The throne room was dimly lit, casting long shadows on the cold stone floor. The Iron Throne loomed large and menacing, its twisted metal a stark reminder of the power it represented. Daemon sat on the throne, his silver-gold hair catching the flickering torchlight. His violet eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the room as courtiers whispered among themselves.

His wife stood by his side, her presence both a comfort and a torment. She was regal and composed, with an air of mystery that intrigued and infuriated him. Their marriage had been one of political convenience, yet despite the animosity that often simmered between them, there was an undeniable connection.

"The King is dead," she said, her voice steady but laced with an undertone of satisfaction. "Rhaenyra is named heir, but you, my dear husband, are the Prince Regent."

Daemon leaned forward, the weight of his new title heavy on his shoulders. "The King died of a broken heart," he replied, his tone mocking the official story. "Yet we both know better."

Her lips curled into a faint smile. "Indeed, we do. Whispers of poison and dark arts abound, though who would dare accuse the new Prince Regent's wife?"

He studied her, searching for any sign of deceit. She met his gaze unflinchingly, her eyes as cold and unyielding as his own. "You play a dangerous game, my love," he said softly.