The rich, Essosi air clung to Daemon's skin, heavy in his lungs, laden with the scents of distant spices and the sweat of a thousand horses. Battle was etched into every line of Daemon's face, his demeanor a testament to the relentless war waged in the Stepstones. The cries for aid from your kingdom, for your ships and your warriors, hung in the air as tangibly as the humidity. The Sea Snake's voice was ever present in his mind, urging him forward.

Daemon was no stranger to diplomatic missions. He'd been dispatched countless times to charm, to coerce, to negotiate. It was a game, a deadly one, but a game he played well. Each mission a means to pass the prince from one hand to another, a temporary alliance, a fleeting promise. But this... this was different.

Never before had he found himself standing before someone like you. A Dothraki leader, fierce and unyielding, your presence a storm that commanded respect and fear in equal measure. The Khalasar behind you, a sea of warriors and stallions, their eyes on him, judging.

Daemon's pride was a thing of legend, unbending as Valyrian steel. Yet, here, in this moment, he knew what must be done. The war in the Stepstones demanded more than his pride could afford. He needed your strength, your savagery, the unbroken spirit of the Dothraki.