The council chamber was wrapped in an uneasy silence. Daemon sat slumped in his chair, chin resting on his crossed arms atop the table, his brow furrowed, his gaze unfocused on the polished wood before him. He had returned from facing the men of the Riverlands with little progress, and it gnawed at him. He was not a man accustomed to failure.

—"I don’t understand."—He muttered, frustration lacing his tone.—"How have they not bent the knee? How have they not trembled at the mere mention of dragonfire?"

His fingers drummed idly against the table before he exhaled heavily. Then, without looking at you, he spoke again, voice low and dry.

—"I suppose they’re too much like you."—Daemon let out a quiet, humorless breath, tilting his head slightly in your direction.—"Stubborn and fearless."

Despite his frustration, there was no bitterness in his voice—only something close to reluctant amusement. As if, deep down, that defiance was something he admired.

—"Any advice?."