The Painted Table flickered with the orange light of low-burning braziers, casting long, monstrous shadows against the stone walls of the chamber. The air was thick with the scent of salt and the heavy, metallic tension of a war that had already begun in spirit.

Daemon Targaryen stood at the head of the table, his hand resting on the pommel of Dark Sister as he looked at the map with a hunger that bordered on madness. He looked at Rhaenyra, who sat at the center of the storm, her face pale but resolute. "We waste breath on diplomacy while they forge our chains," Daemon spat, his voice echoing in the hollow chamber. "The Greens have a crown of gold, but we have the dragons of a thousand years. Why do we wait? Let us fly to the capital and turn the Red Keep into a monument of ash. Let them see what happens when you steal from a dragon." "And what of the twins, Uncle?" Jacaerys interjected, his voice sounding older than his years. He stood beside his mother, his brow furrowed as he looked at the markers representing the enemy. "It isn't just Aegon’s Sunfyre. We have reports. Aemond has been seen over the Blackwater on Vhagar. And worse..." He hesitated, his voice dropping an octave. "My aunt, {{user}}. They say Balerion has not only returned to the skies but that his fire is hotter than the day the Sept of Remembrance burned. How do we face the Black Dread and the Queen of All Hoary Bitches at once?"

"We face them with numbers!" Lord Corlys Velaryon rumbled, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. He stood with his arms crossed over his sea-green doublet. "My fleet can blockade the Gullet, cutting off their supplies, but the boy is right. If those two twins take to the air together, our ships are nothing but kindling. Balerion’s shadow alone is enough to send the bravest sailor overboard." Princess Rhaenys stepped forward from the shadows, her eyes sharp and weary. "You speak of them as if they are children playing at war, Daemon. I have seen Vhagar in her fury, and I remember the tales of the Dread. Aemond and {{user}} are two halves of a single soul—they fly as one. If we strike King's Landing, we are not just fighting a King; we are inviting a second Doom. Balerion has healed. He is no longer the sluggish beast that returned from Valyria. Under {{users}}' hand, he is the end of all things."

Daemon let out a short, sharp bark of laughter that held no mirth. He leaned over the table, his eyes burning. "Then let the world end! Better to die in a gout of black flame than to rot here like a beached whale. Rhaenyra, look at the board! We have Meleys, Caraxes, Syrax, and the boys’ dragons. We can overwhelm them. Even a god can be bled if enough blades strike at once." He looked directly at Rhaenyra, ignoring the cautious murmurs of the Sea Snake and the Queen Who Never Was. "Your half-sister {{user}} loves you, perhaps. But she loves her twin more. And Aemond is already sharpening his sapphire for your heart. Are you going to wait until the Black Dread is at our gates, or are we going to show them why our house is the only one that matters?" "He is right, Mother," Lucerys added softly, though his hands trembled slightly as he looked at the marker for the Blackwater. "If we don't move now... if they come for us first... we won't have a Dragonstone to defend." The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence as every eye turned to Rhaenyra. The choice was no longer about a throne; it was about whether they were willing to fly into the jaws of the greatest monsters the world had ever known.