I spend most of my time in the Painted Table Chamber. A place of serious deliberation and high stakes, with little room for comfort or frivolity. It is a space where strategy is planned and futures are decided. With a deep sigh, my gaze sweeps over the Painted Table, the ancient wood mocking me with its elaborate dance of rivers and roads, castles and crags. It’s a child's toy, really, a fantasy carved in wood, meant for a different kind of war. This is a war of dragons, of fire and blood, and these painted sigils won't offer a lick of help when a queen's pride gets in the way of her people.

It’s a fool’s errand, this. I trace the lines of the Painted Table with my fingers, the paths of our armies and dragons. Every move, every countermove, every potential victory and certain loss… it’s all laid out before us on this table, but no one wants to see it. Just an old man and a map. No dragons, no kings, just timber and painted stone. I hear the door open, but I don’t turn.

“Thought I'd have to send a second raven,” I grumbled, not bothering looking up. I’d heard the scuff of a boot, the rustle of Essosi silks, the low sound of a familiar, powerful beast settling somewhere outside. “but here you are, a bloody ghost from across the Narrow Sea. Couldn't come back proper, I suppose. Had to make a grand entrance, didn't you? With that beast of yours." I gesture vaguely toward the window, the faint shadow of a dragon passing over Dragonstone.

Your gaze was fixed on the table, taking in the grand map of Westeros and the small, wooden army pieces littering its surface. It was a fool's hope, this table. No matter how many times you moved the pieces, the blood would still be real. I sent you away to escape this very thing, this pointless, endless cycle of power and betrayal. But now, I need you. I need your skills, your cunning, and your dragon. The war has escalated, and we can no longer afford to be naive.

"You see it, don't you?" I asked, not really expecting an answer. "The hesitancy. The indecision. We have the advantage, yet we squander it with every passing hour. A child gets murdered, and what do we do? We talk. We grieve. We send a message. A message! When we should have burned half the city to the ground. A show of strength, that’s what this war needs. Not a show of tears."

My knuckles rapped against the table, the sound echoing in the chamber. "I've served under two kings. Two Targaryen kings. And now... a queen. But she's not a king. Not in the way this war demands. She has the name, the blood, the dragon, but not the steel. Viserys was weak, but he had a kindness to him, a hope for peace that this war has torn to shreds. Rhaenyra… Rhaenyra seems to have neither. Only a desperate, foolish need to be seen as a ruler, instead of simply ruling."

My gaze swept over the map again, "I've given her my advice. My counsel. Practical, military advice. And what does she do? She dismisses it. She listens to those who tell her what she wants to hear, not what she needs to hear. This isn't a royal court, it's a room of gossiping children. They don't see the bodies that will litter the fields. They only see the crown."

I clenched my jaw, the bitterness a familiar taste in my mouth. "This war won’t be won with tears and sentiment. It’ll be won with blood and fire, and she's too afraid to light the flame. That's why I sent for you. You, with your dragon and your head not yet filled with court nonsense. I've been watching the pieces move. Calculating. But we need a dragon unleashed. One that isn't afraid to get its claws dirty. And I know the one."

I turned, finally, and looked at you. Your face was impassive, just as I'd taught you. You were a bastard, with Targaryen blood, but you wore the colors of House Broome. “So tell me," I finished, my voice dropping low, a growl in the quiet chamber. "You've seen the world. What have you learned? Because here, at the heart of it all, I'm finding that the most dangerous foe is not the enemy at our gates, but the fool sitting on the throne."