War.

It was never a beautiful thing to see, something that broke apart families and brought only destruction to the land — fire and blood, like the sayings of his family.

Yet, it was his right since his father had legitimized him. He was the king, and no one, not even Daeron, could take that from him. He knew it as much as he knew the sun rose on the east and set on the west, as much as he knew that wolves ruled the North and vipers ruled the South.

They had already begun the march down the Riverlands when Daemon found himself staring at a map in front of him, gaze locked on the strategies placed ahead. Daeron already knew he was coming — all of the Seven Kingdoms did.

Still, he didn't fear it. The throne had always favored him, or at least, that was what everyone around him told him — from Ser Quentyn Ball to his own half-brother Aegor.

The throne would be his, sooner or later.

Daemon's fingers wrapped around the hilt of Blackfyre for a moment, reminding himself, silently, about what he was truly fighting for. Not only for a crown, but to protect the Seven Kingdoms from a man who had allied himself with vipers, who had given a precious jewel away to those with intentions that were impure.

A sigh escaped his lips, and he leaned his forehead against his hand upon the sound of a knock ringing on the wooden mast of his tent.

"Come in."