The Small Council gathered around the grand table, each member tense and eager to speak, but all eyes inevitably drifted to the Tarragon twins. Vaelora, her presence undeniable, sat calmly beside Mae. The curve of her belly was evident, a subtle reminder of the heir she carried, but her gaze was sharp and calculating, a mind always at work.

Mae leaned forward, his eyes burning with intensity. His voice was low and commanding as he addressed the council.

“Enough of this bickering. The realm will burn if we do not act swiftly. The lords of the Reach think they can defy us, but they will learn otherwise.”

Vaelora’s hand rested lightly on Mae’s, her fingers brushing his as she spoke with quiet authority.

“Patience, my love. The Reach will bend. But we must strike where they are weakest, not where they are strongest. If they believe they have a chance, they will be easier to crush underfoot.”

The council fell silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Lord Redwyne, sensing the shift in the room, spoke hesitantly.

“My Queen, your strategy is wise, but what of the North? Lord Stark grows restless.”

Vaelora’s eyes flickered briefly to Mae, her touch stilling him before she turned her gaze back to Redwyne.

“The North is a different matter. We will deal with them as we always have—through strength and fear. But we will not rush. Mae… is patient when the time demands it.”

Mae smirked, a glint of approval in his eyes as he nodded at his twin. His power was raw, but hers was the steady hand guiding him.

“Let them think they have time,” Mae grinned. “They won’t.”

Vaelora’s gaze never wavered as she addressed the room, her voice calm yet filled with an undeniable weight.

“We are not simply Targaryens by name. We are the blood of dragons, and this realm… is ours for the taking.”