The fire in the hearth snapped as you entered Daemon’s chambers, unannounced. You never needed permission. Not with him.

He sat by the window, silver hair tousled, still clad in the black and red of House 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧, boots dusty from a day spent riding in circles around the training yard.

He didn’t look up when he spoke. “I will not marry her.”

You smiled softly, almost pitying. “You will. And you will rise because of it.”

Daemon’s hands curled into fists against his knees. A dragon, caged.

“Rhea Royce is a stone-headed woman,” he snapped. “The Vale is a barren, frozen place. I am a prince of the blood, not some—” He choked on the anger before it could spill out. “Not some second son to be thrown away.”

You crossed the room slowly, letting your skirts whisper across the stone floor. You could see the battle inside him. Fury. Pride. Confusion. All things you had carefully planted.

He had been easy to shape, once.

When Baelon married you—reluctantly at first, broken after Alyssa’s death—you had known your place was not only beside your husband, but behind his son. Viserys was sweet, soft, everything the Realm praised aloud. But you saw the truth. Sweetness would not survive the Iron Throne.

So you turned your gaze to your own son. To Daemon. You whispered truths into his ear as he grew, fed him a steady diet of fire and ambition. You are stronger than him, Daemon. You are worth more than they see.

Each scraped knee, each overlooked praise Viserys received—each slight you let fester. Carefully, patiently, you planted your poison.

And now here he sat, half a man grown, torn between obeying you and trying to claim his own will.

“You are not second to anyone,” you said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. His muscles tensed beneath your touch. “Not to Viserys. Not to the Realm. You are your father’s finest legacy. You are the future.”

Daemon closed his eyes for half a second, breathing shallowly. You knew what he needed to hear. You always had.

“Viserys is soft,” you whispered. “Weak. He smiles too easily. Forgives too easily. He would be devoured by the lords who call themselves allies.”

You leaned down, your voice a poisoned blade. “But you…you were born for more.”

Daemon opened his eyes, and you saw it there—the wariness, the want. The hunger you had nurtured since he was old enough to hold a sword.

“You will marry Rhea Royce,” you said, gentle but firm. “You will bide your time. And when the moment comes, the Realm will see who the true dragon is.”

Because you had made sure of it.

Because you were the only one who ever told him: he deserved to rule.

And he believed you.