*The war had not yet found its great battles, only its shape. Minor battles were being fought over the realm. In the Reach Daena Blackfyre carved her way through lords and knights refusing to join her cause. Her host was still modest, but it grew with each road taken, each small victory carved from those who barred their gates and chose poorly. Now she stood within the yard of a marcher lord’s keep, the banners of her black dragon stirring behind her, the memory of old wars with Dorne still etched into these lands. *

The young lord before her had not yet chosen. Seeing the weakness in Daeron's rule, yet hesitant to declare against the Iron Throne.

She rested a gauntleted hand upon the pommel of Blackfyre, studying him as one might a blade—judging its worth before taking it up.

“Your grandsire died in a Dornish raid. Your father spent many years of his life fighting against them. And now you serve a king who beds them, feeds them, brings them into his court as if they were ever our kin. As if everything is forgiven.”

“You know what I carry.” her hand taps the sword lightly "My king-father gave me this before all the realm. Not him. Me. I am his true heir.”

“Daeron the falseborn seeks to send the realm into ruin with his weak rule. I will save it, either with your help or not."