𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Pairing: Daemon Targaryen X Dornish!Fem!POC!Reader
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Genre: angst • fluff
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Summary: Haunted by the blood and silence of a dangerous childbirth, you and Daemon must relearn what it means to lean on one another — and rediscover the strength of your vow to always be together.
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact!!! due to heavy themes, pregnancy complications, difficult childbirth, blood loss / medical trauma, near-death experience, family angst, implied PTSD / nightmares, emotional breakdowns, fear of loss, eventual fluffy recovery / happy ending
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ A/N: Hello! Thank you for being so patient, I’m sorry it took forever to get this out, mentally I’ve not been doing so hot and then writers block kicked my ass. This was requested so thank you 🍒 Anon!! As always, I hope you love it, if there’s anything you’d like me to change let me know!
The mornings in Dragonstone were often cloaked in mist, the sea wind rattling the shutters, the cries of gulls echoing across the black stone walls. Yet within your chambers, warmth reigned—the hearth was lit, and the tangled limbs of your family made the bed feel more like a fortress of softness than cold stone.
You stirred first, half-buried beneath blankets, only to find your husband’s arm slung heavily across your waist. Daemon slept like a dragon himself, protective even in slumber, his silver hair spilling untidily across the pillows. He was rarely so still; most days he was a creature of restlessness, pacing and prowling, but here, with you, he often surrendered.
You smiled faintly, tracing the curve of his hand over the slight swell of your belly. This pregnancy weighed on you already, though it was still early. There was a heaviness, a strain you hadn’t felt with Rhaenar, Vaella, or Nymerion. Still, in this moment, with the steady rise and fall of Daemon’s chest at your side, it was easy to pretend the world was as perfect as you felt it was.
A sudden giggle shattered the quiet.
You turned just in time to see a tumble of silver and dark curls peek over the edge of the mattress—Rhaenar, your eldest, dragging his little brother up behind him with whispered urgency.
“Quiet!” he hissed, though his own grin gave him away. “We’ll wake them!”
“You’ve already woken us, little dragon,” Daemon muttered without opening his eyes. His voice was gravel and smoke, but his arm tightened protectively around you.
Rhaenar froze, caught in the act, then puffed his chest out as if to prove he wasn’t afraid. “We weren’t sneaking. We were… checking on Mother.”
Behind him, Nymerion clutched a carved wooden dragon in one hand, his cheeks still round with babyhood. “Wanted to see Mama,” he declared more honestly, his words slightly muddled.
Before you could sit up, another voice chimed in—sharp, bright, and all too fearless.
“Then you should have brought me, too.” Vaella stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, her long nightshift dragging against the floor. She looked every inch her father’s daughter—stubborn chin, eyes narrowed as though ready to duel.
Daemon finally opened one eye and smirked. “A mutiny before breakfast. Just what I needed.”
You laughed softly, reaching out to beckon them closer. “Come then, my loves. If you are going to invade, you must do it properly.”
The bed erupted into chaos—three children scrambling onto the mattress, Nymerion squealing as Rhaenar pulled him up, Vaella immediately crawling over Daemon to wedge herself between him and you. Daemon groaned dramatically as if he were being crushed by armies, though his hands instinctively helped them climb.
It was loud, messy, and absolutely perfect.
Rhaenar settled at your side, carefully placing his hand on your belly. “Is the baby awake too?” he asked seriously, as though he could already command their unborn sibling.
“Perhaps,” you said with a tired smile, smoothing his silver-streaked hair. “Or perhaps the baby is still sleeping, unlike my other three dragons.”
Vaella wrinkled her nose. “I hope it’s a girl. Boys are too noisy.”
“Girls are worse,” Rhaenar shot back immediately, earning a shove from her small hand.
Daemon’s laughter rumbled through the bed as he reached across to flick both their foreheads lightly. “You are all loud. And if one of you so much as makes your mother frown, you’ll answer to me.”
They quieted at once, though Rhaenar only smirked knowingly—he’d long realized that their father’s threats held little bite where his children were concerned.
You leaned into Daemon’s shoulder, feeling the weight of his warmth, the lively chatter of your children filling the chamber. This was what you cherished most: the rare peace of your family tangled together in laughter, before the world outside could demand anything of you.
And though a small ache had begun in your belly, sharp enough to make your breath catch, you hid it with a steady smile.
Because in this room, in this moment, everything was perfect.
The invasion of the bedchamber ended, as it always did, with Daemon declaring himself defeated.
“I am slain,” he groaned, collapsing back against the pillows with Vaella perched triumphantly on his chest, her silver-dark hair falling into his face. “A usurper has stolen my throne.”
“You have no throne here,” you teased, smoothing the tangled blankets as Nymerion clambered onto your lap. “This is my kingdom, and these three are my loyal bannermen.”
“Traitors, the lot of them,” Daemon muttered, though his arm curled protectively around Vaella as she wriggled closer to him.
Rhaenar smirked at his father’s theatrics but pressed his cheek against your belly again, whispering, “If the baby is listening, they’ll know this is our kingdom, not Father’s.”
Daemon raised a brow at him but said nothing, only letting his hand drift over Vaella’s back as his eyes flickered briefly toward you. He was studying you—always studying you—though you met his gaze with a reassuring smile. You would not let him see the faint wince that tightened your spine when Nymerion accidentally kicked your ribs in his enthusiasm.
Later, when the children had been coaxed into dressing for breakfast and sent scampering down the corridors under the care of a nursemaid, Daemon lingered behind. You had risen slowly, bracing your hands against the carved bedpost, the weight of your body already heavier than you remembered at this stage with your other babes.
Daemon watched. He always watched.
“You should have let me carry you,” he said, voice low, not quite scolding but close.
“I am not so helpless as that,” you replied, turning your head to smirk at him. “Would you have me borne about like some fragile glass swan? The children would laugh at me.”
“They would laugh,” Daemon admitted, stepping closer to slide an arm around your waist, “but they would not worry. Nor would I.”
You leaned into his hold for a moment, just long enough to indulge in the warmth and steadiness of his touch. His scent was familiar—smoke, leather, the salt tang of sea air. Comforting. Anchoring.
“You worry too much,” you murmured.
“And you,” he countered, brushing his lips against your temple, “worry too little.”
Breakfast in the great hall was its usual chaos.
Rhaenar insisted on practicing High Valyrian greetings, puffing his chest with every syllable, though his little brother interrupted with a stream of crumbs and half-words. Nymerion stuffed his mouth so full of honeycake that Vaella declared she would never sit beside him again. Daemon carved meat for the children with surprising patience, though you caught the amused twitch of his mouth as he listened to their bickering.
When Vaella demanded a story of dragons, Daemon gave it to her, his voice lowering into the cadence of an old tale—not of conquest or blood, but of Balerion flying across the skies of Old Valyria. The children listened with wide eyes, and though you had heard the story a dozen times, you still found yourself staring at him, at the light catching in his pale hair, the rare softness in his expression.
When his gaze slid to yours, mid-sentence, you knew he felt it too: that quiet tether, that unspoken vow between you.
The day passed in gentleness.
You spent the afternoon in the gardens with the children, watching as Rhaenar practiced with a wooden sword, his movements stiff but eager. Daemon stood behind him, correcting his stance with patient hands, though his tone still carried its usual sharpness.
“Feet apart. Grip firm. Do not swing like you’re threshing wheat.”
Rhaenar grunted, trying again.
Vaella perched beside you, braiding flowers into your hair as you sat on a cushioned bench. She narrated each step of her handiwork as though she were a lady-in-waiting in a Dornish court, not a princess in Dragonstone. Nymerion chased a butterfly across the grass, his chubby legs pumping furiously, his laughter bubbling into the air.
You could almost forget the ache in your back, the dull heaviness that had grown worse with each week. Almost.
Daemon’s eyes found you again as he corrected Rhaenar’s swing. He did not speak, not then, but his gaze lingered, sharp and searching, as though he already sensed the ever growing shadow beneath your smiles.
That evening, when the children had been tucked into their beds—Nymerion curled against a stuffed dragon, Vaella demanding one last kiss on the brow, Rhaenar murmuring goodnight in halting High Valyrian—you and Daemon walked the quiet corridors together.
The sea roared outside, waves crashing against black stone, and the torches burned low in the sconces.
“You are tired,” he said finally, his voice softer now, meant only for you.
“I am pregnant,” you answered lightly, “of course I am tired.”
His hand brushed yours, fingers entwining almost hesitantly, though his grip tightened once he had you. “It is not like before. I see it.”
For a moment, you wanted to tell him—of the pain that sometimes lanced through your belly, the breathlessness, the way you had to pause halfway up the stairs when no one was watching. But instead, you pressed his hand to your lips and smiled.
“It will be well,” you whispered. “We will be well.”
He did not argue, though the shadow in his eyes said he did not believe it.
The castle was rarely silent. Dragonstone breathed with its own life—the moan of the sea wind through cracks in the stone, the distant rumble of waves battering the cliffs, the guttural roar of dragons as they stirred in their lairs. Yet within your family’s quarters, a kind of warmth always seemed to soften the austere edges of the keep.
The children filled it with noise.
By midmorning, you had surrendered to their antics. Nymerion, only three and endlessly stubborn, had insisted on wearing one of Daemon’s old belts across his tiny chest like a knight’s baldric. He strutted about with his wooden dragon clutched in hand, demanding to be called Prince Nymerion the Brave by anyone who passed. When the nursemaid had attempted to scoop him up for washing, he had wriggled free, sticky with honey, declaring he was on an urgent quest.
Daemon had laughed for nearly five minutes straight, leaning against the wall as the nursemaid threw her hands up in despair. “Leave him,” he had said with a grin. “Let him conquer the kitchens if he wishes. It will toughen him.”
You had sighed, wiping honey from your son’s curls before gathering him into your lap. Nymerion promptly forgot his quest and snuggled against your belly, mumbling sleepily, “For the baby.” He always said it—as if your growing belly was a sacred thing only he could guard.
Rhaenar, meanwhile, was growing into himself. At eight, he carried himself with a certain gravity, often watching the world with keen eyes before speaking. He followed his father’s steps in training, though he sought your approval even more than he did Daemon’s. When he managed to land a clean strike with his wooden blade during the afternoon drills, the first thing he’d often do was glance up at you with flushed cheeks.
“Well done,” you had called across the courtyard, your smile enough to light up his face. Daemon had ruffled his hair, muttering, “He’s too soft, that one.” Yet you had caught the curve of pride tugging at his mouth when he thought no one looked.
And then there was Vaella. Fierce little Vaella, who at six already ruled her brothers with a voice sharp as any dagger. She adored Daemon, though she often scolded him as though she were his equal, reminding him when he forgot to braid her hair before supper or when he let Nymerion sneak more sweets than was proper.
That evening, she had declared from her seat at the table, “When I am queen, Father, you must do as I say.”
Daemon, without missing a beat, leaned forward with mock solemnity. “And what, little dragon, will you command?”
“That you never leave us,” she said, chin lifted, her voice carrying the earnest weight of childhood.
The hall had gone silent for a moment. Rhaenar frowned down at his plate. Nymerion blinked at his sister, mouth ringed in crumbs.
And you had felt Daemon’s hand slide beneath the table, finding yours, gripping it tightly.
“Then it shall be law,” he said at last, his voice softer than his usual teasing drawl. “I will never leave you.”
After supper, you had taken the children through the quieter passages of the keep. They loved hearing tales of Dorne from you—the warmth of its sun, the markets heavy with spices, the stories of Princess Nymeria who had crossed the seas with her fleet. You told them of your childhood in the desert gardens, of the long nights filled with music and dancing, of colors brighter than anything Dragonstone’s gray halls could hold.
“Will you take us there one day, Mother?” Rhaenar asked, holding your hand.
“Yes,” you promised, brushing your thumb across his small knuckles. “One day, when the baby is grown enough to travel.”
Daemon had walked a step behind, silent but listening. When your eyes met, there had been something soft in his gaze — something that told you he remembered the first time you had described Dorne to him, years ago, when you were little more than strangers drawn together by fire and fate.
That night, when the children were finally put to bed—Vaella demanding three separate kisses and Rhaenar whispering one last High Valyrian prayer he had memorized—you lingered awake beside Daemon.
The chamber was quiet, the only sound the steady breath of the sea wind pushing at the shutters. He sat at the edge of the bed, unfastening the clasps of his armor. Though he wore no crown, no courtly robes, there was still something in him that seemed untamable — the curve of his shoulders, the sharpness of his movements. And yet when he glanced back at you, his expression softened into something only you ever saw.
“You should sleep,” you murmured.
“So should you,” he countered, turning to face you. His hair fell loose about his shoulders, silver catching in the lamplight. “You have been pale all day.”
You tried to brush it off with a smile, though your hand instinctively rested on your belly. “It is only weariness.”
Daemon studied you in silence for a moment, then came to sit beside you. His fingers brushed your wrist, then your palm, tracing absent patterns.
“You will tell me if it worsens?” he asked at last.
“Yes,” you whispered, though you weren’t certain if it was truth or comfort.
He nodded once, though his jaw tightened. Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your brow, your cheek, then finally your lips.
The kiss was not urgent, not wild as he often was. It was slow, grounding, a tether binding you both in the dim glow of your chamber. You felt the weight of his love in it, heavy and unyielding, as though he were trying to wordlessly remind you of the vow you had made years ago.
You rested your forehead against his when it ended, his breath mingling with yours.
In that moment, it was easy to forget the heaviness in your limbs, the ache in your back, the flicker of unease that had been growing each day.
Because here, in his arms, with the children asleep nearby and the sea singing against the cliffs, life was perfect.
The next few mornings always began in chaos—though, in truth, chaos had become a kind of rhythm in your family.
The children had woken before the sun was high, and the nursemaids had barely managed to corral them into some semblance of readiness before breakfast. By the time you and Daemon entered the great hall, Nymerion had already climbed beneath the long table and was roaring like a dragon.
“It’s Caraxes!” he bellowed from under the benches, his little voice muffled. “I’ll eat you all!”
Vaella shrieked with laughter, clutching her bread to her chest dramatically. “Father, save me! Caraxes wants to gobble me whole!”
Daemon sat at the head of the table with a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Caraxes only listens to me, little one,” he said, leaning down to peek under the table. “And you, my boy, are far too small to be him.”
“I’m big!” Nymerion protested, crawling out with his cheeks red and his curls askew. “Bigger than Rhaenar!”
Rhaenar, dignified as an eight-year-old could be, rolled his eyes. “You’re half my size. And dragons don’t eat bread.”
“They do if it has honey on it!” Nymerion declared triumphantly, snatching a roll from the platter and tearing into it with his baby teeth. Honey dripped down his chin.
You laughed, reaching across to wipe his sticky mouth with a cloth before he could smear it on his tunic. Daemon only shook his head, muttering something under his breath about Dornish appetites.
“Certainly no worse than Targaryen appetites, perhaps,” you teased, arching a brow at him.
His eyes met yours, glinting with mischief, though he said nothing. Instead, he reached for a fig from the platter and bit into it deliberately slowly, as if to make a point.
“Disgusting,” Rhaenar muttered, wrinkling his nose. “He eats like a dragon, too.”
Vaella cackled so hard she nearly toppled from her chair, and even Daemon couldn’t hold back his laughter then, low and rich, filling the hall.
After the meal, you led the children to the gardens. The air was fresh, touched with sea salt, and though Dragonstone was harsher than the Dornish courts of your youth, the gardens here had been coaxed into life with stubborn care. Roses bloomed red against the black walls, and lavender nodded in the breeze.
Vaella insisted on gathering flowers to braid into your hair again. She perched on the bench behind you, tiny fingers working through strands of your dark locks.
“You must sit very still, Mother,” she said in a serious tone, “or it won’t be pretty.”
“I think it is already very pretty,” Daemon’s voice drawled from where he lounged nearby, leaning against the garden wall. He was watching, always watching, his arms folded as though he were trying to appear disinterested. Yet his eyes never left you.
Vaella huffed. “No, Father. It has to be better.”
Daemon chuckled but said nothing, though when your daughter was done and demanded you show him, his expression softened. “Better,” he conceded, his gaze lingering on you a moment too long.
Meanwhile, Rhaenar had taken up his wooden sword again, practicing his swings in the courtyard. His movements were stiff but earnest, his tongue poking slightly from the corner of his mouth.
“Too slow,” Daemon called lazily, pushing off the wall to cross to him. “If you lift your arm so high, your enemy will cut you down before your blade falls.”
Rhaenar flushed, lowering his sword. “Show me again, then.”
Daemon arched a brow—he liked defiance, even in his children—and took the practice blade from him. He demonstrated the strike, smooth and quick, then handed it back. “Again.”
Rhaenar mimicked him, sharper this time.
“Better,” Daemon allowed. Then, glancing back at you with a smirk, he added, “He learns quicker than I thought. He must take after you.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Or perhaps he only wishes to prove you wrong.”
Daemon’s grin widened, sharp as ever. “Ahhh, spite. A worthy motive.”
The afternoon drifted into gentle quiet.
Nymerion napped in your lap, curled against your belly, his thumb tucked into his mouth. Vaella hummed tunelessly as she braided crowns of flowers for her dolls. Rhaenar, exhausted from training, sat cross-legged with a book, sounding out the words under his breath.
Daemon sat beside you on the bench, one arm stretched along the back, his hand brushing your shoulder lightly. For once, he was still. His gaze traced the horizon where sea met sky, but his fingers occasionally skimmed your sleeve, as though reminding himself you were there.
“You’ve given them peace,” he said at length, voice quiet enough not to wake Nymerion. “Something I never thought I could have.”
You turned your head to look at him. “We have given them peace.”
His lips curved, but his eyes were unreadable, shadows flickering there. He reached down, touching Nymerion’s curls, then your hand, and finally the swell of your belly. “Always together,” he murmured, the words more like a vow than a habit.
“Always,” you whispered back.
That night, after the children were asleep, you found Daemon in the solar, seated by the fire. A goblet of wine rested untouched beside him. His hair caught the light, a pale halo against the dark stone.
“You’re brooding,” you said softly, coming to stand behind him.
“I do not brood,” he retorted, though his tone lacked bite. He reached for your hand, tugging you into his lap without another word.
You laughed, startled, but let yourself fold into his embrace. His arms wound around you, strong and grounding, his chin brushing your shoulder.
“You are warm,” he said simply, his voice muffled in your hair.
“And you,” you teased, “are impossible.”
“Mm,” he hummed, tightening his grip as though he feared you might slip away even here, even now. “Perhaps. But you are mine, and they are mine, and I will not let the world take any of it from me.”
You rested against him, listening to the fire crackle, the distant hiss of waves against the cliffs. The weight of his words lingered in your chest—fierce, possessive, but born of love.
And for now, it was enough to ease the growing pain you felt.
The peace of Dragonstone never lasted without interruption.
You had known it, of course—peace was never meant to be permanent, only borrowed. Yet, as the weeks slid into months, as the days with Daemon and the children wove together into something almost dreamlike, you had allowed yourself to forget.
One evening, as supper lingered past the hour of candles, Daemon did not join you. The children grew restless, Nymerion banging his spoon on the table until the nursemaid carried him away, Rhaenar sulking at being told to eat his greens, Vaella fussing over her braids.
Later on, you excused yourself from your children’s chamber quietly, leaving them to their chatter, and found him alone in the rookery. He stood by the window with a raven perched on his arm, its beak clicking. The letter it had carried lay open on the table, the wax seal broken, the parchment rumpled.
He did not notice you at first. His profile was carved in shadow, the light from the brazier making his eyes seem darker, sharper.
“Another summons?” you asked finally, voice soft.
Daemon turned, too quickly, the raven shifting its wings with a hiss of feathers. His expression was guarded, the mask he wore in council and battle. He almost never wore it with you.
“Nothing worth troubling yourself with,” he said curtly.
You frowned, stepping closer, reaching for the parchment. But he moved first, crumpling it in his fist.
“Daemon,” you murmured, hurt flickering in your chest.
For a long beat, he said nothing, his jaw tight. Then he tossed the ball of parchment into the brazier, where it curled into ash. “It is court nonsense. Whispers. I will not have it poison this household.”
You studied him. The flicker of firelight caught on the hard line of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. You had seen him angry before, had seen him violent, but this was different—it was a heaviness, pressing in.
Before you could press further, Vaella’s small voice carried into the chamber.
She stood at the threshold, her nightshift trailing around her ankles, her doll clutched to her chest. She had likely followed your absence, uneasy at the silence.
Daemon’s expression softened instantly. He crouched, beckoning her with open arms. “Little flame. Why are you awake?”
“I had a dream,” she whispered, creeping closer. “There was fire. I couldn’t find Mother.”
Daemon gathered her close, his hands firm on her small back. “Dreams are smoke,” he said lowly. “You are safe. She is safe.” His eyes found yours across the room, sharp, unyielding. “I will not let fire touch her.”
The words, meant to reassure, landed in your chest like a weight.
In the days that followed, his restlessness grew.
He trained Rhaenar longer than usual, driving the boy past exhaustion. When you tried to intervene, Daemon only said, “The world will not spare him. Why should I?”
Rhaenar never complained—stubborn as his father—but at night you found him sleeping curled on his side, his arm aching from drills. You soothed him with salves and kisses to his hair, murmuring Dornish lullabies until he slipped into slumber.
Vaella, too, noticed the shift. She no longer giggled so freely, watching her father with wary eyes when his temper frayed at small things. Once, when Nymerion toppled a goblet, spilling wine across the table, Daemon’s hand had slammed down with a force that made all three children freeze.
The silence afterward had been unbearable. Daemon had seen their faces, seen yours, and muttered a curse before stalking from the hall.
That night, he returned late, smelling of smoke and salt. You sat waiting, though your eyes were heavy. He looked at you, then at the bed, then back again.
“You think me cruel,” he said hoarsely.
You rose, going to him, pressing your palm to his cheek. “I think you are afraid.”
His laugh was hollow. “Daemon Targaryen, afraid?”
His silence was answer enough. His hands gripped your waist, almost desperate, pulling you to him as if the very act could tether you to this world.
The children whispered to each other when they thought you could not hear.
“Father is…different,” Vaella told Rhaenar one afternoon as they sat in the garden, dolls and swords abandoned.
Rhaenar frowned, protective as always. “He’s just worried. He always worries.”
“About what?” Vaella pressed.
Nymerion only crawled into your lap, tugging at your sleeve with wide eyes. “Don’t go, Mama.”
You hushed him, though his words scraped something raw inside you.
The midwife began her visits more frequently. Each time, she examined you with careful hands, murmuring reassurances. Yet you saw the hesitation in her eyes, the subtle pursing of her lips when she thought you were not watching.
Daemon noticed too. One evening, after she had left, he prowled the chamber like a caged dragon.
“They whisper to each other when they leave,” he spat. “As if I do not see. As if I do not hear.”
“They are only cautious,” you said, though your voice faltered. “It is the way of things, with a fourth child—”
His hand slammed against the bedpost, making you flinch. He froze, his eyes widening as if the sound had startled even him.
His hand reached for yours then, trembling. “I cannot lose you,” he whispered fiercely. “I cannot.”
You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. “You will not.”
But in your heart, a shadow had already taken root.
Daemon had always been a man of restless energy. He rode hard, he fought hard, he loved hard—never still, never entirely at ease. But now… now his restlessness had teeth.
He lingered near you in ways he had not in past pregnancies. At first, it seemed sweet. He took to fastening your shoes before dinners, to carrying you down long halls even when you protested, to sending servants ahead of you with chairs so you would never have to stand too long.
But soon the sweetness sharpened. He counted your steps. He frowned when you rose too quickly. If you lifted Nymerion into your arms, his jaw tensed as if you’d invited a sword-point to your chest.
“Father, you’re staring again,” Vaella said one morning as you took your breakfast. She spoke with the bluntness of a child, her little hands sticky with honey.
Daemon’s eyes cut to her, but he said nothing, only reached over to wipe her cheek with a cloth.
“She is right,” you murmured, amusement threading your voice though your spine prickled with unease. “You do watch me like a hawk.”
“Not a hawk,” he said evenly, hand resting over yours on the table. “A dragon.”
The weight of it lingered long after the children’s chatter filled the room again.
The dreams began not long after.
At first, they were only fragments: fire curling up walls, the echo of screams. You would wake in the night slick with sweat, Daemon’s arm draped over your waist like a shackle. He slept fitfully too, muttering in Valyrian, jerking awake with sharp breaths.
Once, you woke to find him kneeling at the edge of the bed, his forehead pressed against your belly, whispering words you couldn’t catch. When you stirred, he glanced up, face drawn in shadow, and rose without explanation.
The next morning, you asked what he’d been saying.
He only pressed a kiss to your brow and said, “Prayers are wasted on gods who never listen.”
The tension began to take its claim on your children.
Rhaenar grew more serious. He trained harder, pushing himself even when you urged him to rest. One afternoon, you found him in the yard, sword arm trembling, Daemon standing behind him like a storm.
“Enough,” you said firmly, stepping into the ring.
Both father and son turned, their faces too alike in that moment: pale hair damp with sweat, brows furrowed with stubbornness.
“He needs discipline,” Daemon said.
“He needs his mother,” you countered, taking the wooden sword from Rhaenar’s small hand. The boy sagged with relief, though he tried to hide it. You smoothed his hair and whispered, “Go wash up, little sun. Supper waits.”
He kissed your hand before leaving, and when you looked back, Daemon’s jaw was set, but his eyes were haunted.
Vaella, by contrast, grew clingy. She followed you everywhere, always asking to help—fetching water, arranging your hair, reading to the babe inside you as if her voice alone could soothe it.
“What if something happens?” she asked you one afternoon while braiding flowers into your hair. Her voice was small, almost lost in the garden’s hum.
You froze, the bloom in your hand trembling. “Why would you say that?”
“Father prays,” she whispered. “He never prayed before.”
You forced a smile, brushing her cheek. “Sometimes even dragons need to whisper to the winds. But nothing will happen, little flame. Nothing at all.”
You hoped she would believe it, even as the words soured in your mouth.
Nymerion was too young to name what he sensed, but he became your shadow. He no longer ran freely about the halls; instead, he pressed against your skirts, thumb in his mouth, eyes wide. At night, he would crawl into your bed and wedge himself between you and Daemon, his small body warm, his breath soft against your arm.
“Don’t go,” he would whisper. “Stay.”
And though you told him you weren’t going anywhere, the words scraped raw inside you.
The first fracture happened one morning, as simple as a misstep.
You had risen early, the children still abed, the castle quiet. The sea called to you, so you wandered the eastern terrace to watch the dawn bleed into the waves. The air was cool, the stones damp with mist.
When the pain struck, it was like a knife sliding under your ribs. You gasped, clutching the railing, your knees buckling. For a moment, your vision blurred white, your breath stolen.
You must have cried out, because suddenly Daemon was there, bare-chested and wild-eyed, his hair unbound from sleep. He caught you before you collapsed, his arms iron around you.
“What happened? What is it?” His voice was sharp, desperate.
You could not answer at once, only clung to him until the spasm passed. Your breathing came ragged, tears stinging your eyes.
“I… I don’t know,” you whispered. “It hurt—”
Daemon didn’t wait. He carried you bodily through the halls, bellowing for the maester, for the midwives, his voice echoing like a storm.
The household roused in chaos. The children peeked from doorways, frightened by his shouts. Vaella clutched Rhaenar’s hand, Nymerion wailing until a nursemaid swept him up.
By the time the maester arrived, the worst of the pain had ebbed, leaving only trembling exhaustion. They examined you, murmured about strain, about needing rest, about watching for signs of bleeding.
Daemon stood behind them, his expression carved from stone, his hands bloody from where his nails had broken skin in his palms.
When they left, he fell to his knees at your bedside, pressing his face into your belly.
“Never again,” he swore hoarsely. “You will not walk the terraces, you will not climb the stairs, you will not lift a finger. Do you hear me? I will burn the world before I lose you.”
Your fingers threaded weakly through his hair, your heart twisting.
“I am not so fragile,” you whispered, though the echo of pain in your body made a liar of you.
Daemon only held you tighter, as though he could shield you from death or pain itself by sheer force of will.
The morning on the terrace was not the last time.
The pains returned, never as sharp as that first lancing stab, but enough to steal your breath at odd moments, to force you to grip the nearest chair or wall until the spasm passed. Sometimes your back ached so deeply that even the thought of rising from bed filled you with dread.
You tried to hide it. At first.
But Daemon noticed everything.
The way you slowed your pace in the corridors. The way you pressed discreetly at your lower belly. The way your face tightened, just for a flicker, when Vaella climbed into your lap or Nymerion tugged too hard at your arm.
And each time, his reaction grew sharper.
“You should not be walking here,” he snapped one afternoon when he found you in the solar, standing to peer out at the sea.
He crossed the chamber in two strides, snatching the chair nearest you and all but forcing you into it. “Air can be had from the window. You will not stand again until the maester says so.”
“Do not argue.” His voice cut like steel.
The children froze where they sat on the carpet, their play forgotten. Rhaenar’s little sword slipped from his fingers. Vaella looked between you both, eyes wide. Nymerion whimpered softly.
Your heart clenched. “You frighten them,” you whispered.
That stopped him. He turned, saw their faces, and something in him cracked. He crouched before the children, gathering Nymerion into his arms.
“I would never harm your mother,” he said, his voice raw now. “Never. But she must be careful. The babe must be careful.”
His eyes met yours over the top of Nymerion’s dark curls, and you knew what he meant: I cannot lose you. Not you.
If you rose too quickly, he would bark at you to sit.
If you tried to fetch water for yourself, he would take the jug from your hand and shouted for a servant.
If you insisted on helping Vaella with her stitching, he scolded you for straining your eyes.
“I am not an invalid,” you snapped one evening, the words bursting free before you could stop them.
“You are worse,” Daemon shot back. “You are my wife, and you are carrying my child, and I will not risk either of you because of your stubborn pride.”
Your throat tightened. “So I am nothing but a vessel to you now?”
The silence that followed was unbearable. His eyes went cold, hurt flashing behind them, and he turned away before answering.
“You are everything to me,” he said, voice low, almost broken. “Which is why I cannot let you shatter.”
And then he left, the door slamming so hard it rattled the walls.
You wept quietly that night, alone in the vastness of your bed, until at last you felt the mattress shift and Daemon’s arm encircle you. His lips pressed against your damp cheek.
“I am cruel,” he whispered against your skin. “But I am cruel because I love you.”
You turned into his chest, torn between anger at his overwhelming protection and aching tenderness. Because you knew—gods help you—he meant it.
The children bore the weight in different ways.
Rhaenar withdrew into his training, as if by becoming strong he could shoulder the household’s unrest. Show his father he can help care for you. You found him practicing in the yard well after sunset one evening, his little body swaying with exhaustion, wooden sword drooping in his hand.
“Rhaenar.” Your voice cracked. “Enough.”
He flinched, then straightened, trying to look taller. “I must be ready. Father says—”
“I do not care what Father says.” You took the sword from his hand, tossing it aside. “You are eight years of age. You do not need to be ready for anything but childhood.”
“But what if…” His lips trembled. He would not finish the thought, but you knew.
You cupped his cheek. “Nothing will happen to me.”
The lie tasted bitter on your tongue, but it was the only gift you could give him.
Vaella grew gentler. She tended to you with small, earnest gestures: tucking pillows behind your back, braiding your hair, pressing flowers into your palms. Yet her eyes were always watchful, her little shoulders squared as though she bore a secret too heavy for her years.
One evening she crept into your chamber with a candle, setting it carefully on the table.
“This will keep the shadows away,” she whispered. “So you won’t have bad dreams.”
You pulled her close, burying your face in her hair, the scent of salt and lavender breaking you open.
Nymerion, too young to understand but reacting nonetheless, only clung tighter. He began refusing to sleep in the nursery, his little fists curling into your nightdress, sobbing until you let him into your bed.
Daemon bristled at first, muttering about the boy’s weakness. But then he saw Nymerion’s tear-streaked face pressed into your belly, his tiny voice whispering, “Don’t leave,” and his anger melted into silence.
That night, Daemon lay awake beside you both, his hand resting on your belly, eyes staring into the darkness. He knew he was being far to cruel but if cruel is what he needed to be to shelter his family from the things that could hurt them, then cruel he shall be.
You only wished that he would snap out of his own mind and see what he was pushing upon his family.
It was near dusk when the second scare came.
You had only been sitting in the garden, Vaella nestled against your side, when the world tilted. The ground seemed to fall away beneath you, your breath catching, your vision narrowing to a tunnel.
Vaella’s cry was the last thing you heard before you hit the stone.
When you woke, Daemon’s face was above yours, wild and pale, his hands gripping yours so tightly your bones ached.
“Stay with me,” he snarled, though his voice trembled. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
The maester fussed, the midwives fluttered, servants ran with cloth and water. Your head throbbed, your body heavy, but all you could think of was Daemon’s eyes—crazed, desperate, rimmed with red from sleeplessness.
That night, he did not leave your side. He fed you broth with his own hands, paced the chamber like a caged beast, and when you closed your eyes, you felt his gaze burn against your skin.
Later, in the dark, he whispered to your belly again. You caught fragments this time — Valyrian words of pleading, of rage, of sadness, of promises soaked in blood.
You wanted to stop him. You wanted to soothe him. But you were too tired. Too afraid.
So you let the shadows settle between you both, thick and heavy, as the sea roared outside Dragonstone’s walls.
It finally came to a head one night, when Daemon snapped at Rhaenar.
The boy had only asked an innocent question—why the maester came so often, why his mother was always lying down instead of playing with in the gardens. His voice was hesitant, eyes wide, lips trembling as though he feared the answer.
Daemon turned on him too sharply.
“Do not ask such things,” he barked, the words echoing against the stone walls. “It is not for you to question. Train harder, and perhaps one day you will understand what it means to protect a family.”
Rhaenar’s face fell. His jaw clenched as he tried not to cry, his fists balling at his sides. Before you could intervene, he bolted from the room. Vaella gasped and scrambled after him, leaving Nymerion silent and trembling by your side.
“Daemon,” you hissed, rising despite the ache in your back. “He is a child.”
Daemon’s chest heaved, his face shadowed in torchlight. He opened his mouth, ready to lash back, but then his gaze fell on Nymerion.
The little boy was clutching your skirts, eyes wet, lips trembling. “Father’s angry,” he whispered. “Always angry.”
It was as if the words themselves had gutted him. His shoulders sagged, his jaw loosening, his eyes flickering wide with something almost like horror.
He looked at you—truly looked at you—and in that instant, he saw it.
The way you pressed your lips thin when he entered a room, as if bracing.
The way Vaella always tried to soothe him, though it was never meant to be her burden.
The way Rhaenar hardened himself too soon.
The way Nymerion clung to you as though only you could keep him safe.
And he realized: in trying to shield you all from danger, he had become its shadow.
He sank into a chair, staring at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger.
“I swore I would not be him,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
You paused, frowning. “Who?”
His lips twisted. “My brother. My father. Every Targaryen man who raised his children with fear and fire instead of love. And yet here I stand, snapping at a boy who only wanted to understand.”
The silence between you stretched, heavy but different now—not sharp with anger, but raw with truth.
You moved beside him, reaching for his hand. His fingers twitched, then twined with yours, tighter than before.
“Then stop,” you said softly. “You do not need to be fire and fury to protect us. We already know you love us. That is enough.”
His throat bobbed, his eyes wet though he blinked it away. He pressed your hand to his lips, lingering there.
“You deserve better than the man I’ve been,” he murmured. “They deserve better.”
“Then be better,” you whispered. “Not for the gods, not for crowns or thrones—but for them. For us.”
Daemon nodded, the line of his jaw steadier now. “I will.”
And for the first time in weeks, you believed him.
The change did not happen overnight, but it was there—a certain kind of softening.
When Vaella brought you flowers, Daemon knelt beside her, weaving them clumsily into your hair instead of brushing her away.
When Rhaenar asked about your health, Daemon pulled him into his lap and explained, with patience, that babes sometimes made their mothers weary but that it did not mean she was leaving him.
When Nymerion cried at night, Daemon lifted him into the bed himself, tucking him between you both, his large hand resting protectively on the boy’s small back until he fell asleep.
And with you, he was different too.
He still hovered, still watched, but no longer with the edge of command. Instead, he offered—a steadying arm, a pillow shifted beneath you, a kiss pressed to your brow when you winced. He no longer ordered you to stay in bed, but asked if you needed rest. He no longer shouted at the maesters, but listened, even when their words burned him.
There was still fear in him, yes—fear thrummed in his every glance, every touch. But now it was tempered by something deeper: resolve.
And for the first time since the shadows had crept in, you felt hope.
The days that followed were quiet, almost deceptively so.
The children laughed more easily again. The household breathed lighter. You spent hours in the gardens, Vaella curled against your side with a book, Nymerion playing in the grass, Rhaenar showing his father his newest sword drills.
Daemon lingered near, always near, but with a softer presence. His hand always found yours, his lips always brushed your temple.
And though the pains still came, though your body still ached and your steps grew slower, you felt wrapped in something steady. Safe.
It was not peace, not truly—because peace on Dragonstone never lasted. But it was enough to carry you forward, toward the storm you both knew was coming.
The morning Daemon’s world fell apart, the sky was strangely clear. A pale, soft blue stretched above Dragonstone, with only the thin wisps of grey clouds that often heralded fair weather. The sea lapped gently at the cliffs below, a lullaby of waves against rock.
You woke with the sun warming your face, Vaella curled like a cat at your side, her dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks. Nymerion lay sprawled across the end of the bed, his small body starfish-like, his soft snores tugging a smile from you.
Daemon was awake already. He always was. You felt him before you saw him, the weight of his gaze, the brush of his hand smoothing the hair from your brow.
“Sleep well, little dragon?” he murmured, his voice rough with morning.
You wanted to answer lightly, but the truth pressed heavy in your chest. Because you hadn’t slept well. You hadn’t in weeks. And that morning, the dull ache in your back was sharper than before, tugging at your breath.
You managed a small smile. “As well as I can, with your children taking all the space.”
He smirked, leaning to kiss your temple. But as his lips brushed your skin, you shifted, and the pain in your belly clenched tight, sharper, deeper.
Daemon pulled back instantly, every muscle in him tensing. “What is it?”
You swallowed, pressing a hand to your swollen stomach. “It is nothing. Just—” Another pang rippled through you, cutting off the words, this one worse than any of the others.
Daemon was on his feet in an instant, as if he could sense it. “It has begun.”
His voice was low, urgent.
The words sank into you with a strange mix of fear and relief. It had begun. The day you had been dreading and the day you had been praying for, all at once.
The chamber filled with movement within minutes. Servants hurried with basins of water, clean linens, herbs. The midwives whispered among themselves, their practiced hands preparing tools and oils. The maester hovered, his lips pressed thin, eyes darting toward Daemon as though expecting to be bitten.
The children stirred with the commotion.
Vaella rubbed her eyes, sitting up. “What’s happening?”
Daemon crouched at her side, his voice gentler than you’d heard in weeks. “Your mother is strong. But she needs quiet now. Take your brothers and wait with the septa.”
“No arguments, little flame,” he said, brushing her hair back. His eyes softened, though his jaw was set. “Go.”
Vaella hesitated, her gaze flicking to you. You managed a nod, though another wave of pain had you gripping the sheets. She swallowed, then gathered Nymerion’s hand in hers, tugging him toward the door. Rhaenar followed silently, his face pale and drawn, trying to look brave.
When the door closed behind them, silence settled—heavy, fragile.
Daemon returned to your side, kneeling, his hand engulfing yours. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, his jaw tight.
“I am here,” he said, and it sounded like a vow.
Time blurred as the hours passed.
The first hours were manageable, if taxing. You breathed through each contraction, the midwives murmuring instructions, pressing cool cloths to your brow. Daemon did not leave your side. Not once.
When you shifted, he steadied you.
When you cried out, he pressed his lips to your hand.
When your body sagged with exhaustion, he cradled your face, whispering, “You are strong. Stronger than any dragon.”
But as the hours wore on, something shifted.
The pains grew sharper, closer. The babe did not move downward as it should. Sweat dampened your hair, your skin clammy despite the warm fire. Each contraction tore a cry from you, sharper than the last.
The midwives exchanged looks when they thought you couldn’t see. The maester muttered about complications.
Daemon noticed. Of course he did. His eyes, violet fire, tracked every movement, every whispered glance. His grip on your hand grew almost painful, his voice edged with steel.
“What are you not saying?” he growled at the maester.
The man stammered, adjusting his chain. “The babe may be—” He hesitated. “It is not coming as it should. If it does not turn, if the lady continues to lose blood…we might have to—”
Daemon rose, towering, shadows carving his face into something feral and dangerous. “You will not cut her. Do you hear me? If you even suggest it again, I will feed you to Caraxes myself.”
The maester paled, his lips snapping shut.
The midwives bent over you, urging you to push, to breathe, to endure.
And you tried. Gods, you tried. But the pain was white-hot, unbearable, wracking your body until you felt hollowed out by it.
Still Daemon stayed, his hand steady, his eyes burning with desperation he refused to voice.
At last, after endless hours, after screaming until your throat was raw, the babe slipped into the world with a wet, shuddering cry.
The midwives lifted her, and Daemon’s breath caught. She was tiny, slick with blood, dark hair plastered to her small head—but her eyes, when they blinked open, were unbelievably Targaryen.
Daemon’s hand trembled as he reached for her, brushing a finger over her cheek. His lips parted, his expression something between awe and terror.
But then a sound wrenched him back—a different sound.
Gasping. Struggling. The sheets beneath you soaked red.
The midwives shouted, rushing to your side. The maester barked orders. Blood. Too much blood.
Daemon whipped around, his heart slamming against his ribs.
“No,” he snarled. “No, no, no—”
He dropped the babe into the midwife’s arms and lunged to your side, catching your hand.
Your eyes were heavy, your breaths shallow. You turned your head weakly toward him.
“I am sorry,” you whispered, your voice broken. “I promised… we would always be together.”
Daemon’s throat closed. His eyes burned. He gripped your hand so hard he thought he might break it.
“Do not say it. Do not dare. You will stay. Do you hear me?” His voice cracked, the words a snarl, a plea, a prayer. “I cannot— I will not— do this without you.”
Tears slipped from your eyes. “Promise me… take care of them.”
His chest caved in. He shook his head violently, pressing his forehead to yours. “No. No promises. I refuse. You will live. You will see them grow. You will see her grow. You will not leave me.”
Your hand slipped from his. Your eyes closed.
Chaos erupted. The midwives shouted, pressing cloths, the maester calling for more hands. The babe wailed, her tiny body shaking with cries.
Daemon sat frozen, the world collapsing around him.
Daemon’s world narrowed to blood.
It poured across the sheets, soaked the rushes, stained your skin until Daemon could not tell where you ended and the horror began. The smell was iron and salt, thick in the air, choking him.
The midwives worked frantically, their hands moving fast, pressing, binding, shouting over one another. The maester called for more water, more rags, more hands. His voice shook despite his attempts at control.
And above it all, the thin, piercing wail of your newborn daughter cut through the chamber, desperate and alive.
Daemon’s chest seized at the sound. He turned, wild-eyed, toward the midwife cradling the babe.
Her hair was matted dark with leftover blood, her tiny body red and slick — but she was here. She was screaming. She was fighting.
Daemon reached out before he even thought, taking her from the midwife’s arms. She was impossibly small against him, her cries vibrating in his ribs. He stared down at her, violet eyes blinking up through tears, and for one breath, his heart split open.
She looked just like you.
Her nose, her mouth—already he saw it. The shape of her face, softened by you, not him. But those eyes were his family’s curse, bright and unyielding.
“She is you,” he whispered hoarsely, almost not realizing he had spoken.
But the moment shattered with a cry from behind him.
“More cloths! Gods, she’s still bleeding!”
Daemon whipped back to you. You were pale, too pale, your skin clammy, lips gray. Your head lolled weakly as they tried to rouse you. Blood slicked their arms as they worked.
“Stay with me!” one midwife urged, pressing her hands to your belly.
Daemon surged forward, clutching the baby to his chest with one arm, reaching desperately for your hand with the other. “No. No, no— don’t you dare.” His voice cracked. “You hear me? Don’t you dare leave me.”
Your eyelids fluttered, heavy as stone. You turned your head the smallest fraction toward him. Your voice was a whisper, a thread of breath slipping away.
Daemon dropped to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand so tight he felt the bones shift. His forehead pressed to yours, desperate, shaking.
“No. Do not say it. You promised me. We promised. Always together.” His words broke, a ragged gasp scraping his throat. “I cannot do this without you. Do you understand? I cannot raise them without you. I cannot live without you.”
Your lips curved weakly, a ghost of a smile. “Promise me… care for them. For her.”
Daemon’s chest tore open. His vision blurred with tears. He shook his head violently, gripping you harder.
“I will not. I refuse. Because you are not leaving me. You are not—” His voice cracked to pieces as his voice rose higher. “Seven hells, do not take her from me.”
Your hand slipped in his. Your eyes closed.
And the chamber erupted into chaos.
The midwives shouted louder now, frantic, voices overlapping in a storm of panic. One pressed hard to your belly, another rushed with fresh cloths, their arms soaked scarlet within seconds. The maester barked orders — bind her tighter, tilt her, stop the flow — his face white, his chain clattering as he moved.
Daemon could only watch, his body a stone carved by fear. The babe screamed against his chest, the sound shredding him apart. He looked down at her—this tiny piece of you, her face already bearing your softness—and the thought struck him with crushing force:
If you died, this child would never know you.
He saw the life unfold in a flash—her first steps, her first words, her first flight—all without you there to see them. He saw her grow with only half of her, missing the very heart of her.
And Daemon felt terror like he had never known, not in war, not in blood, not even in dragonfire.
The fear of a man, not a prince.
He staggered to his feet, his daughter clutched to his chest. He couldn’t bear it—the sight of you motionless, the sound of the midwives fighting for your life. He stumbled toward the door, blind, the room spinning around him.
When he reached the threshold, he turned, staring back one last time.
Your body was still. Too still.
His breath hitched, and he fled.
The great hall outside was empty, save for the echo of his boots and the soft, terrible wails of the babe in his arms. Daemon staggered forward, then sank onto a bench, as though his legs could no longer carry him.
He looked down at her, cradling her head in his shaking palm. She quieted, just barely, her violet eyes wide, her tiny mouth opening and closing as though searching for something.
Daemon’s chest caved in. His hand shook as he brushed her cheek with his thumb.
“You need her,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “And so do I.”
The images flooded him, relentless — your laughter in the gardens, your hand smoothing his hair, your body curled against his at night. Gone. All gone.
He pressed his lips to the babe’s head, his shoulders trembling. For the first time in years, perhaps in his whole life, Prince Daemon Targaryen wept openly, with no care who might see.
Daemon sat hunched in the great hall, the babe clutched to his chest. She had quieted now, her cries softening into hiccupping whimpers, her small body trembling against him. He rocked her without realizing it, murmuring fragments of words—half lullabies, half prayers in a language older than the world.
He could not bring himself to return to that chamber.
He could not bear the sight of blood still soaking the rushes, the frantic hands trying to drag you back from the abyss. He had faced battlefields, charred cities, a thousand deaths—and none of it had undone him like this.
He imagined your children’s faces when he told them.
Vaella’s brave little chin trembling, Rhaenar’s fists clenching, Nymerion crying until he was sick.
He imagined their small voices asking why, asking how, asking when you would come back—and he would have no answer.
And the babe—gods, the babe. She would grow up knowing only stories of you. She would never hear your laughter, never feel your hand smoothing her hair, never see the way your eyes softened at each of them.
The thought clawed at his chest until he could not breathe.
“Don’t take her from me,” he whispered again, broken, pleading to no one and nothing. “Don’t.”
The sound of the door creaking open split the silence like a blade.
Daemon’s head snapped up.
The maester stood in the threshold, his hands wringing the hem of his robe, his chain glinting in the torchlight. His face was pale, lined with exhaustion—but there was something else there too, something softer.
Daemon was on his feet in an instant, the babe shifting against him. “Tell me.” His voice was raw, shredded, more command than plea.
The maester swallowed, bowing his head. “She lives.”
The words did not register at first.
Daemon blinked, his lips parting, as though he had misheard. “What?”
The maester straightened, his voice steadier now. “The bleeding was grave. Too grave. But we have slowed it. She is weak… very weak. She will need time, rest, and care, perhaps more than ever before. But she lives.”
Daemon’s chest collapsed in a soundless gasp. He staggered forward, clutching the baby as if she were the only anchor holding him upright. His knees almost buckled.
“She lives,” he repeated, the words breaking apart in his throat.
“Yes, my prince. She lives.”
For a moment, Daemon could do nothing but bow his head, his forehead pressing to the crown of his daughter’s head, his body shaking with silent sobs. Relief tore through him, jagged and raw, leaving him hollow and whole all at once.
When he lifted his face, his eyes burned red, but his voice was steel again. “Take her.” He held the babe out carefully, almost unwillingly, to a waiting servant. “She must be tended.”
The servant bowed low, cradling the child and retreating.
Daemon wasted no time. He strode past the maester, through the door, down the corridor. His heart thundered with each step, terror and relief colliding in his veins.
The chamber was quieter now.
The frenzy of hands and blood had subsided into weary stillness. The midwives moved slowly, cleaning, binding, their faces lined with fatigue.
And there, at the center of it all, was you.
Pale, too pale, your hair damp with sweat, your body trembling even in rest. But your chest rose. Faint, shallow, but steady.
Daemon stopped short, his throat thick. For a moment he simply stood, drinking in the sight of you as though it were the first time he had ever seen you. His knees nearly gave way beneath him.
He crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees beside the bed. His hand hovered above yours before he dared to touch you, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.
“My sun,” he whispered hoarsely.
You did not stir, too deep in the dark of exhausted sleep. But your hand was warm beneath his.
Daemon bowed his head, his forehead pressing to the back of your palm. His shoulders shook once, twice, before he stilled.
“You will not leave me,” he murmured, not as a command, but as a prayer. “Not now. Not ever.”
And for the first time since your pains began, he believed it.
Two days later, you finally woke to the sound of soft crying.
It was faint, muffled, the wail of a newborn seeking comfort. Your eyes slowly opened, your body heavy, limbs aching. The chamber swam into focus—the dim light of dawn spilling through the window, the scent of herbs thick in the air.
Beside you, in a chair drawn close to the bed, Daemon sat slumped forward, his head resting against the mattress, his hand still clutching yours. His hair was unkempt, his clothes wrinkled, shadows bruising his eyes.
But he had not left. You knew it.
The cry came again, and your gaze shifted to the small crib nestled near the bed. A tiny bundle stirred within, the faintest wisp of dark hair visible.
Your lips parted. Your heart thudded weakly.
“The babe,” you whispered.
Daemon stirred instantly, lifting his head, eyes snapping open. The relief in them was so stark it nearly undid you. He reached for your hand with both of his, clutching it to his chest.
“You’re awake,” he breathed.
You managed a small smile, though your throat ached. “I am. And…our son?”
Daemon blinked. His lips parted, then curved faintly. “Not a son.”
You frowned, confusion cutting through the haze.
“A daughter,” he said softly, his voice catching on the word. “She is strong. She looks like you. Only her eyes betray me.”
Your gaze slid to the crib again, tears prickling your eyes. A daughter. Your daughter. Alive. Safe. Waiting for you.
Daemon’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb stroking over your skin. “She almost had to live without you.”
The weight of his words lingered, heavy, but you could not bear to look away from the crib. “Bring her to me.”
Carefully, reverently, he lifted the babe and set her in your arms. And when you looked down into her face—her tiny mouth, her soft features, those unmistakable violet eyes—the tears spilled freely.
“She is perfect,” you whispered.
Daemon pressed his forehead to your temple, his hand steadying the babe against you both. His voice broke in your ear. “So are you.”
The days after the birth blurred into one another.
You remained in bed, propped by pillows, the air thick with the scent of lavender and healing herbs. Your body ached with every movement, your skin still fragile, your strength ebbing easily. But you were alive. Each breath felt like a gift—fragile, precious, almost too much to hold.
Daemon scarcely left your side.
He slept in the chair beside you, head bent against the mattress, his hand always clutching yours as though if he let go you would slip away again. He ate little, spoke less. He hovered with quiet intensity—fetching water, tucking blankets, lifting the babe into your arms when your own strength faltered.
And though his touch was tender, though his gaze softened whenever it fell upon you, there was a tension in him, coiled tight beneath the surface. His jaw clenched when the maester entered, his eyes darkened at the sight of the bloodied linens being carried out. He said nothing of it, not to you, not to anyone.
You smiled when the children came to meet their sister. You laughed softly when Vaella whispered that she would protect her always, when Rhaenar puffed his chest and declared he would teach her to fight, when Nymerion stroked her tiny fist with awe. You soothed them when their voices trembled, promising them you were well now, that you would not leave them.
But in the silence of the night, when they were gone and Daemon had dozed against your side, the memories came back. The pain, the fear, the moment you felt yourself slipping from the world. You would wake with a gasp, your heart pounding, and turn your face into the pillows so he would not see.
You thought it kinder. To let him believe you were healing in both body and mind.
And Daemon, too, believed it kinder to bury his own terror.
By the second week, you were able to walk short distances again, Daemon steadying you with an arm around your waist. The children delighted in fetching you cushions and sweets, vying to see who could coax the longest smile from you. The babe—your daughter—thrived, her wails strong, her eyes wide and curious.
Outwardly, the household rejoiced. Life returned.
Some nights, you would wake to the sound of Daemon thrashing beside you, his breath ragged, his body slick with sweat. His hand would search the sheets, clutching for you, and when he found you there, warm and breathing, he would still not settle. You would pretend to sleep, afraid that if you stirred, he would have to voice the nightmare he had just lived.
Other nights, it was you who could not close your eyes. The memory of the blood, of the hollow weakness in your chest, would rise up like a wave. You would lie awake, watching the baby’s crib, listening to her small breaths, terrified that she too would be stolen from you. You would turn your face from Daemon, unwilling to let him see the tears on your cheeks.
And so you both carried it alone.
You laughed more loudly than you felt during the day, pressing joy into the children’s hearts so they would not see the cracks in yours. He was gentler than ever, softer, kissing your brow, your temple, your hands, as if by sheer devotion he could erase what had happened. But when his lips lingered too long, when his hands trembled just slightly, you knew the truth: neither of you had healed.
It was in the quiet hours of one night that the walls finally broke.
The room was still, lit only by the pale glow of moonlight spilling across the floor. The babe slept soundly in her crib, her small breaths like the rhythm of waves. Daemon lay beside you, one arm flung across your waist, his face turned toward you.
The memory had come again—your own voice telling him to care for the children, your body slipping into darkness, the sound of him begging you not to leave. It pulsed in your chest until you could no longer lie still.
You shifted, rising carefully so as not to disturb the babe. You stepped to the window, the cool night breeze kissing your skin, carrying with it the scent of salt and smoke. You closed your eyes, breathing deep, trying to let the air wash the memory from you.
Behind you, a low sound tore through the silence—a strangled gasp, a muffled cry.
Daemon writhed in the bed, his face twisted in anguish, his hands clutching at the sheets. His lips moved, whispering words you could not make out, until one broke clear:
You crossed the chamber quickly, gently shaking his shoulder. “Daemon. Wake.”
His eyes snapped open, wide and wild, his chest heaving. He sat upright, dazed, until his gaze found you. His body sagged, his hand shooting out to grip your arm as though to anchor himself.
“I thought—” His voice cracked. He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, his breath shaking. “Gods, I thought you were gone again.”
You cupped his face, guiding him to look at you. His eyes shone in the moonlight, raw and unguarded.
“I am here,” you whispered. “I am not gone.”
The silence stretched, heavy with everything you had both tried not to say.
And then, finally, Daemon broke it.
“I see it every night,” he confessed, his voice hoarse. “You in that bed. Your blood on the floor. Your hand slipping from mine. I cannot breathe. I cannot wake.” His lips trembled as he forced the words out. “I thought I had lost you. I thought our children would grow without their mother. I—” His voice cracked, a sound of anguish. “I cannot do this without you.”
Your chest ached. Tears burned your eyes. And with them, the truth you had buried.
“I feel it too,” you whispered. “I see it, I hear it. I wake and I cannot breathe because I remember what it was to slip away. I did not tell you, because I thought it would hurt you more. I thought it kinder to carry it alone.”
Daemon’s face twisted, a harsh sound breaking from him. He gripped your hands as though to crush them into his own.
“And I thought the same. Gods, we are fools.”
You let out a wet, broken laugh, pressing your brow to his. “Yes. Fools.”
And in that moment, the weight of the two of you shifted. It was no longer heavy with fear, but with release.
The room was quiet but for the faint crackle of the dying fire and the gentle breaths of your newborn daughter. Moonlight slanted through the window, silvering Daemon’s hair as he clutched your hands, his eyes bloodshot and desperate.
“We nearly lost everything,” he said, voice low, ragged. “I thought the gods were punishing me. That all the battles I survived, all the blood I shed—this was the debt I was meant to pay. Not my life. Yours.” His thumb trembled against your knuckles. “You do not know what it was, to hold our babe and think I had won only to lose you.”
You swallowed hard, your heart breaking at the raw pain in his words. Slowly, you reached up to cup his cheek. He leaned into your palm, as if starved for the touch.
“I do know,” you whispered. “I felt it too. The moment she was born, I thought: she will live, but I will not. And the only thing I could think of was you. Of the children. Of leaving you all.” Your voice cracked, a sob catching in your throat. “Daemon, I was not afraid to die. I was afraid to break my promise to you.”
His gaze snapped to yours. “The promise?”
“That we would always be together,” you said softly. “Do you remember? We stood in Dorne, under the blood orange trees, and swore it. I thought—I thought I had failed you.”
Daemon’s breath hitched, his eyes closing as though the words wounded him. He pressed his forehead to yours, holding you as if you were the only thing keeping him upright.
“You never failed me,” he whispered fiercely. “Never. It was I who failed you. I let fear make me a monster. I shouted at the children, barked at the servants, threatened the maesters like some rabid beast—and all the while you suffered, and I could do nothing.” His hand tightened painfully around yours. “I swore I would protect you, yet I could not protect you from your own body. I could only watch as you bled.”
Your tears spilled then, sliding down your cheeks. You turned his face back to yours, forcing him to look at you.
“You did protect me,” you said, voice breaking. “Daemon, I saw you. Even when I was weak, even when I could not open my eyes—I felt your hand. I heard your voice. You held me here, when I would have slipped away.”
He shook his head, but you silenced him with a kiss, soft and trembling. When you drew back, his eyes glistened.
“I am alive,” you whispered against his lips. “Because of you. Because you refused to let me go.”
And with those words, the dam inside him broke.
He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. His shoulders shook, silent sobs wracking his body. It was rare—so rare—to see Daemon stripped of all his emotional armor, laid bare and trembling. You clung to him, your tears mingling with his, your hand stroking his back as though soothing a wounded child.
“I was so afraid,” he confessed into your hair. “More afraid than I have ever been. I have walked into fire, into steel, into death itself without flinching. But the thought of a world without you—” His voice broke entirely, ragged and low. “It unmade me.”
You closed your eyes, pressing your lips to his temple.
“And I was afraid of leaving you with the weight of raising them alone,” you whispered. “Of our children growing without me. I thought—I thought you would not forgive me for leaving you.”
He drew back sharply, gripping your face in his hands, his eyes burning.
“Never speak such madness again,” he said hoarsely. “There is nothing you could do, in life or in death, that would take my love from you. If you had gone, I would have carried you in every breath, every step. But I would never have forgiven the world, not you.”
The words pierced through the ache in your chest, filling it with warmth and sorrow all at once.
You leaned your brow against his, both of you trembling, both of you finally free of the silence you had caged yourselves in.
For a long time, there were no more words. Only the soft sound of your breaths, the quiet sobs tapering into silence, the steady beat of his heart against your cheek.
And then, softly, Daemon whispered, “We cannot do this again. Not like this. Not carrying the weight alone.”
You nodded against him, your hand sliding to cover his heart. “Together,” you murmured. “Always together.”
The night stretched on, but the silence no longer felt suffocating. When Daemon finally lay down beside you again, his hand sought yours and did not let go. For the first time since the birth, your eyes closed without fear of the dark.
And when morning came, the shadows had not vanished—but they were lighter, now that they were shared.
