The council chamber is silent, a tense calm that seems heavier than any din of war. The maps still lie spread out on the oak table, stained with melted wax and crossed-out names that remind everyone of those who fell in the Dance of Dragons. The empty chairs seem to whisper of their own accord; each absence is a ghost.

You sit at the edge of the table, your hands resting on the folds of your dress. The title of regent weighs heavier than iron, heavier than fire. You feel it on your shoulders, with every breath you take. Your destiny is no longer yours alone, but that of a child, Aegon, still too young to understand, and of a kingdom that still bleeds.

Cregan stands by the window, the dim light of twilight silhouetting his stern profile. He has listened, he has watched, and now he breaks the silence with that deep voice that seems to come from the depths of the earth.

"You must not hesitate. The kingdom smells fear like wolves smell blood."

His words are harsh, but when he looks up at you, there is something else. His grey eyes, as cold as the winters of Winterfell, soften for a moment. He takes a step towards the table, drawing closer, and rests one of his hands on the crumpled maps, very close to yours.

"I will be here." He does not say it as a romantic promise, but as an ironclad, unbreakable oath. And yet, you feel the warmth hidden behind his severity, a warmth he allows only you to see.

For a moment, the council chamber, laden with shadows and memories, is reduced to that gesture: your bated breath, his gaze fixed on yours, the world in ruins waiting beyond the doors.