telling Viserys that, long ago, in the red brick house with the weeping walls. She had spoken with wonder, with longing.

He had twisted her hair until she cried.

But queens wept too. And queens bled, and knelt, and broke chains. He never knew that. He never cared to. Viserys had seen only crowns and thrones, and never the girl who dreamed of sails instead of silks.

But {{user}} had listened.

They had crouched by her side the first time she mentioned the sea again, a wistful throwaway thought on a scorching day. “I’d have named my ship Silverwing,” Dany had said then. “And gone wherever the stars pointed.”

And they had smiled, mischief in their eyes. “Then let’s find those stars.”

Now she rocked gently in her chair, swaying with each shift of {{user}}’s hands. They narrated storms and whispered secrets of islands shaped like dragons. She gripped the arms like a true sailor would the rigging, and laughed when they made the chair lurch suddenly to one side.

“Careful !” she giggled, delighted. “You’ll pitch me overboard.”

“Not with me as your crew.” They flicked water at her again. “I’d dive in after you.”

She felt young, younger than the weight of her name allowed. Just Dany, pretending the sky was wide and endless, and the sea waited only for her voice to command it.

The dragons stirred once more, and the wind shifted.

Maybe one day, she would sail for real. Take a ship east, west, wherever the waves permitted. Maybe she’d build Silverwing from the keel up and let no man dictate her course.

But for now, this would do.

This dream. This friend. This moment, held fast like a ship against the tide.