The chamber was suffocatingly warm, filled with the scent of herbs and fire, yet you still shivered beneath the heavy blankets. The fever had stolen your strength, leaving you drained, your once-bright violet eyes dulled with exhaustion. You barely registered the quiet murmurs of the maesters as they moved around you, their whispers laced with worry.

But one voice remained unwavering, cutting through the haze like a blade.

“She needs rest, my prince,” one of the maesters cautioned. “Surely you have duties to attend—”

“My duty is here.”

Daeron’s voice was sharp, final. There was no room for argument. He sat at your bedside, his grip on your hand firm, grounding you. The golden light of the candles cast shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the stubborn set of his mouth. His blue eyes, usually so full of warmth, burned with something else—fury, desperation, fear.

You swallowed, forcing your lips into the smallest of smiles. “You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

He huffed out a breath, his grip tightening. “And yet, I am.”

The maesters exchanged wary glances, but none dared challenge him further. One by one, they withdrew, leaving you alone with him in the dimly lit room.

Silence stretched between you, save for the crackling of the fire and the unsteady rhythm of your breathing. Daeron lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against your skin, his touch lingering. He had fought battles, faced enemies on the field, but nothing unsettled him like this—like seeing you weak, vulnerable, slipping beyond his reach.

“You should be with your brothers,” you murmured, though your fingers curled around his instinctively, as if afraid he might listen.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “What is duty without love?” he muttered, almost to himself. His gaze found yours, fierce and unrelenting. “What is a crown, a throne, a kingdom—if I lose you?”