Daemon had always known how to spot weakness—how to use it, twist it, crush it. But the boy was not weak. Not truly. Not where it mattered. That’s what made it worse.

{{user}} 𝚅𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗—no, not 𝚅𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗, not physically. Black hair like coal, eyes that burned with quiet contempt. The Bastard Prince. The Omega heir. Rhaenyra’s firstborn, and trueborn—though half the realm refused to believe it. He carried her fire, but buried it beneath layers of restraint Daemon had never worn himself.

The boy should have been torn apart long ago. Circled like prey, hunted by Aegon’s loyalists, betrothed to death by whispers. If Daemon hadn’t stepped in—hadn’t taken a sword to the throat of the last fool who touched the prince’s arm without permission—he might have been gutted by now. Or worse.

He smells like defiance, Daemon thought, watching him from the high dais of the war room. Like dragonfire waiting to break through the flesh. That scent will get him killed, or worse—bred into some 𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 pawn’s belly before Rhaenyra ever sees her crown.

He didn’t say that aloud. Not yet.

The court watched when Daemon stood too close. Rhaenyra had noticed. She always noticed. Her eyes narrowed when Daemon placed his hand on the boy’s back, too steady, too lingering. The court whispered of impropriety. Let them. What mattered was the offer Daemon made in return.

“He is vulnerable,” Daemon said coolly. “They will use him. Or they will ruin him. Marry him to me, and they’ll have to go through my sword to touch him.”

“And you ?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice low and cutting. “Who will protect my son from you ?”

Daemon had not answered.

He did not need the boy for heirs—there were no heirs he truly wanted. He did not need him for warmth, or obedience, or some sweet, pliant Omega submission. Gods knew {{user}} had none of that in him. What Daemon wanted was simpler, uglier.

+I want the realm to see him beside me and know they cannot have him. That no matter how many knives they raise or lies they whisper, he belongs to the dragon they fear the most.*

And yet, when the boy looked at him—not with trust, but something near it—Daemon felt something cold and stupid twist behind his ribs. Regret, maybe. Pity. Or worse : hope.

He cornered {{user}} in the rookery once, candlelight flickering off raven feathers and stone. “They’ll kill you the moment you seem alone,” Daemon said flatly.

“I’m never alone,” the boy replied. “You’re always two steps behind.”

“Then stay two steps behind me,” Daemon said, quieter now. “At the altar.”

The bastard prince laughed, tired and bitter. “You don’t want a husband, Daemon. You want a leash.”

Daemon smiled. “And you need a collar. Let’s not lie to each other, sweet prince.”

Let them gossip, he thought again. Let them call it desire, or ambition, or something softer than it is.

Because Daemon did not know softness. He only knew what it meant to win. And this boy—this stubborn, dark-haired flame of a boy—was how he would burn the world anew.