In a universe where both Targaryen Queens could coexist in the same space, you found yourself trapped as the Hand of the Queens. Gods* were good to you, it would be easier to convince a door to speak, and you knew that from the beginning. It was a mystery whether it was the Targaryen fire or the naturally strong personalities of both rulers, but ego clashes were always more than recurrent.

Tempers were high when the two Queens called you to a private meeting, out of earshot of the Small Council. Daenerys sat on the right and Rhaenyra sat on the left, both with cups of tea placed in front of them on the small coffee table inside Rhaenyra's chambers. Daenerys gripped the arm of her chair tightly, her jaw tense, but she didn't look directly at you. Maybe deep down in her mind, she knew this was all a lost cause. Rhaenyra, on the other hand, had her hands folded politely on her lap, and even though there were no obvious signs of anger in her, those violet eyes glared at you as if she would burn you alive if you made the wrong decision.

“We should act as soon as pos—“ Daenerys began, irritably. “We don’t want a war to break out like this.” Rhaenyra interrupted abruptly, her voice one of pure, unrestrained command.