Deep down, Daella Targaryen knew no one was coming to save her.

She'd scratch her way out in the open space, fingers hurt by dirt and blood that she seemed to not being able to escape. Time in 120 AC felt this way.

In 116 AC, Laena gave birth to the twins. Now, four years old, a year elder of her Caspian, they sat perched upon black chairs on the open balcony of the Driftmark Keep, Rhaenys' arm wrapped around both. A mother should've never had to bury her child. Daella's hand gripped Arthor's without realizing so.

She's never met Baela or Rhaena before this day. She hardly knew Laena; she heard of her uncle's sudden interest in the girl and before she knew Rhaenyra told her that Daemon took Caraxes and Laena took Vhagar and they escaped to Pentos and wed before the king could interfere. Looking at the girls, she wishes she knew Laena – because if she was half her girls, Laena Velaryon was a dream come true.

"You will come with us," Daella whispers down to Arthor as Adrian follows behind her onto the balcony with the half-asleep Caspian on his hip, "we will say our sorrows and then you can find your cousins. Alright?"

Arthor looks up at his mother with tired eyes – he hadn't had a day of sleep since they left the Capitol. He nods his head, head of brown curls jumping with it; there's a streak of silver among them. Adrian presses a kiss on the back of his wife's head – her hair flows freely in small curls; too tired to braid them in the early morning. She follows behind Adrian and Caspian who had his cheek pressed against his father, drooling slightly from his tired state.

When Rhaenys saw their approach through the crowd, she wiped the tears from underneath the black veil that covered her face and stood up from the chair, Rhaena quickly reaching out for her grandmother's warmth by holding her hand.

Adrian offers a small smile to the twins because even if he had not always been a good husband, he had always been a good father, good with children. Something Daella could only wish to reach.

"Iksan sīr vaoreznuni syt aōha loss," Daella almost whispered when she reached Rhaenys – she believed that the words in their tongue might've mean more. (I'm so sorry for your loss.)

"Kirimvose," Rhaenys whispered back with a small nod. (Thank you)

Before Daella could urge Arthor to do the same, he already extended his hand out for the princess. Adrian must've thought him everything, Daella realizes; he's been more involved in their son's live than she could ever be. The small hand was almost funny placed in Rhaenys' palm, "I'm really sorry for your loss, princess."

If it was any other place and time, Rhaenys might've smiled at how he acted. Instead, she nodded her head with the same whispered gratitude as she offered the boy's mother. Adrian quietly woke their second from his sleepy state and the boy did the same from his arms. Only then did Adrian also extend his arm from under the black cloak he wore to shield himself from the cold and offered his condolences to Rhaenys.

In the meantime, Daella offered her sympathy and condolences to the twins. Their hands were colder than the stormy winter night that she gave birth to Arthor. She wondered if the girls saw their mother die, if they suffered the same fate as she did.

She urged Arthor to then find Jacaerys and his brothers to keep them company. As much as she feared Daemon, she knew she'd have to find him. She excused herself from her husband who lingered behind with Rhaenys and the girls and she moved through the crowded balcony.

Her uncle stood at the end of it, a cup of Dornish red wine lingering there, his eyes watching down the stone coast where they prepared everything for the Velaryon funeral. She toyed with the hem of her cloak when she approached. Her voice cracked when she spoke, "Iksan vaoreznuni syt aōha loss, kēpus." (I'm sorry for your loss, uncle.)

There had been a time when Daemon cared for her; before he was exiled and his brother turned away from him, taking the title of his heir away and out of his reach. There and then, he became bitter. Daemon nursed the wine in his hands and didn't turn his eyes – one thing in common with his niece were the dark purple eyes, almost black – from the men that dragged the stone coffin across the land, "thank you."

She thinks he believes she's not worthy of their mother tongue – because, in his sense, if he gives her that, it means he cares. She tries to make the stiffening air less awkward as she toys with her cloak, "I, uhm, I had met the twins. Lovely girls. You must be proud of them. As well as Laena."

There's a bitter laugh that escapes him; she'd hear him laugh this way whenever he defiled her father, "What do you know of Laena and what she thinks?"

Daella's smile fades. There's a sudden rush of anxiety through her blood and bones and she averts her gaze out into the open sea, "a – apologies, uncle. I had, I had not intended the words to sound that way. I, uhm . . ."

She cuts herself with a sigh and a shake of her head, "I do not know what I meant, I'm sorry."

Daemon straightens himself from where he was leaning when Corlys below nudged his head that she was ready for the funeral. He moves from the stone edge and Daella's shoulders stiffen when he walks pass her, "good luck for the labour."

She holds a hand over her lips as she tries not to cry again; there's a lump in her throat that wants to get out. Fortunately, Rhaenyra quickly moves through the crowd, her warm again holding her sister's elbow for support, "do not let our uncle's opinion affect you."

"I shall try," Daella replies in a murmur, sniffling and brushing her hand over her cold cheek before she turns with Rhaenyra around her arms and they move down to the stone beach for the funeral.

When Daella watches the stone coffin lower in the open sea, she believes it to be a more beautiful funeral than the Targaryen customs. It must feel far more freeing to be one with the sea than being burned on the stake by a dragon.

Arthor leans into his mother's side, her hand sliding across her boy, protecting him from the wind that was picking up. On her other side, Aemond leaned closer to her too. With her left arm, she covered her brother with her cloak, shielding him as well.

She watches Rhaenyra shrink when they listen to Corlys' nephew Vaemond spoke about true Velaryon blood during his speech for Laena; he'd always been too full of himself when it came to the bloodline of her sister's children. It was funny to Daella mostly – how he uses the excuse of their looks when her children do not look Targaryen nor does the princess Rhaenys.

Laena is lowered in the sea and Laenor sobs near Daella. She'd grow fond of her good brother over the years – they both enjoyed cake and hushed conversations during dinners. Aemond pushed the top of his head further into Daella's warmth and her fingers traced patterns over his shoulder; because she knew that Alicent would never show him that much warmth nor support.

Aemond would often be inside Daella's chambers; he'd always come for her support whenever the rest of the children would've teased him for not having a dragon as she was the same. The difference was that Aemond wished nothing else but to claim a dragon while his sister feared them. He'd spent early evenings inside her chambers, listening to her reading some old tales about their House. Because Daella Targaryen had always been more of a mother to him than Alicent Hightower ever could be.

Nigh time washed over Driftmark – dark and suffocating like the fog that rose at the time of their arrival. With no brothels in sight, Adrian had to stay inside their chambers. Arthor laid sprawled across the bed of his parents, eyes trained on the ceiling, his father doing the same. Caspian sat on the couch next to his mother as her fingers dug gently across his hair to make braids because the boy kept on insisting on them.

With a knock on the doors and a call from Adrian, Ser Criston walked inside with Isabella trailing behind him like a duckling. Daella bit her lower lip to prevent a smile creeping on her face and looked back at Caspian, finishing the small braid.

Criston bowed his head before speaking, "the lady Celtigar is here for the children."

"Brilliant," Adrian claps his hands and Arthor grins up at his father.

Adrian dugs his fingers into his eldest's belly, making him laugh, "fa – father, stop!"

His father does as he pleases (after a few moments) and presses a kiss on top of his head as an apology, "go say good night to your mother."

And when Arthor slithered off the big bed and practically ran to his mother, Adrian pulled himself off the bed and walked to the doors. With a grin he clapped his hand over Criston's back before he moved to his sister, his arm wrapped around her, pressing a kiss against her cheek, "fun journey?"

"I thought I might die at any given second," Isabella replied with a smile in a jest – when Daella feared most things, Isabella feared large ships in even larger space of water; something her father teased her about.

Arthor by then held Caspian's tiny chubby hand in his as he dragged him away from their mother and towards their aunt. Isabella brightly smiled down at the boys, her arms reaching out and holding the younger of the two on her hip. Both her and Criston said their goodbyes and slithered out of the half-opened doors before closing them behind.

When they left, Daella's fingers traced over the wooden toy left behind by Caspian – a little dragon that was once coloured green but it slowly started to fade away. A little before he was born, she'd walk inside Aemond's chambers to say good night to him and she'd find him with the wooden toy, painting it green as a gift for his nephew. She'd stare at it so often she thought she might go mad; it reminded her of some simpler times, times before the long and boring meetings, of the life she once enjoyed, of when the king wasn't feeling sick and when she didn't have the feeling she might rise as queen soon.

She's not sure when Adrian knelt before her; suddenly she felt his hands – warm, always warm no matter what (she'd often think he might have more dragon blood within her veins than she ever did) – gently across the growing belly in front of him. He'd always speak to the babe when he had the chance (when he was actually in the chambers with his wife and not within some whore house with . . . Sylvie? Silcy? Something like that; he'd slur her name once or twice) because his mother would've often said his own father talked to the babe like this. He'd do it when his mother was pregnant with Isabella – he'd babble about his day in hopes it will entertain his baby sister.

"I – uhm," Daella speaks and brushes her belly against his hands when she stands, taking the toy with her, "I have to take this to Caspian."

Adrian rolled around and onto his ass, leaning back against the couch with a small thud. He lulled his head backwards, looking up at the ceiling – crests of House Velaryon painted all across, "I think he can survive without it for one night, Dae."

The nickname burned her skin and left scars there. She twisted the toy in between her fingers, letting it crash against her rings as she did so and she watched it, "he hardly ever sleeps without it."

"How would you know that?" he mumbles half away in thought when he closes his eyes, arms rested over his chest.

Because he was always there when the boys fell asleep – he'd sit on the floor between the two beds (because they insisted, they want to share a room), Isabella would sit on the chair near the edge of the bed and read stories until they fell asleep. And then, when the boys fell asleep and he said his good night to his sister, he'd slip on a cloak and quietly leave the Keep to find calmness in flesh of the women.

She's not deaf, she heard his mumbles. She has no response, no way to tell him off; to say it's not true, to fight back because he was right. She doesn't know if Caspian sleeps with the toy. She hopes he does; she hopes she knows him just a little.

Daella turns on her feet and moves to the doors. When her fingers wrap around the knob, Adrian is already fast asleep, small snores heard from him. She bites the inside of her cheek and moves to the bed. She pulls off the dark blue blanket that rests there and sets it over her husband's body to keep the cold away from him. Then, she turns around again and leaves the chambers.

The Kingsguard chambers in the Red Keep are far from being comfortable – when the castle was made and the guard formed, they said that they don't need a comfortable living space, that they dedicated their days to the royal family and only needed a bed to sleep during the night when they're not on night's watch.

The chambers in Driftmark weren't as different. There was a bed, a small desk and a slightly bigger fireplace. The black cloak and dress laid discarded somewhere near the warmth of the fire. The Kingsguard uniform was long gone after Criston made a deal with Ser Erryk to keep the night's watch for him. The wooden toy was tucked underneath her dress.

When she got pregnant, Criston was far gentler when he slipped inside her; his hands held her against the bed, his lips tracing any bare skin he could reach. He didn't mind nor care about the scratches on his back that left red scars around it. Because in some way, he believes it was a way of her claiming that he was hers – now and forever. She came far faster than before; blame it on the hormones.

He'd brush away the curls that formed off her sweaty forehead before kissing her on the edge of her mouth, lingering slightly there, murmuring against the skin there, "come with me? To Essos."

He'd first mention that years ago – when Daemon was considered Viserys' heir, when her marriage was only hushed whispers among the ladies of the court, when she was far happier than she'd ever be. He'd mention then when she told him she was going to be married off; he'd tell her to abandon it all and run away with him. Then, when she became pregnant for the first time and he swore he'd take care of her if she leaves with him. He stopped asking when she was pregnant for the second time as he knew she'd always put her duty to the realm above her happiness.

Criston had himself prompted on his right elbow as he watched her turn her head slightly to look up at him. His words were a murmur again – scared of someone hearing them and of rejection once more, "there are ships all around. We can leave at any time."

"And leave my children alone?" she murmurs back – she didn't want them, Gods, she was terrified of having them. But they're her flesh and bones; she loves them so much she thinks she'd even kill for them.

Before the boys, her reason had always been either the crown, the realm or even how she can't let Rhaenyra take the fall for her actions. Now, she took the excuse of a dutiful mother, "we can take them along. I can teach Arthor to be a dutiful knight – he loves swords already. And – and you can teach them High Valyrian. I will – I will work so much that you wouldn't have to move your finger if you didn't want to."

There's a grin on his lips because it's easier to mask his anxiety than to speak of it as he leans down and kisses her again, "the full princess of the realm treatment."

Before she could reply with a laugh, call him mad; a fast and sharp series of knocks echoed across the small bedchambers. Criston had his palm across her lips to prevent any noises when he calls, "yes?"

"Ser, there has been an incident in the Dragonpit," the voice called out, "the children are harmed, you're needed."

Panic and anxiety rose deep within Daella's bones – something so primal, something she hadn't felt before. The sudden thought that her children are harmed, almost made her scream out in fear (only then was she thankful for Criston's hand over her mouth). Both were quick to pull off the bed and dress. When she knew it was safe and no one was outside his chambers, she fled out and leaving the toy somewhere on the floor of his chambers.

The throne room was full of people Daella didn't know. Her nephews were on one side comforted by her sister and the princess Rhaenys comforted her grandchildren while the Queen was by the fireplace with her own, the Maester patching Aemond. Daella didn't see the damage done to her brother as she franticly searched for her own boys. They stood on the edge of the crowd; alone, scared; Caspian clinging onto Arthor who bleed out of his cheek.

"Arthor!" Daella called and she quickly moved to her sons, dropping down on her knees and letting a small whine, her fingers gently trying to pry away his hands to see at the injury, "show it – show it to me."

When he finally removed his hand, there was a long red line that stretched from his nose to his jaw, barely keeping away from his eye. Blood still prickled from the wound but not as much and Daella pressed a white cloth with her initials over it to prevent the blood to continue. She looked at Caspian then, fingers reaching and holding his cheek, "are you hurt? Show – show me where."

Her youngest shook his small head, telling her he's not hurt but only scared. His lower lip wobbled slightly when he murmured, "mummy."

Her arm extended and she pulled Caspian towards her and into a hug. Her left arm held Arthor around his hips and close to her as he lowered his chin to rest it atop of his mother's head. The doors opened again with a creak and Ser Criston walked inside – his Kingsguard uniform barely clasped on his back, his hair dishevelled. He looked around before he moved pass the crowd and towards the princess and her sons – because he's her guard. Otto watched it from the few steps of the small platform where the throne was placed.

When the doors opened again, Viserys walked inside; raging and beaming, "what is the meaning of this!?"

And when Alicent called out that Rhaenyra's sons attacked Aemond, Daella gently coaxed Arthor to look at him through the yells of Viserys and the youngest children, "what did you do?"

Arthor refused to meet his mother's gaze – he's not sure if he should be ashamed or if she'd be proud that he tried to help. He murmured, "they attacked Aemond."

Caspian tugged himself away from his mother's touch, his back pressed against Criston's knee. Daella looked from Arthor and towards the crowd behind when Alicent spoke, "they brought a blade! They tried to kill him!"

"He called us bastards!" called Jacaerys back, Rhaenyra holding him close to him, her fingers aching from the pain of it.

Aemond looked over his shoulder and towards his nephew, bitterness seen in the eye that remained. When Viserys demanded to know who told him these vile accusations and when Rhaenyra said that he should've been sharply questioned who spoke those words to him, Adrian slithered through the crowd. Criston took a step back which almost made Caspian fall backwards. He practically fell on his knees when he started to search for any injury and Daella stood up, shielding her sons from any prying eyes.

"He lost an eye, Rhaenyra," Daella spoke up and surprised even herself when she did, "being sharply questioned is the furthers he should be doing now."

Arthor pushed himself into his mother's side, her hand holding the white cloth over his cheek. Rhaenyra was scared; Daella knew it. In the moment of terror – for her sons being hurt, for the accusations thrown over her and the inheritance of her sons – she acted on instinct. But her eyes betrayed the hurt she felt when her elder sister stepped in to defend their brother. Viserys didn't wait; he stepped closer to his second son, "who spoke these lies to you?"

Aemond looked across to his mother by the fireplace next to Aegon and Helaena and back to his father. He didn't want to say any names. He already lost an eye, what more can he lose? After a moment, be bitterly replied, "Aegon."

"Me?" came a shock voice of his eldest brother.

Adrian pushed himself off the floor, bringing Caspian on his hip. And though the boy had his head pushed into his father's neck, he watched Criston. The knight offered him a reassuring smile and the boy smiled back.

Viserys moved to Aegon who stared at the floor in front, "what do you have to say for yourself, boy?"

His eldest son then looked at Aemond and then at his mother before glancing at the boys that his brother deemed as the Strongs earlier, "everyone knows. Just look at them."

Daella isn't sure how Viserys replied – she heard the muffled sound of his cane against the stone floor, his words beaming off the walls of the room about how they're family. But that title was lost in 105 AC when Aemma died.

She is, however sure, of Alicent's next words, "Ser Criston. Bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon."

She heard Lucerys call for his mother and hiding behind her, shielded by her and Corlys with Rhaenys. Daella and Adrian looked behind them and over their shoulder to see the knight's eyes slightly open with shock and he shuffled on his feet. He couldn't refuse the Queen, "at your wish, my Queen."

"Stand your hand!" Viserys yelled back when Criston already made a step forward, now stopped by Daella's side.

King Viserys brought an end to the debate with a firm decree, declaring that he would hear no further challenges. No eyes would be removed, he announced, but if anyone ever again referred to his grandsons as "Strongs," they would have their tongues torn out with hot pincers. Additionally, His Grace ordered Alicent and Rhaenyra to exchange vows of love and respect, though their strained smiles and words fooled no one but Viserys. As for the young princes, Prince Aemond would later say that though he lost an eye that day, he gained a dragon in return—a trade he found well worth the cost.

To prevent any further fights, Viserys declared that Alicent will return to King's Landing alongside her children while Rhaenyra stays on Dragonstone with hers. He tells that Ser Erryk Cargyll will swear as Rhaenyra's sworn shield, while Ser Criston Cole returns to the Capitol as the Queen's. Because Viserys is a fool – he's unaware of the snakes and spiders among his own court, but he is aware of the hushed whispers among. While Rhaenyra's sons were deemed as Strongs, Daella's would often be called Coles.

His eldest child doesn't (and can't) argue as she watches Criston move from her side and follow Alicent and the three children out of the room and Ser Arryk Cargyll took his place by the princess' side.