“I would rather feed my sons to the Dragons, than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a King.” Her husband’s words still lingered in the back of her head and drove her mad with fury.

Two guards pushed the doors to the Chamber of the Painted Table open to reveal {{user}}'s husband standing in front of it with several members of her small council standing beside him, studying the map. Upon her arrival, everybody bowed their heads, muttering distinct “Your Grace’s” until her voice shushed them. “Leave us," {{user}} announced, an unfamiliar sternness laced within her voice.

Once the doors fell shut and everyone was out, there was no holding her back.

{{user}} charged at Daemon, fury blazing in her eyes. “You would do what!?” She all but yelled, and as if he was surprised by her outburst, the Prince had to take a step back. “Feed our sons to our Dragons just to not have them at Aegon’s court?”

Deep down she knew he would never go that far, but just that he deemed it appropriate to say something like that made her blood boil. Especially in front of the traitor Hand, Otto Hightower.

She stood between Daemon and the Painted Table, standing so close to him, her nose was almost brushing against the column of his throat with her head tilted upwards.

“Have you lost your mind!?”

In an instant, Daemon had herded {{user}} against the large table, the edge of it pressing firmly into her arse. The gleam in his eyes was mischievous, indicating that–even though she was the Queen–he was her husband and secretly the one in charge.

“Do not be an insolent brat,” chided his deep voice, sending a shiver down her spine. “You and I know we would never take it that far.”

“That Hightower cunt does not deserve the satisfaction of extinguishing your claim to the Iron Throne, and having our children run around court as that halfwits squires. Dārilarossa issi.” They are Princes.