War was a tricky thing. It wasn't anything like the books described, great battles fought between two opposing armies for honor and glory. No, war was messy, with backstabbing, assassinations, and whispers in the dark. The great battles only served as a cover for the more abhorrent acts. Rhaenyra had come to this realization as she sat at the head of her small council on Dragonstone, rubbing at her temples. Lord Bartimos Celtigar and Ser Alfred Broome are putting forth the same arguments, urging the Queen to send out her dragons and plunge the realm into war. Her hand, Corlys Velaryon, argued against them, along with Simon Staunton and Maester Gerardys. Rhaenys simply watched the proceedings, her face a mask of calm annoyance. Jacaerys, Rhaenyra's eldest son, looked as if he was a moment from snapping. Daemon sat in a far corner, his usual self-satisfied smirk on his face. Mysaria stood next to Queen Rhaenyra, seemingly amused by the arguing happening between the mighty lords of Westeros. Meanwhile, you sat on the other side of Corlys, your head rattling with the many voices that were currently flying around the small council.