"Words are wind, but the wind can fan a fire."

―Tyrion Lannister

…

"…and if we are to even contest the boy's claim, she must be crowned," Daemon declared, a tinge of annoyance in his tone. "We may argue over tactics and allegiances for hours yet, but the simple truth remains: Without that symbol of legitimacy, our cause falters before it begins. It is unfortunate that Viserys crown is in the Green's possession, but that is no reason to forgo tradition."

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the distant crash of waves against the Dragonstone cliffs. Rhaenyra stood straighter, her expression cool, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt. Then, with a measured nod, she spoke.

"Very well," she said. "A temporary crown shall be forged. Let it serve as a token of my claim until my father's crown is returned to me. And it shall be returned."

The lords murmured their assent, though their voices carried little enthusiasm. Rhaenyra's gaze swept the table, lingering on each face in turn before she finally spoke.

"Has there been no word from the capital?" she asked.

The silence that followed was answer enough, though the assembled lords exchanged uneasy glances. The maester, Gerardys, shifted where he stood but said nothing. It was Daemon who finally broke the quiet. "Nothing," he said grimly. "It seems the Greens have silenced the city. Ravens do not fly as freely as they once did."

"That would be a feat beyond even One-Eye's cunning," Bartimos retorted. "The Keep's employ is vast. To purge all the queen's loyalists would require a degree of control that ought to be impossible. And as for the city's silence, while it is not unthinkable that they wish to delay us from learning the truth, it is also possible," Bartimos added, with a pointed look, "that Aemond lied."

The suggestion sent a ripple through the room. Daemon narrowed his eyes at the Celtigar lord. "Would you have me believe Aemond Targaryen lied about the King's death and his brother's coronation? What purpose would that serve?"

Bartimos opened his mouth to respond but quickly shut it again under Daemon's withering glare.

"My prince, my lords," Gerardys interjected, his tone weary but firm, "the truth will reach us soon enough. Matters of this magnitude cannot be hidden for long. If we wish to expedite the process, we might send someone to King's Landing—a messenger, discreet, with orders to return by raven."

Rhaenyra seized on the suggestion. "Do it," she commanded, her voice brooking no argument. "Ser Lorent, you will handle this task. Go at once, and take care to remain unseen."

The knight straightened bowing low before leaving the chamber. With that, Rhaenyra dismissed the topic, her tone making it clear she would entertain no more conjecture regarding Bartimos's suspicions. "Whether Aemond lied or not, it is best we assume the boy spoke true. Aegon has been crowned, and we face a divided realm," she declared. "Now, to the matter of our allies. Gerardys?"

Gerardys cleared his throat. "Missives have been sent, as Prince Daemon commanded," he said carefully, casting a glance toward the prince, whose face betrayed neither apology nor regret. Rhaenyra's glare, however, was unmistakable.

"And their responses?" she asked icily.

The maester hesitated. "There is troubling news. The Velaryons appear to have sided with the Greens. Vaemond Velaryon commands the fleet, and if his loyalty lies with Aegon, then Driftmark's strength is lost to us. Moreover…" He faltered, wringing his hands. "There is reason to believe Jeyne Arryn may align with the Greens as well. Her engagement to Prince Aemond complicates matters."

Before Rhaenyra could respond, a servant burst into the chamber, clutching a sealed letter. "For the maester," he stammered, handing it over with trembling hands.

Gerardys broke the seal and opened the missive, his face paling as he read. "Your Grace," he said, his voice hoarse. "House Tully has declared for the Greens."

The declaration landed like a hammer's blow. Daemon did not need to look around the table to feel the shift in the room. Rhaenyra took the letter from Gerardys' hand, reading it for herself. "The Riverlands are lost to us," she said quietly, though her tone carried a weight that silenced even the murmurs of disbelief.

A heavy stillness settled over the council. Rhaenyra set the letter down, her fingers trembling slightly before she folded them together.

"West of the Golden Tooth is lost to us as well," Rhaenyra continued. "The Lannisters will almost certainly side with the Greens." She exhaled then, visibly calming herself.

"We will address this matter later," the queen declared, turning her gaze to meet Daemon's. "For now, we must secure what allies we still can. The North, the Reach, and the Stormlands must be brought to our side."

Her words were met with grim nods. The weight of the discussion seemed to pull the very air from the chamber. Rhaenyra stood as though carved from stone, her hands resting heavily on the table before her. It was Bartimos Celtigar who finally broke the oppressive silence.

"The Ironborn," he began cautiously, "loathe Aemond. I doubt they would willingly raise a single ship for Aegon. If approached with care, they might be persuaded to lend their strength to our cause."

Daemon leaned back in his chair. "Persuaded by promises of plunder, no doubt. They are as predictable as the tide."

"They are also a force to be reckoned with," Bartimos replied. "And one the Greens might not expect."

Rhaenyra's expression darkened. "Are we so desperate that we must sully ourselves by courting pirates and reavers?"

"We are desperate enough to consider all options," Daemon replied smoothly, though there was a glint of steel in his tone. "I will treat with them on my way north."

Rhaenyra turned to him, her expression questioning.

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"I intend to fly to Winterfell personally," Daemon clarified. "To Cregan Stark. The North will likely not rise quickly, but when it does, it will hopefully do so in full strength."

Rhaenyra nodded, her brow furrowing. Before she could voice her assent, Jacerys spoke for the first time that evening. "If Daemon is to treat with the Starks, I will fly to Storm's End and treat with Lord Borros."

Rhaenyra's lips parted as if to refuse, but after a long pause, she inclined her head. "So be it. You'll leave in the morning."

Before the conversation could shift further, Lucerys also broke his silence. "Then if Jace is to go to Storm's End, I will go to Highgarden—"

"No," Rhaenyra interrupted, "it is too dangerous."

Jacerys spoke in his brother's defence. "We could go together, fly to Storm's End first before taking a detour to Highgarden."

Daemon spoke up then. "We have no better option. If we are to treat with Highgarden in person, this is the way."

Rhaenyra's hands tightened into fists on the table. "Then I will go to Highgarden myself," she declared. "I am the queen. My presence would carry more weight."

The room fell silent, her words hanging in the air like a challenge. It was Gerardys who broke the quiet, his tone calm but firm. "You are too valuable to risk, my Queen. If something were to happen to you, all would be lost. Jace and Luke can handle this task."

The others nodded in reluctant agreement, their collective resolve pressing against her will. At last, Rhaenyra relented, though the hesitation in her eyes remained unquenched. "Very well. But you will be careful," she said, her voice thick with emotion as she addressed her sons. "Both of you."

Jace and Luke exchanged a glance, their resolve strengthening in unison. "We will, Mother," Jace promised.

With the major tasks divided, Rhaenyra smoothened her dress, her movements slow but deliberate. "The council is dismissed. Go now and make your preparations."

Daemon lingered as the others began to disperse. Rhaenyra caught his gaze. There were no words, but a silent exchange passed between them.

As Daemon turned to leave, his thoughts turned northward. The war had begun, though no swords had yet clashed. He knew, for the Blacks to triumph, there could be no hesitation, no mercy.

Only fire and blood.

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The chamber was dimly lit, the moonlight filtering through a narrow window of oiled parchment. Shadows danced upon the walls, cast by the single candle that burned low on the heavy wooden table. Addam Velaryon stepped inside, his boots muffled against the thick stone floor. He carried a pack, neither overly large nor modest, slung across one shoulder. He was not one to dawdle or come ill-prepared, not when his prince summoned him.

Rowenna was already there, her long hair tied back, her expression a mask of calm. Nettles leaned against the far wall, her arms crossed over her chest, her wild curls framing a face that was unflattering. A pack sat at her feet, carelessly tossed, adding to her already uncouth appearance—not that she particularly cared about that to begin with.

"Addam," Aemond said from his seat at the head of the table, his voice low but deliberate. His lone violet eye fixed on him, the patch over the other lending his visage a sharpness that could cut through steel. "Shut the door behind you."

Addam obeyed, closing the heavy door and letting the iron latch click into place. He turned back, his face betraying only a hint of unease. Aemond gestured for him to step closer.

"You've spoken with Larys Strong," the prince said. It was not a question.

"I have, my prince." Addam's voice was steady, though he felt the weight of the prince's gaze pressing on him. "I delivered your message, word for word. He seemed... intrigued."

"Intrigued is good," Aemond said, leaning back slightly in his chair. His tone was unreadable, as always. "And the gold?"

"It's in my quarters. I did not think it proper to—"

Aemond waved a hand, cutting him off. "Spend it. On food, wine, women, or horses if you wish. Let Larys think you are easily bought. Let him believe he holds your leash. Such illusions often prove useful."

Addam hesitated, then gave a slight nod. He did not fully understand the prince's reasoning, but he knew better than to question it. Aemond did not explain himself unless he wished to, and even then, his explanations often left more questions than answers.

The prince rose from his seat with a fluid grace, his cloak swirling around him. His eye flicked to Rowenna, then Nettles, and finally back to Addam.

"I believe the time is right," he said in the end.

Nettles tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowed. "Right for what, my prince?"

"For you to claim Sheepstealer," Aemond said, his gaze flickering to Addam, "and you, Seasmoke. You've earned the privilege, I believe."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant sound of wind against the tower walls. Rowenna said nothing, unsurprised. It seemed she knew of this beforehand. Typical. Nettles, for her part, let out a sharp laugh.

"Sheepstealer?" she said, her voice laced with incredulity. "Surely, you jest my Prince—"

"I would call you two to my chambers at this hour to jest, Nettles?," Aemond interrupted, the brow above his good eye crooked. "The blood of Valyria flows through your veins, as it does mine. Dragons are not tamed by fear or doubt. They are claimed by fire and will. You will succeed, because you must. Because I have decreed you must. Understood?"

"...Yes, my Prince."

"Have you all you need for the journey?" Aemond asked, his voice softer now.

Addam nodded. Nettles hesitated, then nodded as well. Aemond's gaze lingered on them for a moment, then he turned and strode to the door.

"Then we leave at once," he said, throwing the door open. The chill of the corridor swept into the room. "The dragons will not wait, and neither will I."