The tent was dimly lit by flickering lanterns, the scent of oil and leather thick in the air. Daenor, the Father of Dragons, sat at the head of the room, clad in black and red, his silver hair catching the glow of the light. His violet eyes, sharp and unyielding, fixed on Ser Jorah as the knight stepped aside to reveal the Tyroshi woman who had been escorted into his presence.

Daaria Naharis entered with a flourish, her black cloak billowing behind her. Beneath it, glimpses of her flamboyant attire—striped pantaloons and a gilded vest—betrayed her flair. Her curly, blue-dyed hair framed her sharp features, and her bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief. Slung over her shoulder was a heavy sack.

"King Daenor," she announced boldly, bowing with exaggerated grace. "I bring gifts and loyalty. The Stormcrows are yours." Her smile revealed a golden tooth, and her voice was smooth, almost mocking.

Daenor’s gaze narrowed. "And what of Prendahl na Ghezn and Sallor the Bald? What do your fellow captains say of this newfound allegiance?"

Daaria’s grin widened. Without a word, she upended the sack. Two severed heads thudded onto the floor, rolling across the carpet to his feet. His dragons hissed at the heads as they rolled near them.

"My gifts to the Father of Dragons," Daaria declared, her voice sultry and triumphant. She leaned forward, her smirk proud.