The birthing chamber was stifling, heavy with the smell of sweat, blood, and the bitter herbs the maesters had set to burning in a brass bowl. The stone walls of the Keep seemed to press inward, trapping the heat and sound of your labored cries. Candles guttered against the drafts that slipped through the shutters, and the sheets beneath you were damp and tangled from hours of writhing.

You were stripped down to your thin linen shift, already plastered to your skin, clinging to you as chills wracked your body. The fever came in waves—first freezing you to the marrow, then setting you ablaze until your hair was damp with sweat. Your hands clutched at the twisted blankets and at the arms of the women who tried to hold you steady. Each contraction tore through you like a storm tide, leaving you gasping, trembling, nearly retching over the side of the bed into a waiting basin.

Daemon paced the length of the chamber like a caged beast, boots striking the flagstones with restless energy. He raked a hand through his silver hair, jaw set tight enough to crack. His violet eyes darted between you, writhing on the bed, and the maester hovering at your side with a book of herbs and tools in trembling hands.

“Make it come,” Daemon snapped, voice raw. “You hear me? Bring the babe forth before she is torn in two.”

The maester cleared his throat nervously, spectacles glinting in the low candlelight. “My prince, the child is lodged high. The mother’s body strains, but—”

“Do not tell me what her body does!” Daemon roared, the sound echoing. His fist slammed against the bedpost so hard the wood creaked. He leaned down to you then, brushing back the damp strands of silver hair matted to your face, his hands trembling though he tried to steady them. “I will not lose you. Do you hear me? I will not—” His voice cracked, ragged with something deeper than fury.

For an instant, he was no longer here. His gaze went distant, haunted—visions of his mother in her chamber at Dragonstone, her lifeblood draining onto the bedclothes while Baelon struggled for breath. Laena screaming in firelight, Vhagar’s great shadow cast over her, her final pleas ringing in his ears. He had stood powerless then, and the memory gripped his chest like a vice. His breaths came harsh, uneven, the veins in his neck taut.

You reached for him with a trembling hand, catching his sleeve though your strength faltered. “Daemon…” The single word was cracked and weak, but it yanked him back to you. He knelt at once, grasping your hand tight and pressing it to his lips, as if grounding himself in your heat and your pulse.

“The babe is stuck, my prince,” the maester stammered again, wringing his hands. “If we attempt to force it—”

“Useless.” Daemon’s voice was a venomous hiss. “You would stand here and let them both perish.”

From the corner, one of the older midwives cleared her throat. Her face was lined, her hands steady despite the tension in the chamber. “There is a way, my prince,” she said quietly, though her eyes flicked to you with deep worry. “If we reach inside… we may turn the babe’s shoulders, set it right. Painful, aye, but it may save mother and child.”

The other women looked scandalized, the maester paling visibly. But Daemon turned on her sharply, eyes blazing. “Then do it. Do it now.”

The midwife dipped her hands into a basin of steaming water, muttering prayers beneath her breath. The herbs steeped in the water gave off a sharp, acrid scent, stinging your nose. The chamber seemed to grow still except for your ragged gasps and the sound of Daemon’s breathing beside you, rough and unsteady. He smoothed his hand over your hair, murmuring in Valyrian, voice low and fraying at the edges.

“Stay with me, ñuha jorrāelagon… hold fast. Do not leave me.”

You cried out as the midwife began, the agony sharp, searing. Your back arched, fingers clawing at Daemon’s arm until your nails dug crescents into his flesh. He held you firm, grounding you as his own face twisted with fury and fear—not at you, but at the helplessness, the ghosts of past deaths breathing.