Here is the chapter I promised. I'm warning you that there will be a lemon scene in part 2 of the chapter and that again I must warn those who didn't expect this in the story that the tags aren't there just for decoration. I particularly liked this chapter a lot, especially part 3. Well, enjoy reading.
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Chapter 7: The Weight of the Crown (Part 1)
Point of View: King Jaehaerys I Targaryen
The throne room was cold, far colder than the end of spring should allow. Jaehaerys sat upon the Iron Throne, feeling the sharp blades press against his back through velvet and leather—a constant reminder of the price of power. For sixty years he had ruled, carving peace from chaos, forging laws to unite a fractured realm. The Conciliator. The Old King. And now, in the shadow of his own reign, he saw the fruit of his most painful restraint finally bloom like a poisonous, glorious flower.
The ravens had arrived from Myr. Maester Mellos read the reports in a low, monotonous voice, but the words leapt from the page like flames. Total destruction… the harbor disintegrated by a bolt of lightning… the famed glass furnaces reduced to rivers of molten crystal… the magisters annihilated in their mansions… Each phrase was a burning coal warming the weary, ancient heart of Jaehaerys.
The court whispered, horrified and fascinated. The lords exchanged looks of disbelief. Some, the older ones who remembered the Conquest, seemed afraid. Others, the younger ones, like the ever-ambitious Jason Lannister, appeared to be frantically recalculating their loyalties. They saw only terror, brute force. They saw a monster who read minds and commanded dragons to annihilate a city.
But Jaehaerys saw something else.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and he did not see the destruction in Myr. He saw the face of Aemon, his firstborn, his heir. He remembered his easy smile, his sharp wit, the way he rode the beloved Caraxes with natural grace. He remembered the rending emptiness that had torn open his chest when word of the ambush in Myr had come, nine years before. A death without glory, without meaning, on a dusty road in Essos. A death that cried out for vengeance.
My heart has always cried out, thought Jaehaerys, an old pain throbbing in his chest. Always. He had looked at maps, pondered sending a fleet, declaring war. But the realm was at peace, a fragile, hard-won peace. The coffers were full, but the loyalty of the lords was a complex puzzle. A war in Essos, for vengeance, might unravel the seams he had stitched with such sweat. He had used the crown to crush his own heart, smothering the scream for vengeance over his son in the name of stability. That had been his cross. His burden.
So, when Aenar set forth his condition—Myr in exchange for the Iron Throne—Jaehaerys had not argued. How could he? He was too weary to go on bearing the burden of being the only adult in the room, the only one to sacrifice passion upon the altar of duty. And in the depths of his soul, a dark, paternal part exulted. At last, someone would do what he had always longed to do. At last, Aemon's blood would be honored. He had given the scepter to Aenar not only from lack of choice, but with a deep, secret, and bitter sense of relief.
The arrival of the family in the courtyard to greet the "heroes" brought him back to the present. He saw his grandson Viserys, arm in arm with sweet Lady Aemma Arryn. Her belly, now flat, was silent testimony to the birth of little Rhaenyra, only four days old. The child was cradled in a nurse's arms, a tiny bundle wrapped in silk. Viserys smiled, a mild and pleasant smile, but Jaehaerys's eyes, still sharp, saw the mildness in him, the lack of that dragon's fire. He will be a good man, thought the king, but the Iron Throne devours good men.
Then the king's eyes fell on Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake. The Lord of High Tide had arrived alone, his stance as proud as the mast of his fastest ship. And his expression… Jaehaerys could see it. It was not the resignation of Viserys, who had been passed over in the line of succession. It was a cold, contained fury. Corlys was not angered that his wife, Rhaenys, had once been passed over; he was insulted. Insulted that she had been set aside again, and worse, now for the younger brother of the man who had replaced her. He saw the power that might have been his slip further and further away.
"Lord Corlys," Jaehaerys greeted, his voice a little hoarse. "Where is my granddaughter? I expected to see her here, celebrating her triumph."
Corlys made a perfect bow, too perfect. "Your Grace. Rhaenys remained at High Tide. Prince Aenar suggested that… a dam of long-repressed emotions burst within her after the battle. He thought it best that she spend a few days with our children, Laena and Laenor, to recover her serenity before returning to court."
Jaehaerys nodded, understanding perfectly. Aenar, with his supernatural perception, had seen what all others ignored: that behind the façade of the Queen Who Never Was, there was a daughter mourning a father for nine years. Vengeance was not just a political act; it was catharsis. And that pause, that moment of quietude with family, was perhaps the greatest gift Aenar could have given Rhaenys. But it was also a shrewd move. He had brought Corlys alone, putting him at a disadvantage, forcing him to swallow his pride before the court without his wife at his side to bolster his stance.
Some days later, the sound of dragons announced the arrival of the heroes. First Caraxes and Meleys, with Daemon and Rhaenys—who looked lighter, her eyes cleansed of an old grief—landed in the courtyard. She carried little Laenor, seven days old, strapped safely to her chest. Even so large, the dragons still fit in the vast courtyard. But then, two thunderous roars, unlike anything ever heard before, shook the windows of the Red Keep.
Zekrom hovered like a living storm, and beside him, the immense form of Balerion, the Black Dread reborn. And then, Jaehaerys saw it. On Zekrom's back, seated before Aenar, was young Laena Velaryon, nine years old, her face lit with a mixture of ecstasy and terror. The king's heart swelled with unexpected joy. He brought her, he thought, moved. He is building bridges. The cracks in our family… he is mending them.
And then, knowing his son well, Jaehaerys anticipated what would happen next. And it did. Aenar simply rose and hurled himself from Zekrom's saddle, clutching Laena tightly in his arms. A collective cry rose from the crowd. He saw Aemma Arryn raise a hand to her mouth, and even Lady Velaryon, who had come to greet her husband, turned pale. Even his own Alysanne, at his side, gripped his arm tightly.
But Aenar did not fall. He plummeted like a stone, yes, but only until a few feet above the ground, when a supernatural lightness enveloped them. The world seemed to forget he was a man over seven feet tall and confused him with a feather. The landing was gentle, merely a bending of knees that absorbed the impact as if it were nothing. Laena laughed, a sound of pure joy, while the mothers in the crowd nearly had heart attacks.
The scene that followed was chaotic and wonderfully ordinary. His daughter, Gael, led a small host of exasperated mothers—including Aemma and Rhaenys —who surrounded Aenar, scolding him furiously for his madness. Far from frightened, Laena bounced from foot to foot. "Please, Uncle Aenar, can we do it again?" she begged, ignoring her mother's furious glare. For the first time in weeks, Jaehaerys laughed. It was the sound of a family, not a dynasty.
The tournament in honor of Aemon, Baelon, and the new Prince of Dragonstone was splendid. And, as was his right as victor of the joust, Daemon crowned his beautiful Lyseni wife, Lady Lysara Rogare, as the Queen of Love and Beauty. The choice was a powerful symbol—not a maiden of Westeros, but his ally from Lys, a woman of fire and ambition equal to his own.
At last, in the Great Hall of the Throne, before all the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms, the culminating moment came. One by one, the Lords Paramount approached to swear fealty to the new heir. Jaehaerys watched, his heart heavy with the past yet light with hope, as he heard the vows that would shape the future of the realm he had built.
Lord Rickon Stark of Winterfell knelt, his voice clear and unadorned like the northern wind.
"I swear by ice and by fire. Winter is coming, but the loyalty of House Stark to the Throne shall not freeze as long as the blood of wolves runs in our veins. The North remembers, and it recognizes its Prince."
Lord Ellard Tully of Riverrun followed, his words flowing like the river of his banner.
"By the Trident that sustains us, I swear that the waters of House Tully shall flow to support the heir of the Dragon. Our loyalty is as constant as the current."
Lord Rodrik Arryn of the Eyrie spoke with the solemnity of his mountains.
"As high as we honor our gods, so high is our loyalty. By the Stone Road and by the blood of the Eagle, I swear to defend your right with the strength of the Vale."
Lord Goren Greyjoy of the Iron Islands growled his oath, a harsh sound of stormy seas.
"We do not pay the gold price. We pay the iron price. House Greyjoy does not kneel easily, but we kneel before true power. What is dead may never die, but your reign shall be feared upon the seas."
Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock knelt with golden pomp.
"Hear me! House Lannister pays its debts. And our loyalty, once given, is worth more than all the gold of Casterly Rock. It is a treasure we offer you, Prince Aenar."
Lord Lyonel Tyrell of Highgarden swore with the sweetness of his flowers, but with the thorn of his ambition.
"For the harvest that feeds the realm, I swear that the Blossom of Highgarden shall protect your right. May our loyalty bloom and bear fruit under your command."
Lord Boremund Baratheon of Storm's End concluded, his voice a thunderclap that echoed through the hall.
"By the fury of our founder! House Baratheon is the Fury of the Dragon! Our loyalty is as the storm: merciless to your enemies and unshakable for you!"
When the last echo faded, Jaehaerys looked upon Aenar, standing before the Iron Throne, his face impassive as he absorbed the weight of so many oaths. The Old King felt one final breath of relief. Vengeance had been served. The future was, at last, secured. And for a brief moment, before the weight of the crown consumed him once more, Jaehaerys Targaryen allowed himself to feel a deep, well-earned peace.
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Chapter 7: The Weight of the Crown (Part 2)
103 AC, Chambers of the Prince of Dragonstone, Red Keep
Candlelight danced upon the plain brown garments of Septa Maegelle, still clad in the robes that marked her as a servant of the Seven. She knelt upon the cold floor at Aenar's feet, but not in prayer. Her face, a more mature and serene reflection of the silvery beauty of her lineage, was turned toward the monstrous virility of her brother, which she caressed and kissed with a devotion that was anything but sacred. The contrast was shocking: the austere simplicity of the religious habit against the visceral scene of lust unfolding.
Aenar, twenty-two name days old, observed her. His violet eyes, slit-pupiled, showed not only the physical pleasure of a man, but the deep attentiveness of a being who understood every nuance of the moment. One of his hands rested upon her head—not with the brute force of domination, but with a gentle pressure that guided the rhythm, his fingers occasionally intertwining in her silver hair in a gesture bordering on tenderness.
His mind, however, wandered to the recent past. After healing Oldtown, Maegelle had returned to court to care for their mother, Alysanne. It was during these visits to the queen's chambers that the seeds of desire were sown. Gael, in her pure, affectionate innocence, would sit at her mother's feet and, with a radiant smile, share the moments of intimacy she had with Aenar.
"He is so gentle, Mother," Gael would say, her eyes shining. "When we are alone, sometimes he only holds me, as if I were the most precious thing in the Seven Kingdoms. And his eyes… they lose that coldness that frightens the court. They become… warm. And when he kisses me, it is as though the whole world stops."
Queen Alysanne listened with a sad, understanding smile, stroking Gael's hair. "I am glad you have one another, my flower. He needs that warmth."
Maegelle, seated apart with her septa's back erect, listened in silence. At first she felt only a pang of healthy envy at her younger sister's bond. But, confined by years of dogma and celibacy, those innocent tales began to transform within her fertile, repressed mind. The "gentleness" Gael described became, deep within Maegelle, an all-consuming passion. The "warmth" in Aenar's eyes became the fire of lust. She began to reimagine each scene, inserting herself in Gael's place. And when Aenar was named heir, the fantasy evolved: she saw him as King, wielding his power not to force her, but to claim her, freeing her from vows she herself felt as chains.
Aenar, with his sharpened senses, noted Maegelle's subtle changes—a glance held too long, a fleeting blush. Respecting his rule never to intrude upon the minds of family, he resisted. Until her silent intensity became impossible to ignore. When he finally delved into Maegelle's mind, he found the garden of forbidden flowers her fantasies had cultivated.
He confronted her with his usual calm.
"Sister," he said, entering her chambers. "Your mind is an interesting place. Gael's stories… they grew differently within you, did they not?"
Her initial shock gave way to a profane relief when he did not judge her, but simply laid bare the truth. And so, it began.
Returning to the present, Aenar felt the peak approach. A low sound, more beast's growl than man's moan, rumbled in his chest.
"Maegelle," he whispered, his voice hoarse. His hand upon her head ceased guiding and began caressing. She understood, quickening her efforts until he climaxed with a shudder that coursed through his great frame.
But that was only the first of many times that night. He drew her upward with irresistible strength, but his hands, as they explored her still partly clothed body, were firm, never brutal. He carried her to the bed. The hours that followed were a dance of pleasure and devotion. Unlike his bond with Gael, with Maegelle there was an element of transgression both eagerly explored. He took her with an intensity that made her cry out, yet always followed by moments of stillness, where he held her against his chest in a silence more intimate than words. Her septa's robes, sometimes removed, sometimes merely pushed aside, remained as a symbolic backdrop.
During a pause, with her exhausted at his side, Maegelle whispered:
"The Gods will curse me."
Aenar turned his face toward hers.
"The Gods gave us this fire, sister." And then he kissed her—a rare gesture that spoke more than any speech.
The last time was the most intense. He placed her on her stomach. Maegelle was spent.
"Aenar, please… I cannot bear more," she begged.
He gently ignored her plea, entering her one last time with final determination. When at last he reached his climax, it was like an explosion. An impossible torrent of seed flooded her womb, so copious it began to spill immediately, dripping and pooling rapidly upon the sheets. The sight was one of utter profanation and possession.
She collapsed, utterly drained. Aenar lingered over her for a moment before withdrawing. He turned her onto her side, softly wiping the sweat from her face with his palm.
"Rest," he commanded, his voice now gentle. A trace of genuine affection glimmered in his gaze. He desired her, yes, but he also understood her.
Rising, he used his magic to cleanse both their bodies instantly. He dressed. Before leaving, he looked once more at Maegelle, already asleep from exhaustion. One reason for their affair was indeed the physical attraction he felt for her—the silver beauty of the Targaryens mingled with the forbidden aura of the faith she embodied. To protect her honor—or what remained of it—he wove subtle magical wards around her chambers during their trysts, projecting illusions of normality to any servant or spy.
At times, he thought, leaving the room in silence, I feel tempted to let that barrier fall. To let some zealot of the High Sept sniff out the sin and attempt to act. It would be the perfect excuse to cleanse King's Landing of that plague of hypocrites once and for all. But he did not. Patience was a weapon. Sooner or later, they would offer him the opening themselves. The Faith Militant was outlawed, but the seed of fanaticism never truly died. It only waited.
In the cold, quiet corridor of the royal wing, he nearly collided with a thin figure hurrying past with a stack of parchments. It was young Otto Hightower, now serving as assistant to the Master of Laws.
"My prince," Otto said, bowing swiftly and precisely, his intelligent eyes lowered with respect.
Aenar merely nodded, passing him without a word. Yet within, a surge of frustration arose. Probing the minds of conspirators, he had discovered that Otto, in this timeline, was not connected to his Oldtown kin who had schemed against Baelon. He was ambitious, yes, but still a young functionary, striving to rise through merit within the legal system his father had built.
How ironic, Aenar mused, to know that in another life, this man would be among the architects of the Dance, one of the chief butchers of our House. And I cannot kill him for a crime he has not yet committed. He felt Otto's eyes upon his back as he walked away. I shall watch you, Otto Hightower. Until you slip and reveal the viper you are destined to be… or perhaps… perhaps you will be wise enough simply to serve honestly.
The thought was so absurdly improbable that it drew a brief, silent smile from Aenar—a dry, humorless sound swallowed by the darkness of the corridor. In a world of dragons and magic, the honesty of a Hightower was the true fantasy.
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Chapter 7 – Part 3: The Stranger's Embrace
The year was 104 after the Conquest. High in the Red Keep, where the salty air of Blackwater Bay mingled with the smell of stone and dragonfire, an unnatural stillness had settled. To anyone else, it was merely a quiet evening. To Aenar Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, the air was heavy with a voiceless, agonizing omen. His senses, sharpened beyond mortal comprehension, perceived the flow of life as most men perceived sunlight. And now, he bore witness to the sunset of his mother.
The vitality of Queen Alysanne, once a furnace as warm and fierce as that of Balerion the Black Dread, had diminished to a weak, flickering ember. It was a slow emptying, a tide receding never to return. The shadow of the Stranger, a presence Aenar had always felt at the edges of his perception like a cold stain, now settled heavily within the royal chambers, cloaked in a silence that smothered even the faintest whisper. He—who with a thought could cure a plague or reduce a city to ash—was powerless before the inevitability of the end. His mother, at sixty-eight, was ready to depart.
Alysanne Targaryen, the Good Queen, rested against velvet cushions. Her body, which had danced in halls and flown dragons across the skies of the Seven Kingdoms, was frail now, an empty vessel worn by a long, full life. She had buried parents, siblings, and—cruelest of all—children. With Jaehaerys the Conciliator, she had forged a peace that would outlast her. Looking at Aenar, her last son, her "little dragon," she knew that legacy was secure. Eternity awaited her, and she went to meet it not with fear, but with a weary serenity, eager to be reunited with those who had gone before.
Yet her farewell was softened by one last spark of joy. Earlier, Aenar had come to the chambers of the king and queen—not as the powerful, feared prince, but as a young man, with rare vulnerability in his violet, slit-pupiled eyes. With a solemnity that moved her heart, he had asked for Gael's hand in marriage. Alysanne had smiled, a smile bearing both the wisdom of decades and the weight of goodbye. She would see her sweet Gael promised to a man of noble heart, though her spirit knew she would not live to see the bridal gown, hear the vows, nor hold Gael's children in her arms. It was both a blessing and a farewell, a thread of future woven at the threshold of the past.
Sensing the shift at the very heart of the world, Aenar arranged everything. Without a word spoken, he sent out a silent call, one that echoed in the hearts of all Targaryens within the keep. Alysanne's chamber began to fill—not with mourning, but with life.
The first to arrive were Gael and Aenar himself. Gael, whose gentle soul had always soothed her mother, lay at her side, resting her head upon the queen's lap. Her long silver hair spread like a blanket of light.
"Mother," Gael whispered, her voice fragile.
Alysanne stroked her hair. "My sweet girl. You shall be so happy."
Then she lifted her eyes to Aenar. He sat in a chair beside the bed, one hand clasping Gael's, the other resting lightly on Alysanne's arm. His eyes—those same eyes that had first gazed upon her on the day of his birth—did not leave hers. They showed no trace of the power that could bend the world to his will, only the raw pain of a son. No words were needed. Their bond had always transcended speech. He knew. And she knew that he knew. This gathering was her final gift to him.
The door opened again, and the bent figure of King Jaehaerys I appeared, supported by the steady arm of Princess Maegelle. The Conciliator's pride was broken by age and grief, yet his eyes, when they found his wife, still carried the spark of the young man she had loved. Maegelle, their septa daughter, was the family's quiet strength, her face balanced between the pain of a daughter and the spiritual acceptance of one who understood the gods' design.
"My love," Jaehaerys rasped as he sank heavily into a chair at the bed's right side, taking her hand in his—once strong enough to wield both sword and realm, now thin and spotted with age.
Next came Viserys, heir after Aenar until he had an heir of his own, entering with his wife, Aemma Arryn, whose gentleness mirrored Gael's. Between them, a whirl of light and energy—little Rhaenyra, seven years old, rightfully called "the Realm's Delight." The child approached the bed with solemn curiosity.
"Is Grandma sleeping?" she asked in a whisper that carried across the room.
"Soon, my love," Aemma answered softly, pulling her close. Alysanne smiled at her granddaughter, wishing she had more time to see the woman she would become.
Then came Prince Daemon, with his wife, Lady Lysara Rogare. From Lys, the Rogares had brought great wealth to the marriage, along with exotic beauty embodied in fair Lysara, her rounded belly carrying Daemon's child. Daemon's very presence was like a contained storm, his wild energy making the air tremble. Alysanne felt a pang at never knowing that child, but it was swiftly replaced by acceptance. Life moved ever onward.
Finally, completing the circle, came Rhaenys—the Queen Who Never Was—and Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, with their children, Laenor and Laena. Rhaenys bore herself with the fierce dignity that had always impressed Alysanne, a living reminder of her son Aemon, whom she had mourned so deeply. Corlys, with his keen eyes, was the builder of a different empire, one forged upon the sea.
The chamber was no longer a deathbed. It was a hall of family. And as was ever true of the Targaryens, life burst forth—vivid, chaotic, beautiful. Conversations began to weave a tapestry of normalcy around the solemn moment.
Viserys and Corlys murmured about the rumors of the Free Cities. Little Rhaenyra, bored with the gravity of adults, tugged at Aemma's skirts.
"Mother, may I play with Laenor and Laena?"
Aemma nodded, and the children drifted to a corner, where Laenor proudly showed off a toy dagger with a pearl handle, enthralled by tales of his father's seafaring adventures.
Daemon, with his trademark crooked smile, let slip a jest about a particularly pompous knight at court. The remark, full of double meaning, made Rhaenys roll her eyes while Aemma and Lady Lysara scolded him.
"Daemon!" Aemma exclaimed, covering Rhaenyra's ears—though the girl was not even listening. "There are children present!"
Daemon laughed, carefree. "They must learn of the real world at some point, cousin. Better under family's guidance than elsewhere."
Aenar, by the bedside, did not join the talk but watched. His face was calm, yet Alysanne saw the pain behind his eyes. He was drinking in the moment, preserving each detail—every laugh, every glance—as treasure. His hand held Gael's with quiet protectiveness.
And so, surrounded by this family tableau, Alysanne began her final journey. Her mind, sharp as ever, drifted between present and past. Jaehaerys at her side, lined and aged, seemed to transform before her gaze. Wrinkles smoothed, hair thickened to gold, and eyes once more burned with ambition and ardent love, just as they had sixty years ago. He was the young king she had defied the world to be with.
But the vision did not end there. At the threshold between life and death, she saw beyond the present. No longer adults, her kin appeared as the children they had once been. A flood of living memories overlapped reality.
Daemon, the rebel prince, faded into a silver-haired boy of eight, spinning a wooden dragon through the air, roaring in play, his restless feet tapping the floor. Viserys became a chubby, rosy-cheeked child trying too hard to look solemn, his tunic pulled straight as he mimicked his father, though his wide smile kept breaking through. Rhaenys, the proud woman, was a clever girl with dark hair and lilac eyes, hiding some small trick behind her back, poised to spring it with gleeful triumph.
Even Corlys changed before her: not the shrewd Sea Snake, but a bright-eyed boy on the shores of Driftmark, clutching a model ship, dreaming not of power but of waves and far horizons.
Finally, her gaze returned to the two beside her. Gael—her gentle Gael—was again the shy, tender child who clung to her mother's skirts, her smile capable of melting winter's frost. And behind her, ever her guardian, her little dragon. Aenar, the mighty man, dissolved into the solemn boy of five, with violet slit-pupiled eyes too deep for childhood, standing watchful and silent, always near Gael. Perfect in his singularity, a mystery she had loved from the start.
This was the first layer of farewell: seeing those she loved in their purest, innocent forms, before life had weighed them down. A bittersweet reminder that within them, the children still remained.
Then came the second layer. The room filled not with the living, but with the lost. Her children gone before her stood in gentle light. Aemon, her firstborn, noble and smiling. Baelon the Brave, radiating courage. Between them, Alyssa, vibrant and free-spirited, cradling the two Aegons she had loved so briefly—her son and grandson alike.
Nearby was her fragile Daella, tender as Gael, holding little Gaemon and Valerion with boundless love. And in front, the first fracture of the realm's heart—her tiny Daenerys. Beside them stood Saera, defiant and clever, and Viserra, mischievous and charming. All the children she had loved, raised, and lost to the Stranger.
They did not look at her with sorrow. They smiled, patient and welcoming, wrapped in warm light. She heard them, not with ears but with her soul.
"Mother," came Aemon's calm voice.
"We are waiting," Alyssa's playful tone added.
"Come home," whispered Daenerys' sweet little voice.
A single tear slid from the corner of Alysanne's eye into her silver hair. It was not sadness, nor fear—it was gratitude. Gratitude for the family she had built, still strong, still full of life. Gratitude for the reunion awaiting her. Her task was done.
She looked one last time at her "little dragon"—into Aenar's violet eyes, slit-pupiled, brimming with unshakable love. Darkness crept at the edges of her sight, not as threat but as a gentle embrace. She focused on that last image—the purple gleam that had been her first sight of him as a newborn.
The Stranger's embrace was not cold. It was warm, like a mother's lap. Darkness closed around her like velvet, and Alysanne Targaryen's final breath was a silent blessing upon her family.
And thus, surrounded by the love she herself had forged, passed Alysanne Targaryen—mother of many children, beloved of the people of the Seven Kingdoms, immortalized forever as the Good Queen. The realm would mourn her, but in that chamber, in that final moment, there was only peace.
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Hello there, what did you think of the chapter? Some caveats, the first is that our protagonist will have several women because he will live for a long time, even if not all of them become his wife. In reality, I don't even know if, apart from Gael, he will have another one, but the Harem TAG is there for that. According to Saera, she is not dead (yet). It was just the queen's vision, as if she wished she were there to say goodbye to her too. And that's it, as always. I ask that you tell me what you thought of the chapter. Your suggestions are the same as always. Until the next chapter, arrivederci