The news crushed you like a blade straight through the heart.

Princess Rhaenys had barely crossed the threshold before the words fell from her lips: your father, Viserys, was dead. Gone. No warning, no final moments to hold his hand or hear his voice one last time.

And then, the second blow: Aegon, your half-brother, had been crowned.

Your throne—your birthright—gone in the blink of an eye.

You couldn’t even process it. The grief came first, hot and unbearable, and then the fury burned through you like dragonfire, so fierce it left you shaking. Your father, the man who promised you everything, who swore you would inherit his legacy… gone. And now your crown stolen by a usurper before you’d even laid him to rest.

But even all that rage and grief paled to what came next.

The first pain had torn through you like lightning, sharp enough to steal the breath from your lungs. By the time you staggered to your chamber, your ladies-in-waiting already in a panic, the contractions were coming fast, furious, merciless.

“Princess, please—let us help you,” one of them begged, voice trembling.

“Stay back,” you snapped, your voice low but shaking. Sweat was already dripping down your temples, stinging your eyes, plastering strands of hair to your flushed cheeks.

The memory of your mother—the way she died screaming on a birthing bed—clawed at your mind like a curse. You would not be touched. Not by them. Not now.

Your ladies hovered at the edges of the chamber, hands wringing nervously, eyes wide with terror. The sound of your labored breathing filled the room, sharp and uneven.

The Maester, Gerardys, stood stiffly near the bed, his hands trembling slightly as he muttered, “This shouldn’t be happening. The babe isn’t at full term—”

Another contraction hit you so hard you nearly doubled over, fingers clutching at the carved edge of the table beside you.

“It is fucking happening,” you ground out through clenched teeth, glaring at him with every bit of rage and pain burning through you.

The pain was worse than anything you had imagined—hot, tearing, relentless. Your vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges. You felt the wet warmth of blood, far too much of it, soaking your legs and the floor beneath you. Something was wrong. You knew it.

And then, footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Each one deliberate as they climbed the stone steps toward your chamber.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Daemon.

He appeared in the doorway like a shadow brought to life, his silver hair catching the flicker of torchlight. He didn’t move further. He just stood there on the top step, gaze locked on you.

Solemn. Silent.

The usual sharpness in his eyes, the smirk that so often curved his mouth—gone.

He looked at you like a man watching his entire world teeter on the edge of ruin.

Another wave of pain ripped through you, stealing your breath, forcing a cry from your throat before you could bite it back. You swayed, catching yourself against the table, refusing to fall, refusing to look weak even as the world tilted around you.

“Princess—” one of your ladies started again, voice cracking.