There's blood running down the sticky skin — she wasn't sure if it was hers, Adrian's, Arthor's, Caspian's or Aemma's. It might have been Aegon's too. She might have killed him with her hands, she thinks. She might have torn her brother apart for a chair that she didn't want. She'd beg her father to not name her his heir. Now blood stains her green dress and she can't decide who she is angry at. Was it herself, her brother, her father, her husband? She thinks the Gods may be laughing at her now.

She's suddenly painfully aware the blood is hers. She screams and vails and kicks. Her nails dig around the dirt, she hears the screams of the people that fight for her. They believe in her, she knows. She feels like she betrayed them all with her foolish decisions. There's smoke around and she feels the fire pricking at her skin. She hears her nephew's screams and his dragon. She's suddenly aware that they're not making it alive. That she'll be dragged across the field — dead or alive — to be presented to Aegon like a sacrificial lamb. For them to mock her, to tell her she failed, to kill her, burn her at the stake, let his dragon feast on her dead body. Her fingers then held her bleeding stomach. She thinks of the screams and tears she let when she gave birth to her children — she hears them inside of her skull. She knows she'll never see them again, never hold them. She never wanted them.

Daella Targaryen wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be on Dragonstone with her children, with Adrian. He was planning her war, Arthor and Caspian were with her sister, Aemma... she cries suddenly when she remembers her daughter. She knows she can't help her escape the faith she was to suffer.

Because Daella Targaryen wasn't supposed to die in Criston Cole's arms.

She wakes with a shriek of tears and sobs. She looks around her bedchambers – no war, no blood, no screams, no agony, no Criston. Her hands reach to the side of her bed; cold and empty, far from a place where someone laid through the night. She's not sure if it was Adrian or Criston that slept there; she's not sure about many things at these times. Time and life became a blur for her recently; Arthor and Caspian are out somewhere, the babe she deemed to name Aemma rests in her belly still. She often thinks she should change the name – the babe in her dreams is Aemma; sweet and gentle Aemma; that is ripped from her flesh and bones and taken. Perhaps, if her name wasn't such, she'd be spared that fate.

Daella swiftly pushes herself off the bed (because she thinks she's going to lose her mind if she stays there longer) and inside the bathroom, her cold fingers brushing the sweat off her forehead with the water prepared for her inside. It must've been lady Isabella – the younger sister of her husband by two years. A gentle soul and far away from what Adrian was. The princess sits at the edge of the bathtub, bracing herself on her knees and thighs, her hands trying to soothe the anxiety within. Her father used to tell stories (at least it's what she believed them to be) about dreamers of her House; about Aegon I, about his tale of a Song of Ice and Fire. He'd rarely mention Daenys though she was the one dreamer that saved their House from certain extinction. She tells herself that the dreams are only dreams because it's the only way she doesn't completely lose her mind now that she feels lonelier than before. Because all tend the babe, no one cares for her.

A small knock was on the doors of the bedchambers but Daella didn't hear it. Another one came from the bathroom ones, a small head of silver curls peaking inside. Aegon, now age thirteen (but still her baby brother nonetheless), looks inside, "father waits at the Council."

"Tell him to start without me," she replies after letting out a shaky exhale, brushing the sleeves of her nightgown over her damp cheeks.

Aegon's brows furrow, "are you sick?"

"Sick of being in the stupid and suffocating Council meetings, yes," she replies in a bitter jest, faster than her mind can react because she is supposed to be the picture of the perfect monarch.

Before she can tell Aegon to not repeat what she said, to not remember it, he snorts out a laugh. Daella looks at him when he belly laughs and smiles; a small chuckle leaves her nose, her fingers gently tracing patters over her stomach, "do not tell father I said that."

"I will not," he promises through laughter, his fingers pushing back the silver curls that dangle over his pink cheeks; ones stained by Dornish red.

To help him pass the wrath of their father, Daella pushes herself off the side of the bathtub with a small whine, padding barefoot to the water and dumping a yellow cloth inside. She moves to her brother, fingers curling under his chin as she tilts his head upwards and gently brushes the stains off his cheek, murmuring, "you mustn't drink in the mor. Especially not when father wants you to be the cupbearer inside the Council chambers. It does not look good on us."

"Nothing I do looks good on him," he mutters back bitterly, forcing his chin from her grip because once children turn into teenagers, any help is embarrassing for them.

"That makes two of us," she replies and her tone isn't bitter. She came to that realization soon enough. Her fingers once more hold his chin and she brushes away the rest of the sticky wine left there before she places the cloth on the edge of the tub.

Suddenly, Aegon holds onto her nightgown the same way Caspian grips onto her when he wants her attention. Her brother sticks his bottom lip out in a childish pout, "please! Come with me!"

"Nearly a man grown, she said," Daella jests with a smile on her lips, recalling the words of the Queen Alicent when she'd tell that to Viserys in hushed voices when she'd think Daella wasn't near, "yet clinging onto my dress like a babe."

"You're mean," Aegon replies and pushes himself away and out of the bathroom.

Daella laughs and calls out, "I will be there in a few moments!"

But the doors close. Daella moves back within the bedchambers, fingers tugging the nightgown off and sliding inside the dress she'd have prepare the night before. Struggling to clasp the back of it, she didn't hear the doors opening and closing swiftly and with a click.

"Assistance, my princess?" he'd ask and Daella smiled.

"If you could, kind Ser," she'd tease, letting her hands fall from her back and on the sides of the Targaryen coloured dress.

Criston pulled off the leather gloves off his hands and dropped them on the side of the bed. He was standing behind her in two swift steps, fingers clasping the edges of the dress but not before he'd press feather like kisses on her back and worked his way to the side of her throat. Daella would hum, "I have to go to the Council."

"Your husband was brought drunk earlier," he'd say back as if that would change her mind about going to the Council chambers. She wouldn't, really, but Aegon needed an ally inside of the room.

"How is that any news?" she'd ask, tilting her head to the side, allowing Criston to have more space to kiss, lips tracing patterns across her jaw, "the same as yesterday. And the day before. And ever since our wedding."

"I thought you'd wish to know," the knight replied and as she turned her head to look at him, he'd press a lingering kiss against her lips because he wasn't sure when he'd had the chance to do so.

"I do not," she murmurs back against his lips before she feels him clasping together the dress on her back and she turns around.

Criston hesitates for a moment before brushing his knuckles against the baby bump seen under the dress; he runs them up and down there, feeling the babe – now eight moons in – as she gently presses herself against the womb in a small kick. For her mother or her father, Daella wasn't sure. Still, the action made her lips tug in a small smile.

"Will I see you tonight?" the princess whispers – almost as a plead – as she looks up from his hand on her belly and into his eyes; it's a silent wish for him not to allow Adrian near her. The smell of wine and whores would've sent her to puke her guts out.

"I will try," he whispers back – almost as a promise – before ducking his head down and pressing a kiss on top of the bump and upwards until he reached her lips, pressing his against, murmuring, "promise."

When she'd be Queen, Daella would've change the men of the Council. Starting with the Hand. She'd sit there through boring meetings – old men dragging matters from moons ago to stay relevant in the eyes of the King. She only stayed because she is the Heir and to keep an eye out on Aegon; shielding him from father's words. Otto was angry under his calm mask, she senses it – whispers of his ambition of usurping her throne are no secret in the maids' quarters, Criston tells her late at night – to have his grandson carry cups for the men of the Council. Aegon doesn't seem to care; he's close to wine.

Otto returned to his position after the incident revolving Lord Lyonel Strong and his son Harwin; burned to an unrecognizable mass. Larys, however, returned to the Keep and lurked in the shadows. She thinks of making Rhaenyra her Hand. Her sister has little experience in the Court's ways but then again neither Daella or her father do. Viserys inherited whatever was left of Jaehaerys' reign and she will inherit Viserys' peace.

". . . betroth the princess' children," made Daella finally break from her train of thoughts, her hand mindlessly tracing patterns over her belly, eyes looking out of the window.

Opposite her sat Otto. Her brows furrow and she clear her throat, "apologies, my lord, I was . . . I had not heard you correctly."

"Of course, my princess," the Hand replied and she could hear the men snicker from around, "I had suggested to perhaps wed one of your children to an important House. To sustain the alliances the Crown has. And since the princess Rhaenyra had already made a deal with the daughters of prince Daemon . . ."

"Out of the question," she replied and she surprised even herself when she spoke like this.

Her hand gripped the ball on the table in front, "Arthor and Caspian are far too young for these matters. Besides," she cleared her throat and seemed to want to shrink, "there is no need for us to urge any stronger alliances as of this moment since the Crown is at peace."

She'd knew it was only a matter of time when Aegon will be wed to someone; preferably Helaena as the second born of Viserys. She also knew it will be only a matter of time before they'd have children and Otto will suggest a marriage between them and her own children – anything to have his blood on the throne.

Before he'd be able to speak again, Daella looked at the table in front, her words coming out as a quick stutter, "and – and I believe that the, uhm, the lords have more important matters to, uhm, discuss than the marriage of my young children."

Lord Lyman Beesbury came to her rescue; not that he'd do it for her, he'd like to come higher in her favour for when she becomes queen and for the sake of the current king. He started off with his current matters that concern him as the master of coin; something happening to the Dornish, Daella thinks when she tries to gather her breaths, leaning back in her chair, fingers holding her belly.

During the speech of the man, Aegon rolls around the table with the pitcher of wine – he pours it inside the cup of his father before he moves it to Daella's who covers it with her palm, shaking her head lightly.

"You should drink it," her brother whispered – drink something, he meant.

Before Daella could reply, Viserys nudged Aegon under the table with his foot. His eldest son turned his face to be met with the stern expression of the king. With that, he let out a sigh before moving from his sister and onto where Lord Jasper Wylde sat, pouring him the cup full.

It was only then when the doors were urgently pushed open and before Viserys could call out the meaning of it; of why the Council is so abruptly disturbed, he was met with the teary princess Rhaenyra, the three-year-old Joffrey glued on her hip, "the lady Laena Velaryon is dead."

Driftmark was a lonely place; home, yes, but lonely as well. At least what Daella thought of it. It was covered in fog, tides brushing the land every so often when the wind blew. The princess leaned forward against the wooden railing of the ship covered in Targaryen flags and colours. Arthor, the elder of her two children, stood by his mother's side, his fingers holding a wooden toy (shaped as a dragon) upon the railing, too focused on it, rather than the rocky journey. At least one of them can enjoy it – Daella wasn't sure when she didn't feel sick or felt the urge to puke her guts out from the constant rocking of the ship against the waves.

"Why is there fog?" she hears Caspian ask.

Her head turns and she sees Adrian moving across the ship's deck with their younger perched on his hip, tiny hands holding the toy tightly as if he's afraid it will fall and crash in the open sea. Caspian got in the age when everything was a giant mystery to him – why is the sky blue, why do dragons eat meat, why did he fall down the staircase. Adrian would joke that his son will one day become a Grand Maester in Citadel for how he asked questions.

"Because it's Driftmark," came the reply from his father as he hoisted the young boy upper in his arms, "and it's far less sunny than home."

Whatever home was for Adrian – it's not King's Landing he'd often say. He means the beaches of Claw Isle. He, himself, is not too sure about the weather there anymore even as he spent his youth there. He had to adapt quickly to the Capitol. His wife, who was born and raised in King's Landing, hadn't done it yet.

"Perhaps mother has a better insight of the land," Adrian spoke again as he moved to the other side of the deck and his son's arms already outstretched to his mother.

Daella quickly tugged the boy off her husband and onto her hip, murmuring, "I had only visited this place once."

The princess was there only shortly after her mother's passing in 105 AC when the then Grand Maester urged her father to marry again; to keep the bloodline alive. Laena was briefly considered to make the breaking bond between the Houses stronger. When Viserys refused and rather married the lady Alicent, Corlys was angered. Laena (from what Rhaenyra would've tell her at that time) wasn't as angry as her father; she'd rather spend her life flying over her home on Vhagar than be suggested as a wife to a king. She'd later marry Daella's uncle in 115 AC.

"Why did she die?" Adrian asked, moving to stand by Daella as he leaned forward onto the railing, his eyes squinting to catch a glimpse of the land through the fog.

"Childbirth," she replied and her husband looked at her but she was looking at Driftmark.

Sometimes, Adrian felt guilt; Daella might've been scared of a lot of things – dragons, crowds, having to speak in front of people – but giving birth scared her more than anything else. There had always been a bitter thought in the back of her mind that Adrian will do the same to her as her father did to her mother.

He reached out and his knuckles brushed over her belly; she almost flinched back from it. Adrian ducked his head so he was able to look in her eyes, murmuring, "it will be alright."

Suddenly, she feels like she's going to suffocate; she stands on the open deck of the ship in the middle of the vast sea yet she feels like her lungs with collapse. With the excuse of sickness, she places Caspian back to his father and she quickly walked pass Rhaenyra and Jacaerys and down in the cabins.

She barely made it inside the bedchambers, fingers curling around the bucket, emptying her stomach, spitting out any remaining spit she had. She sits on the cold wooden floor of the rocking ship, using the sleeve of her dress to wipe any spit on her lips.

Daella grips the ring on her finger – a dragon in the colours of House Arryn, given to her by her mother – and leans her head against the bed beside her as she tries to choke back tears.

She's not sure when the doors opened or when he stepped inside, closing them behind with a click. She's not even sure when he placed the sword down or when he pulled off the black leather gloves. What she does know was his arms holding her as she sobbed in the cold metal pallets of his Kingsguard uniform.