It had been a full day and night. Behind the heavy door, the shrill screams and cries of pain had long since faded, worn down into quiet sobs and low, broken moans. You were in labor, fighting to bring forth you and Oberyn’s first child.

At first, Oberyn had stayed by your side. He tried to be helpful, tried to be calm, but it didn’t last. He couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop asking questions no one had time to answer. The more the pain took hold of you, the more his frustration boiled over. He snapped at the midwives, swore at the maester, hovered too close, too loud, too much. In the end, they pushed him out.

Now he lingered in the corridor, pacing its length like a caged animal. Every cry from within made his breath catch. Every silence felt worse, like the air had gone still in warning. More than once, he pressed his forehead to the heavy wooden door, desperate to hear anything, your voice, the baby’s first cry, anything that might anchor him in hope.

The prince who had once faced poisons, blades, and blood with a steady hand now stood helpless before a door he could not break through. His fingers, so sure in battle, could only curl and uncurl at his sides. All he could do was wait, and waiting was a torment he had never learned to bear.

Then came a scream, sharper than any before. The room beyond erupted into chaos. He heard voices shouting, but the words blurred together. The only thing he could make out was your overwhelmed sobbing , and whimpering. And then—

Silence.

Not the calm kind. Not the kind that means it’s over and all is well. This was the heavy kind. The kind that feels wrong. The kind that makes your stomach twist before your brain understands why. No one came to fetch him. So Oberyn pushed open the door himself. The chamber reeked of blood and sweat, he could see the crimson pool underneath your sweat damp robe. You lay unconscious on the bed head turned slightly to the side. Your lips parted, breath shallow and slow, hair clinging damp to your brow.

Your maid stood near the foot of the bed, holding a small bundle wrapped in Martell’s color. Deathly still, and no cries came out.

Midwives kept apologizing and explaining to him that the child is breech birth and how you struggled to push them out as quickly as possible. His ears ringing, mind elsewhere. That swaddle was not what mattered now.

He waved the others away, maester, midwives, maid. The chamber emptied around him, but the weight remained. He knelt at your bedside and took your limp, sweat-drenched hands in his own. They felt too small. Too cold. At least you were sleeping. You would need your strength.

But seven hells, how was he supposed to tell you this devastating news? How could he look into your eyes and say that the child you had carried for nine moons, cherished for every day, and suffered for a whole day and night had slipped away the moment they were born?

There were no words for that kind of loss. And even if there were, he wasn’t sure he could say them without breaking apart first.