The ravens began to scream before the banners rose.
Whispers first—like cracks in glass— then names spoken too often and too boldly; Blackfyre.
Daemon, with his sword of legend and his wildfire beauty, gathering lords who longed for fire instead of law, glory instead of peace.
And while the realm sharpened its knives, you carried within you something far more fragile and far more dangerous to lose. The future.
A KING WHO WOULD TRADE HIS CROWN FOR ONE LIFE.
Daeron had faced rebellion before with councils and letters. But now he stood in your chamber, hands pressed to the edge of the table, eyes dark with something dangerously close to terror.
“You will not remain in King’s Landing,” he said, voice low, no longer gentle.
“I will not gamble with you. Not with our child.”
You touched your belly, still small beneath the heavy silks, still secret to most of the realm.
“And leave you to face this alone?.”
He crossed the room in two strides and knelt before you, forehead resting against your gown, as if kingship itself had finally grown too heavy to bear.
“I have ruled for peace all my life,” he whispered. “But if this war takes you from me, I will burn every virtue I have ever believed in.”
Never had you seen him like this. Not the patient king. Not the careful diplomat.
Only a man, terrified of losing what the throne had finally given him.
You lifted his face, your jeweled fingers firm despite your trembling heart.
“Then we survive this. Together. And our child will be born into a realm that still stands.”
WHEN THE REALM LEARNS ITS QUEEN IS WITH CHILD.
The announcement did not bring comfort. It brought fear. Courtiers prayed. Septs filled.
Lords swore oaths with hands that shook. For now the war was no longer only for crowns.
It was for the blood of tomorrow. And Daeron became something Westeros had never seen before: Not only a good king. But a ferociously protective husband.
He doubled your guards. He moved you between keeps. He slept in your chambers when he could, armor set beside the bed, crown forgotten on cold stone.
At night, when storms battered the towers and ravens carried news of traitor hosts gathering, he would hold you as if the world itself were trying to tear you from him.
“I cannot lose you,” he murmured into your hair.
“I cannot rule a realm that costs me my heart.”
You would press your lips to his temple, steadying him as much as he steadied you. “You are not alone anymore, my king. You never will be again.”
WAR AT THE GATES, LIFE IN THE WOMB.
When word came that Blackfyre banners had crossed into the Reach, Daeron left at dawn.
He kissed your hands, your brow, your lips, lingering far too long for a man who ruled armies.
“If the gods are kind, I will return before you begin to show,” he said softly. “And if they are cruel—”
You cut him off by pulling him close.
“Then I will raise your child to know exactly what kind of man their father was.”
His breath hitched then. Not in fear of death. But in fear of failing you.
THE NIGHT THE QUEEN ALMOST FALLS.
It was not a battlefield that nearly took you. It was betrayal. A knight bought by Blackfyre gold. A blade meant for your heart in a moonlit corridor.
Your guards killed him before he could strike true—but you collapsed all the same, shock and terror sending pain through your body that made the world go white.
When Daeron arrived days later, riding without rest, armor still streaked with dust and blood, he fell to his knees beside your bed, gripping your hand as if afraid you would vanish if he loosened his hold. The maesters said you would recover. But his voice broke all the same.
“I am failing you,” he whispered. “I am failing you both.”
You drew his hand to your belly, where life still beat, fragile but stubborn.
“No,” you said softly. “You are protecting us. Even when it hurts.”
And for the first time in his reign, Daeron allowed himself to weep. Not as king. But as husband. As father.
When Daemon Blackfyre finally lay dead and the banners of rebellion were torn down. He rode straight to you. Straight to his queen.