The doors to the Small Council chamber swung open with a crack that echoed against the carved stone walls.

Lords turned sharply in their seats. The murmur of politics died mid-sentence.

At the head of the table, beneath the painted table carved in the shape of Viserys I Targaryen’s realm, the king himself blinked in surprise as a young woman stumbled inside—skirts disheveled, braid half-loosened, cheeks flushed crimson.

Daemon’s head snapped up before anyone else could speak.

He knew that face.

Ophelia.

Your shadow. Your fiercest protector among silk and secrets.

She bent forward, hands braced on her knees, fighting for breath. “My prince—” she gasped, voice trembling. “My king—Forgive me—”

Ser Otto’s lips thinned in irritation, but Daemon was already on his feet.

He moved like a blade being drawn.

“What is it?” His voice was low, sharp enough to cut.

Ophelia swallowed. “My prince… it is your lady wife. She has taken to labor.”

The words hung in the air like the tolling of a bell.

Daemon didn’t breathe.

Across from him, Viserys straightened slowly. “So soon?”

“She cried out not a quarter hour past,” Ophelia rushed on, eyes shining with urgency. “The pains are strong. The maesters are with her now. She asked for—” Her voice wavered. “She asked for you.”

That did it.

The chair scraped harshly against stone as Daemon shoved it back. The sound rang through the chamber. His expression—usually carved in cool arrogance—fractured. Not fear. Not quite.

Something more dangerous.

“My leave,” he said, though it was hardly a request.

Viserys gave a small nod, something soft flickering in his tired eyes. “Go to her, brother.”

Daemon did not bow.

He was already striding toward the doors, boots striking stone with purpose. The lords parted without being told. No one dared block his path.

Ophelia hurried after him, nearly running to keep pace as they spilled into the corridor of the Red Keep.

Torches flickered along dragon-carved walls. Servants scattered at the sight of him.

“Has she bled?” he demanded without looking at her.

“No, my prince. The maester says the babe is eager. Strong.” She hesitated. “She is frightened.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

You—frightened.

He had seen you stand before court with fire in your spine. Had seen you meet him glare for glare when he was at his worst. You did not frighten easily.

He lengthened his stride.

The walk to your chambers felt endless. Every cry echoing faintly through stone made his pulse spike. His hands flexed at his sides, restless, useless without a sword to grip. This was a battle he could not fight for you.

That truth enraged him.

They rounded the final corridor.

From behind the carved wooden doors of your chamber came the unmistakable sound of your voice—raw, strained, laced with pain.

Daemon froze for half a heartbeat.

Then the doors were thrown open.

The room was chaos wrapped in silk—midwives moving quickly, basins of steaming water, the scent of herbs thick in the air. Candles burned bright despite the daylight pouring through tall windows.

And there you were.

Propped against pillows, hair damp against your temples, fingers gripping the sheets as another contraction seized you. A cry tore from your throat—powerful, defiant, furious at the pain.

Daemon crossed the room in three strides.

He reached your side and took your hand without hesitation, long fingers curling around yours. His grip was firm—steady.

His silver hair caught the candlelight as he leaned down, pressing his forehead briefly to yours.

“I am here,” he murmured, voice no longer sharp but molten and low. “You will not face this alone.”

Another wave hit you and your nails dug into his skin.

He did not flinch.

Across the room, a midwife whispered that it was time.

Daemon’s violet eyes never left yours.

“Give me my heir,” he said softly, something fierce and reverent burning beneath the words. “And I will give you the world.”