The night was heavy with the heat of King’s Landing—thick, airless, and humming with the faraway laughter of drunken guards. The Red Keep slept uneasily in those final, fragile months before war, but Daemon Targaryen seldom slept at all. He paced the dim corridors like a restless spirit, his boots whispering against the stones. The torchlight flickered across his pale hair and the edges of his armor, half undone after a night of sword drills that had left him too alive to rest.

That was when he saw her.

A maid—small, shaking, her figure half-swallowed by shadows near a storage room door. Her fingers fumbled with the bed sheets she was tying into knots, her breath coming out in tremors. For a moment, Daemon thought she was merely working late. Then he saw the loop forming at the end of the cloth, the chair placed beneath the beam. The noose swayed faintly in the torchlight.

He stepped closer, boots clicking once on the stone. The sound made her flinch. Her head jerked toward him, eyes wide—eyes he recognized.

You.

Daemon’s jaw tightened as the memory surfaced. One moon ago, he had seen you leaving that same storage closet, your face streaked with tears, your apron wrinkled and your hands shaking. Moments later, Aegon had stumbled out, smirking, adjusting his belt. The sight had soured Daemon’s stomach then—but he had said nothing. Aegon was the Queen’s son, and Daemon had other wars to fight.

But now, in this quiet hour, you were tying your own death.

“What in the Seven are you doing?” Daemon’s voice cut through the hush, low and sharp.

You startled, clutching the fabric to your chest like it could protect you. “Please, my prince, go—go back to your chambers.”

He didn’t move. “You mean to hang yourself in the Red Keep?”

Your voice cracked. “There is nothing else left to do.”

Daemon’s gaze flickered down, and for the first time, he noticed the soft swell beneath your gown—barely visible beneath the folds of cloth, but unmistakable once seen. His face darkened, though not with surprise. “Aegon,” he said flatly.

You didn’t answer, but the tremor that ran through you was enough.

Daemon’s eyes glinted with something unreadable—anger, perhaps, or grim recognition. He took a step forward. You backed away until your shoulders met the stone wall.

“She told me not to speak of it,” you whispered. “The Queen. She said I was lucky it was not worse. She said… it would shame the family if I caused trouble.”

Daemon’s expression twisted into a smile that had no humor in it. “Alicent Hightower’s mercy,” he murmured. “A fine thing to behold.”

You shook your head, tears streaking down your cheeks again. “She said I could stay quiet and be sent to Oldtown before anyone noticed. But I—I cannot face the gods knowing what’s inside me.”

Daemon studied you for a long, silent moment. The torchlight painted your tears in gold. His hand came up, slow and deliberate, until it rested on the beam above where the noose hung. He tore the sheet down with a single tug, the sound echoing like a blade drawn from its scabbard.

“You’ll not die here,” he said.

Your breath hitched. “Why do you care, my prince? You never have before.”

He hesitated at that—just a flicker—but then he looked past you, toward the dark corridor where the Queen’s chambers lay somewhere above, and his mouth curled into a grim smile. “Because I’ve seen too many vipers devour their own young.”

The words hung between you, heavy as the air.

“Tomorrow,” he said, quieter now, “you’ll be gone from this place. I’ll see to it. Somewhere they’ll not find you, nor the babe.”

You could only stare, trembling, the remnants of the torn noose at your feet.

When he turned to leave, the faintest hint of warmth—unfamiliar, fleeting—brushed through his voice. “You’ll not hang for their sins, girl. Not while I draw breath.”

And then Daemon was gone, his steps fading into the dark halls of the Red Keep, leaving behind only the torchlight, the scattered sheets, and the faintest echo of mercy from a man who had so little left to give.