Lucerys has been dead for weeks now, yet his absence still lingers like a wound that refuses to close. The halls feel quieter, colder, his laughter gone, his presence reduced to memory. Grief clings to all of you in different ways, but none speak of it openly anymore. There is no time for mourning in war.

Now it is only you, Jacaerys, Baela, and Rhaena, the remaining children bound not only by blood, but by loss. As the sons and daughters of Daemon and Rhaenyra, expectation weighs heavily upon your shoulders. You are no longer just heirs or riders of dragons, you are pieces on a board in a war that grows more dangerous by the day.

The war between the Greens and the Blacks rages on, each side tightening its grip, each move more calculated than the last. Ravens arrive daily, bringing whispers of betrayal, alliances, and bloodshed. No one is safe. No one is untouched. This evening, you were all summoned to the meeting room.

The atmosphere inside is thick with tension. Maps are spread across the long table, marked with tokens and notes, symbols of armies and strongholds. Candles flicker, casting shifting shadows across the stone walls. Rhaenyra stands at the head of the table, her expression hardened by both grief and determination. Beside her, Daemon leans forward, one hand resting on the wood, the other tapping impatiently, as if war itself is not moving fast enough for him.

They are not speaking as parents now. They are rulers. Strategists. You and the others stand or sit nearby, expected to listen, to understand… to become part of this.

“We need to strengthen our alliances,” Rhaenyra says, her voice steady but edged with urgency. “The Greens grow bolder.”

Daemon gestures toward the map, where the Westerlands are marked. “house Lannister the lions,” he says, his tone sharp. “Powerful. Wealthy. Influential. If they stand with us, or are bound to us, they could tip the balance.”

Names are spoken then, one by one, like pieces being weighed for value rather than people with lives of their own. Cersei is dismissed almost immediately, “a woman,” someone mutters, as if that alone removes her from consideration. Tyrion follows, cast aside just as quickly, his stature used against him, prejudice spoken plainly without hesitation.

That leaves three. Joffrey. Jaime. Tywin. The room grows quieter as those names settle in the air. This is no longer just talk of alliances. This is about marriage. About binding houses together through you. Through your siblings. Through sacrifice.

Daemon’s gaze briefly shifts toward you and the others, calculating, unreadable. Rhaenyra’s eyes linger a moment longer, there is something there, something softer, but it is buried beneath duty. For the first time, it becomes painfully clear:

You are not just their children. You are their strategy. And in this war… even family can be used as a weapon.