This is how we serve the realm, Rhaenyra.

Her mother's words vaguely echo amongst the crowded whispers that flocked around them, black cloaking each and every one that stood firm. A mellow growl crushes the growing silence, and the princess hushes her dragon into calmness.

Her brother will live, but at the cost of her mother dying in childbirth.

After that, Baelon died as well. So what has her mother died for?

Fingers twisted inside her gloves to form a fist, she couldn't bear to look at the handiwork of the Silent Sisters— her mother, the good queen, ready to part with the world's possession of her.

You see how Rhaenyra's jaw clenches, the speech given for her mother was something she didn't want to hear, not because she didn't care— you knew how much she had loved the queen.

You loved the queen, too. She's treated you as any other close to her, and you deeply appreciated it in your worst moments.

The breeze lifts the cloaks you both wore, by the slightest margin from the ground. Taking a tentative step closer to the grief-striken princess, her eyes swiftly look over to you for confirmation.

You nod, she looks at her mother for one last time, before declaring to Syrax :

"Dracarys."

Syrax's bronze scales shone with her fire, everyone could not take their eyes off the sight of one of Valyria's old traditions, to depart with their loved ones in order to hand them over to the old gods and the new.

However, your hand finds itself holding Rhaenyra's, who was close to shaking and shedding a tear, if it weren't for the heat that burns through her mother's remains. A dragonrider's death, fit for a queen.

"I cannot.. bear to look longer, I'm sorry." She states, yet her eyes never leave the ashes left by her dragon. It broke her, deeply. How the men of the realm simply chose to let her mother die.

Her father chose that decision, to let his son live, yet that son died moments after.