The war camp stank of sweat, mud, and the lingering scent of roasted meat. Holly the Hammer sat at the long table, tearing into a haunch of mutton with her teeth, grease slicking her fingers. Around her, the lords muttered in uneasy clusters, the air thick with rumors. Aegon was dead. Aemond too.

Prince Daeron sat stiff-backed across from her, his knuckles white around his wine cup. He had not spoken, but his eyes burned. The boy thought himself a king already. Holly snorted.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned forward, her voice carrying over the whispers and the crackle of the fire.

"We need a strong leader to lead us, not a boy. The throne should be mine. If the king truly is dead, I should be queen."

The camp fell silent. Daeron’s cup trembled in his grip.