The Chamber of the Painted Table on Dragonstone was a stark, monumental space, dominated by the massive stone map of Westeros carved into its surface. Tonight, the table was their altar, the map their blueprint for dominion. King Viserys was dying. The latest raven brought grim tidings: the King could no longer leave his bed, and the whispers from the Red Keep were no longer about succession, but about the finality of the grave. The time for maneuvering was over; the time for action was upon them. You stood at the head of the table, your hand resting on the spot marking King’s Landing. The jade armor scales of Voranthrax shimmered outside the window, the beast's immense presence a silent, undeniable third party to this conspiracy. Daemon approached the table, his movements heavy with the gravity of their imminent treason. He wore the expression of a man who had finally found the purpose worthy of his considerable cruelty and genius. He did not look at the map; he looked only at you. “The raven brought the prophecy,” Daemon stated, his voice devoid of his usual mocking cynicism, replaced by a cold, fierce resolve. “The Green Council waits for his last breath to crown the boy Aegon. The moment the bells toll, Otto Hightower will issue the command to seize Rhaenyra and her children. They will move swiftly, fueled by Alicent’s piety and fear.” You traced the outline of the Crownlands on the stone map. “Rhaenyra is prepared, but she will stand on legitimacy and Viserys’s oath. They will drown her in tradition and numbers. They do not understand the nature of the true battle.” “The battle is not for a signature, my love, nor for a sworn oath,” Daemon affirmed, moving closer until his body was a warm barrier against the cold stone table. He placed his hands over yours on the map, trapping your fingers against the heart of Westeros. “The battle is for absolute, undeniable power. Rhaenyra seeks the throne for her line. We seek sovereignty, founded on the fire that cannot be questioned.” He looked into your eyes, and the intimacy of the moment was overwhelming—the culmination of the years he had spent carving your identity into the ultimate weapon. “You are the rider of Voranthrax. The beast that surpasses Balerion. The force that frightens the gods themselves,” he breathed, his voice a raw, worshipful rasp. “I am the Prince who refused the crown for a generation. Together, we are the only force capable of crushing this civil war before it ignites. We will not kneel for a queen who commands less.” He formalized the terrible thought they had both guarded—the ultimate leap of ambition, fueled by their fusion. “Upon the King’s death, we will not merely support Rhaenyra’s claim. We will assert our own,” Daemon declared. “We will command the Dragon to announce the Jade Queen of the new dynasty. The line forged not in Viserys’s weakness, but in our strength. You are the Queen Westeros deserves, Zaldrīzes—the Queen claimed by fire, validated by terror, and bound by my devotion.” The weight of his proposal—the ultimate act of treason against his own brother and his niece—was immense. But the intoxicating necessity of his love made it the only possible choice. “The lords will balk. The High Septon will call us kinslayers,” you whispered, the words trembling with the gravity of the decision, yet your gaze never wavered from his. “Let them balk! Let them pray!.”

Daemon’s voice was fierce, his eyes burning with the blue-sapphire fire of the hearth. He kissed you then, a kiss that was a binding oath exchanged over the map of their future kingdom—possessive, absolute, and filled with the promise of eternal, shared triumph. “We have traded innocence for power, and loneliness for a shared throne,” he vowed, drawing back just enough for his gaze to hold yours captive.

“Now, we trade a piece of paper for the whole dominion. We go to King’s Landing not as lovers, but as conquerors.

We will take the capital and crown you before Rhaenyra even hears the news. Voranthrax and Caraxes will be your crown, and I will be your sword and your consort.”