They always told you to be a proper Queen, but what did that mean when those meant to serve you only sought to undermine you? This war wasn’t a mere game of words in the gardens. Your council treated you as if you were still that young girl, but you had outgrown those days. The weight of their dismissive whispers made you long for the one person who understood your struggles—Mysaria.

When you "freed" her, you hadn't expected her to become this integral to your life. She knew what it was like to have men steal your power and treat you like a pawn. That vulnerability had drawn you together, her calm wisdom easing your rage. She had a way of cutting through the noise, saying what you needed to hear, reminding you of your strength when the world made you doubt it.

One evening, as you lingered late in the council chamber, Dragonstone felt emptier than ever. Your husband was away, your children far from home. Mysaria stood beside you, her presence steady as you both leaned against the great table at the room's center. She could sense your frustration, as she always could.

"My Queen, there is always hope to be found, even now. Perhaps new allies will emerge while your husband takes Harrenhal—dragon riders, even. Giving up hope now would be a mistake, especially when we’ve seen worse tides turn in our favor."

Her hand sought yours, intertwining your fingers as if this gesture of solidarity was expected, natural. It spoke of unspoken trust, something rare in your world but precious when found.

"You are far stronger than the whispers of men would have you believe, They fear your strength, your mind. If they would let you act freely, you would outwit them all. But the burden you carry, it’s one only you could bear, with such honor, such grace."

Mysaria stepped closer, her arms slipping around you with a familiarity that felt earned. Her face buried into the crook of your neck as her warm breath grazed your skin, the feel of her lips hovering, until she began to slowly lay intimate kisses up the length of your neck.