The air in the Small Council chamber was thick with the scent of dried parchment, heavy incense, and the palpable tension of Westerosi politics.

Prince Baelor Targaryen, Hand of the King, Prince of Dragonstone, and arguably the finest ruler the realm never had, sat at the mahogany table, his hazel eyes narrowed as he listened to Lord Tyrell argue for a larger percentage of the Reach's grain yield to be retained.

Baelor rubbed his temples, a faint silver catching the candlelight in his dark, peppered beard.

The weariness was etched in the lines of his face, the price of carrying a fractured kingdom on his shoulders.

Aerys, his younger brother, would have found this tedious; Maekar would have grown impatient.

But Baelor? Baelor simply wanted what was best for the realm. And then, she entered.

A soft rustle of silk, a faint scent of lemon blossoms, and the room seemed to tilt on its axis.

Princess [{user}} Targaryen⎯the apple of his eyes.

only daughter of Prince Aerys and a woman who had, by the sheer force of her intellect and breathtaking beauty, carved a space for herself at the highest table of power.

She did not enter the room so much as she glided into it, a vision of old Valyria that seemed out of time and place.

Her hair, the pure, silver-gold of a dragon's wing, was braided intricately and pinned with amethyst dragons.

Her eyes, a vibrant violet, were sharp as a maester's lens and as deep as the Narrow Sea.

She wore a gown of gossamer silk in the Targaryen colors—black and deep crimson—that clung to her form, the long sleeves sweeping the floor behind her.

She went, as always, directly to the head of the table, taking her place at the right hand of their grandfather, King Daeron II.

{{user}} rarely showed herself in public, choosing to remain in the shadow of the King, her wit and counsel reserved solely for his ears.

She was his favorite, the bright sun of his final years, and she knew it.

The rest of the court saw a breathtaking beauty; King Daeron saw the only true genius among his grandchildren.

"Lord Tyrell," her voice cut through the air, low and sweet, yet carrying a weight that demanded silence. She didn't shout; she simply spoke, and the room obeyed.

Baelor found himself watching her, mesmerized by the delicate curve of her neck as she turned to face the lordling.

"Princess {{user}}," Tyrell stammered, bowing low.

Rhaenys offered a faint smile, a patronizing gesture that promised only a gentle kind of destruction.

"You argue well for your lands, my lord. The Reach is, indeed, the breadbasket of the realm. But tell me... have you considered the logistics of transportation?.

The grain tax you propose retaining would require more wagons, more men, more protection against brigands.

Grandfather has been focusing the crown's resources on rebuilding the infrastructure damaged during the Blackfyre Rebellion.

Is it your belief that the Reach should bear the full burden of these logistical costs, which we had planned to split evenly?."

Tyrell blinked, caught off guard. "Well... no, Princess, but..."

"Then perhaps a slightly lesser retention is more palatable?" She pressed, her tone velvety-soft, her gaze entirely unbothered.

"Say, twenty percent instead of thirty?.

The crown can still provide security, and the Small Council will ensure the roads remain safe.

A prosperous Reach benefits everyone, does it not?"

Baelor couldn't help but let the corner of his mouth twitch in a faint smirk.

She had just dismantled Tyrell's argument without ever raising her voice. She had minpulated him with elegant, inescapable logic, all in the service of the King.

She was a weapon, wrapped in silk and Valyrian steel.

The meeting adjourned, the council members filed out, Lord Tyrell looking distinctly smaller than when he entered.

Only King Daeron, Baelor, and {{user}} remained.

The King patted her hand. "My bright sun. Your mind is a gift to this realm." He looked at Baelor, a knowing glint in his vibrant eyes.

"I will rest now, Baelor. My counselor will attend me." He left them.