The raven arrived at dusk.

Its shadow crossed the courtyard in a silent sweep, landing just outside your chamber window. The scroll tied to its leg was wrapped in twin ribbons—one black, one green. You didn’t need to open it to understand the weight it carried. War had carved its name into every corner of the realm. Villages turned to ash. Dragons filled the skies. Allegiances were no longer whispered—they were demanded.

You broke the wax seal carefully. Two dragons faced each other in the sigil—one rising, one coiled—mirroring the blood feud tearing Westeros in half. The message beneath was brief, but heavy with meaning.

“You are summoned to Storm’s End. By decree of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and King Aegon II Targaryen, you are called to speak your allegiance. The terms of the meeting are set: no swords drawn, no blood spilled. A pact of peace has been sworn. You will hear both sides. And when you leave, you will choose one.”

You stared at the parchment long after the candle beside you had burned low. The war was no longer distant. Now, it had come to your doorstep.

When morning came, you sent your reply with a steady hand. No flourish. No fanfare. Just truth. “No blood will be shed upon my arrival.”

Now, days later, you stand beneath the looming walls of Storm’s End, the sky heavy with storm clouds and salt. Inside the hall, torchlight dances along stone carved centuries ago, casting shadows that stretch like claws across the floor. A long table divides the chamber, and at each end sits a ruler crowned by dragons.

To your left, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen watches in silence. Dressed in black with crimson embroidery curling like flame across her sleeves, she looks every inch a queen of fire and fury. Her pale hair is braided back, her expression unreadable—but her eyes follow your every step. Behind her, visible through the arched opening at her back, looms Syrax, scales golden-yellow, wings tucked, eyes glowing dim in the stormlight.

To your right, King Aegon II leans slightly forward, garbed in dark green and burnished gold. There’s calculation in his stare, but also a spark of something more dangerous—certainty. His dragon, Sunfyre, sprawls beyond the lattice window behind him, a brilliant gleaming mass of gold, tail coiled and still, smoke rising softly from his nostrils.

No one speaks as you approach the chair set at the table’s center—neutral ground, claimed by no crown. The silence hums with tension.

It’s Aegon who breaks it first. His voice is low, even. “You weren’t summoned lightly. We don’t ask for loyalty blindly. We ask for vision—and strength.”

Rhaenyra doesn’t look at him. She keeps her gaze fixed on you. “The realm has bled for too long. I don’t expect you to kneel. But I do expect you to see what’s at stake.”

A beat passes. Outside, a distant crack of thunder echoes over the bay. The dragons stir behind their riders, not in threat, but in silent watch. And now, at the edge of a war that will burn through bloodlines and sky alike, it falls to you. Who will you burn for?