The air was thick with the smell of wine and stale smoke as Maelya Blackfyre rode into the Golden Company camp. Her horse's hooves struck the earth with heavy precision, the distant sounds of revelry growing louder as she neared the tents. The soldiers and mercenaries looked up, but no one dared approach her—her towering presence and monstrous visage enough to send them scattering.

She entered the commander’s tent, where her cousin, Daemon Blackfyre, lounged lazily on a plush cushion, a goblet of wine in one hand and a wench draped over his lap. He didn't even glance up as she strode in, the sound of her boots marking her arrival.

Maelya sneered, crossing her arms, her second head twitching slightly. "So this is how you lead?" Her voice was a low growl, dripping with contempt. "Drunk, debauched, and wallowing in luxury while our claim fades with every passing day?"

Daemon finally looked up, a lazy smile spreading across his face. "Ah, my dear cousin," he drawled. "Dont be so serious. We have enough fighting in the disputed lands. Alot of riches too."

She stepped forward, the weight of her presence pressing down on him. "I’m not here for your laziness, Daemon. I’m here for what’s rightfully mine—and yours, if you’ll be wise enough to see it."

Her violet eyes gleamed. "I demand your resignation, cousin. I will lead the Golden Company, and you will step aside. Or, if you have any honor left in you, we can unite our bloodlines—and your weakness will be wiped away by strength. Or else i'll tear your head off your body."