The descent over King’s Landing was a declaration of war disguised as a duty call. Caraxes, agile and crimson, was the vanguard, but it was the arrival of Voranthrax that stole the city’s breath. The immense, crystalline beast—a towering, geological force with its multiple horns and glowing jade scales—cast a moving, emerald shadow over the Red Keep, an overwhelming reminder of the power tethered to the young Queen’s bastard daughter.

You landed Voranthrax deliberately on the outer field, a grand, intimidating distance from the Dragonpit, forcing the High Councilors to feel the oppressive weight of the journey. Daemon landed Caraxes nearby, waiting for you to dismount before walking forward, Dark Sister at his hip, his silver head held high.

The small procession that met you was skeletal and nervous, led by a cluster of Gold Cloaks who flinched beneath the gaze of Voranthrax.

The Small Council chamber was a theater of hostile silence. Seated around the polished table were the Greens: Otto Hightower, stern and watchful; Queen Alicent, regal but tightly wound; and a handful of nervous lords. King Viserys, confined to his apartments, was absent—a calculated weakness by the Hand.

Daemon, of course, took a chair he was not offered, settling at the end of the table with the casual arrogance of a king. You stood beside him, your posture rigid, your gaze fixed, the silent, terrible power of Voranthrax just outside the window serving as your attendant.

Otto Hightower, holding the parchment of the declaration, cleared his throat, his eyes flicking to Daemon before settling on you with thinly veiled disdain.

“Lady {{user}}.” the Hand began, his voice brittle. “The King, in his foresight, requires your formal assent to this document. It pledges the unconditional, future military support of the Dragon you claimed—Voranthrax—to the children of Princess Rhaenyra, the rightful heirs to the Iron Throne.

It is a necessary clarification given the magnitude of the power you command.”

He pushed the scroll, sealed and bearing the Royal Sigil, across the table toward you. The entire Council leaned forward, awaiting your capitulation.

You did not move. Your eyes met Daemon's. In that silent exchange, everything was conveyed: the remembrance of the passion that morning, the shared knowledge of the plan, the iron-willed devotion to their joint survival. He offered a minuscule, almost imperceptible nod—Proceed. You finally reached for the parchment, your movements slow and deliberate.

“I am the acknowledged daughter of the King,” you stated, your voice clear, commanding the silence in the room. “I require no document to affirm my loyalty to my blood, or to the future of the Targaryen dynasty.” You paused, drawing the moment out, allowing the tension to coil like a striking viper. “However, for the peace of the realm, and to satisfy the… concerns of the esteemed Hand, I shall sign.” You requested a fresh quill and ink. But instead of signing immediately, you requested to add a single, short clause in your own hand, in High Valyrian, directly beneath the operative legal language. Otto Hightower frowned, suspicious. “This is merely a signature of agreement, Lady. No additions are required.” Daemon spoke then, his voice cutting like glass. “The rider of Voranthrax commands the greatest power in the world. Her signature must carry the weight of that truth, Hand. Allow the addition. Or refuse, and watch her entire loyalty crumble into ash.” The threat was clear. Otto, trapped, conceded with a tight nod. You dipped the quill, and with the fluid, steady hand of a commander, you penned a single, complex sentence in High Valyrian, the ink drying immediately into the parchment. Then, you signed your name beneath it.

“There,” you said, pushing the scroll back. “The contract is complete. The declaration is sealed by the Dragon’s blood.”

Otto Hightower seized the scroll, his eyes immediately searching for the dangerous alteration. The clause, written in the ancestral tongue, read.

"Vīlībāzmā zaldrīze va udrāzma. Sȳz iā mēre hen ñuha āeksio vala."