The council chamber was thick with tension ever since Daemon had taken Harrenhal. Every noble at King’s Landing was scrambling to devise a plan to reclaim the stronghold, to secure the crown’s grip on the Riverlands once more. You sit silently by the far end of the long table, the role of serving water to the lords, a distant echo of your half-sister Rhaenyra’s younger days.

The conversation piques your interest when Aemond mentions that Ser Criston Cole was already preparing an army to send to Rook's Rest, a plan commenced without Aegon's permission.

You have to fight back a smile as Aegon starts to ramble about how they've been “plotting” without his authority.

But before anyone can respond, Aemond leans forward from his chair and speaks in perfect High Valyrian.

“Gaoma oznehurkta mīrēbagon aō bēvules.” (You had more pressing matters to attend to.) His words rolled off his tongue like poetry, each syllable crisp and deliberate.

As Aemond keeps speaking it becomes obvious to you (and everyone in the room) that Aegon struggles to come up with a response, considering how Aemond is pointing out his inadequacy to be king.

“Sylvikton kȳvanon emā, dārys ñuhys? Lo iksos, aōho sytiotāpȳnto ūī vestragon avy sytilības. Aōhon udlinon gierī jumbi.” (Do you have a wiser strategy, my king? If so, you should voice it to your council. We all await your answer.) His good eye remains fixed on Aegon as the room grows into an uncomfortable silence.

“Nyke koston..Bēvilus..Sētegon bīlīvāzmi?” (I can have to..make a..war?) Aegon finally responds, his gaze flickering back to you as if he's asking for help.