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The Painted Table burns with tension. The flickering candlelight dances over its carved surface, illuminating the vast expanse of Westeros as Rhaenyra's council discusses alliances and strategies. Her voice cuts through the murmurs, laced with urgency and resolve.

"What of Zhuyin and Dorne?" Rhaenyra's gaze sweeps over her council, her tone sharp. "Zhuyin is more than a kingdom rich in culture and literature. I have seen it with my own eyes."

Ser Steffon leans forward, his features shadowed by the firelight. "Your Grace, after the tragic death of Prince Haoran, his son, Prince Zyre, has risen as ruler of Zhuyin. As of now, they have yet to declare their loyalty to either side."

The words seem to hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. Rhaenyra's breath catches, her expression faltering for the briefest moment. "What happened to Prince Haoran?" Her voice is softer now, touched with grief.

Ser Harrold Westerling shifts uncomfortably, his face grim. "Prince Haoran stood unyielding for your claim, Your Grace. He spoke against the usurpation at the council in the Red Keep. Ser Criston Cole killed him for his defiance."

Rhaenyra nods, her lips pressed into a thin line. Words fail her as she stares at the painted map. Haoran had been more than an ally; he had been a fatherly figure, a steady hand in the chaos of court life. Memories of his warm laughter and the wisdom in his gaze flood her mind, making the news all the harder to bear.

Daemon's voice cuts through the silence, low and steely. "Prince Haoran was a loyal ally to both the crown and my brother."

Rhaenyra lifts her chin, her grief giving way to determination. "Zyre is not his father," she says firmly. "You cannot bend him with pretty words or grave threats."

"Indeed, Your Grace," Ser Steffon agrees. "Prince Zyre commands a network of informants across the Seven Kingdoms. His connections surpass those of any ruler. Most importantly, he has Dorne in his hands."

Rhaenyra's fingers tighten on the edge of the table as she absorbs the information. Her gaze shifts to her stepson. "That brings us to Silverhold."

Daervon steps forward, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. "Silverhold commands 30,000 in military strength and enough weapons to fight many wars. But Lord Jamie Silvercrown has passed. My mother was next in line. As her only son, I am the rightful heir, yet the elders of Silverlands seek to replace me."

"You wish to fight for your birthright, then?" Rhaenyra asks, studying him intently.

"Yes, Your Grace." Daervon nods, resolute.

"Can you swear to commit no violence?"

His answer is firm, almost defiant. "Blood will be spilled if it must, but I can assure you that House Silvercrown and its vassals will bend the knee under my lead. I won't rest until I've tried."

Rhaenyra's gaze softens for a moment. "Just... promise me one thing. Don't go alone."

Daemon interjects, his voice tinged with rare concern. "He won't be going alone."

Daervon's hand tightens on the hilt of Soul Reaper. "I can handle this on my own, Father. Let me fight my own battle."

Daemon's expression hardens. "I will not take no for an answer. I am your king."

Daervon tilts his head, defiance glinting in his lilac eyes. "On the contrary, so am I."

Before the tension escalates further, Ser Erryk bursts into the chamber. "Your Grace... a ship has been sighted offshore: a lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon."

Daemon rises immediately, his hand already on Dark Sister's hilt. "Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies."

On the bridge leading to Dragonstone is cold, the wind biting, carrying with it the salty tang of the Narrow Sea as Daemon leads a retinue to intercept the Greens' delegation.

The Greens stand defiant, led by Ser Otto Hightower, his smug expression as loathsome as ever. The banner of the three-headed green dragon flutters behind him, a silent mockery of all Rhaenyra has lost.

Otto speaks with his usual air of self-importance. "I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aemond, First of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. I am here to deliver her message to Princess Rhaenyra. Where is the Princess?"

Syrax's screech pierces the air as Rhaenyra descends atop her golden beast. The dragon's eyes glint with fiery intent as her rider dismounts, brushing past Otto without sparing him a glance.

Tension hangs thick in the air as Rhaenyra Targaryen stands at the head of her Black council, her expression carved from ice, her dark eyes alight with fury.

Opposite them, Otto Hightower, Hand of the Usurper, faces her with measured calm, the faint smirk tugging at his lips daring insult. Behind him, green-clad soldiers stand at attention, their hands resting on hilts but not yet drawn. "Princess Rhaenyra."

"I am Queen Rhaenyra now," she declares, her voice sharp as Valyrian steel. "And you are all traitors to the realm."

Otto's smugness does not waver as he lifts the parchment in his hand, its crisp edges flapping in the wind. "King Aemond Targaryen, First of His Name, in his wisdom and desire for peace, offers generous terms." He steps forward and unfurls the paper, the details spilling forth like poisoned honey.

Rhaenyra's lips curl in disgust, her body vibrating with barely contained rage as Otto continues, "Acknowledge Aemond as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In return, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone, which will pass to your true-born son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will inherit Driftmark, unchallenged. Your sons by Prince Daemon will be granted high honor at court-Aegon the Younger as the King's squire, Viserys as his cupbearer."

Otto pauses, his gaze flicking toward Daervon, who stands apart from the Blacks, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of Soul Reaper. "And King Consort Daervon is still welcomed to rule the Seven Kingdoms at King Aemond's side."

The mention of his name draws Daervon's sharp, lilac gaze, a single brow arching in silent amusement. For a moment, it is unclear whether he will speak, but he remains still, letting the tension build.

Daemon takes a threatening step forward, his hand already closing around the hilt of Dark Sister. "I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them serve that one-eyed, usurper cunt of a king," he spits venomously.

Otto's mask of composure cracks ever so slightly, his lip curling. "Aemond Targaryen sits the Iron Throne. He wears the Conqueror's crown, wields the Conqueror's sword, and was anointed before thousands by a septon of the Faith. Every symbol of legitimacy is his. Stark, Blackpaw, Tully, Baratheon, and Silvercrown have received his terms. They are, at present, considering them."

Rhaenyra bristles, her jaw clenching as she steps forward. "They swore to me-when King Viserys named me his heir."

"Stale oaths," Otto replies, his voice cool and condescending, "will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess. The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret you and he were the last to see it."

A storm rises in Rhaenyra, her fury finding release as she strides forward, tearing the badge of office from Otto's cloak. "You are no more Hand than Aemond is king. Traitor." Her voice reverberates across the bridge, startling Syrax, who unleashes a menacing roar from her perch above, her golden scales glinting in the pale sunlight.

Otto barely flinches, recovering his composure as he signals to Grand Maester Orwyle. The old man steps forward, holding a folded piece of parchment. Otto unfurls it, revealing a torn page from Ten Thousand Ships. Rhaenyra freezes as her eyes take it in. It is unmistakable-the very page from the book she and Alicent had pored over as girls in the godswood of the Red Keep.

"Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once shared," Otto intones, his voice softening, almost fatherly. "For the sake of peace, no blood need be spilled. Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer."

The parchment trembles slightly in Rhaenyra's hand. Memories flood her-the warm laughter of her childhood, the whispered secrets under the weirwood tree. Her lips quiver as a single tear slips down her cheek.

But Daemon's harsh bark cuts through the moment. "She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father's mouth along with his withered cock." Dark Sister hisses free from its scabbard, and the Greens bristle, their hands flying to their swords. "Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself."

Syrax roars again, her massive wings unfurling in warning. But it is not only her. A shadow descends from above, followed by the ground-shaking impact of Gaelithox, Daervon's dragon, landing at the far end of the Blacks' formation. The great black beast snarls, his green eyes ablaze as his massive body coils protectively behind his rider.

"Enough!" Rhaenyra's voice rings out, silencing the cacophony of steel and dragon roars. Her hand shoots up, and Syrax settles, though her tail lashes furiously. "King's Landing will have my answer on the morrow." She turns, her steps measured, her face a mask of control. The Blacks follow, but Daervon lingers, his eyes narrowing as Otto calls out to him.

"King Consort Daervon," Otto begins with oily courtesy. "His Grace has left a message for you."

Daervon exhales sharply, signaling Ser Erryk to stay close as he steps forward. Gaelithox growls low in his throat, his green eyes pinning Otto like prey.

The Grand Maester hands Otto a small folded parchment and the familiar Valyrian steel ring. Daervon takes both, his expression unreadable. He unfolds the note, revealing Aemond's precise, familiar handwriting. It reads: 'Return this to me safely. And know that I'll be waiting.'

The words ignite something in Daervon's chest-love, anger, despair, all tangled into one unbearable knot. His fingers tighten around the paper, crumpling it. He glances at the ring in his palm, its cool metal burning into his skin like a brand. His mind screams that this is manipulation, yet his heart betrays him.

Otto watches, a sly grin curling his lips, but it vanishes when Daervon abruptly tears the letter to shreds, scattering it into the wind. He raises the ring, intending to hurl it into the sea. But his arm freezes midway. His love for Aemond-unyielding, maddening-chains him, refusing to let him follow through.

His frustration boils over. Daervon screams, his voice raw and unrestrained, echoing off the cliffs of Dragonstone. Gaelithox roars in tandem, the sound shaking the bridge as his wings spread wide, his tail smashing into the ground with earth-shaking force.

When the storm within him subsides, Daervon is breathing heavily, his face flushed with anger. He turns to Otto, his eyes blazing.

"King Consort-" Otto begins cautiously.

Daervon's fist flies, connecting with Otto's face in a sickening crack. The Hand staggers and falls, blood dripping from his nose.

Daervon glares at the Green soldiers as they draw their swords, daring them to strike. "Go on," he sneers, his voice low and venomous. "Don't stop on my account."

None dare move. The presence of Gaelithox, growling behind his rider, is warning enough.

Daervon looks down at Otto, his lip curling in disdain. "Tell your king I will not support his delusions." He turns sharply, striding away with Ser Erryk at his side. Gaelithox follows, pausing only to snarl one last time at the Greens before launching into the air, his massive form blotting out the sun as he flies toward Dragonstone.