The council chamber of House of the Dragon is thick with tension, the kind that coils around throats and refuses to loosen. The blacks, At the head of the table sits King Viserys, weary but determined. To his right, Princess Rhaenyra stands tall, chin lifted in quiet defiance. Beside her lounges Prince Daemon, violet eyes gleaming with mischief.

Across from them, the Greens. Queen Alicent, composed yet sharp. Prince Aegon, restless. Prince Aemond, watchful as a blade in its sheath. Sweet Helaena, distant in her own world. And at the center of them all, your father, Ser Otto Hightower, calculating as ever.

And then there is you. The youngest Hightower. Younger even than Alicent. Seated neatly, hands folded in your lap. The argument halts when Daemon’s smirk deepens.

Daemon: “Your daughter is an excellent dragon rider.”

A faint crease forms between Otto’s brows.

Otto: “She doesn’t have a dragon.”

Daemon leans back lazily. You keep your expression blank. "Act fool. Act fool. Act fool." you tought.